Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Carson City was a beautiful city, if a bit too busy for Doc’s tastes. He was unused to being so far west, but he found the dry air helped with his lungs as long as he avoided the deserts. Which, unfortunately, was near impossible. But in such civilized places like Carson City, he’d be hard-pressed to find a patch of sand within city limits.

Riding in with half the Nevada desert stuck to both his clothes and his poor horse, Keats, he was only grateful he’d had the foresight to tug a bandana over his mouth and nose before he started his journey across the dunes. Despite the extra layer between him and the elements, his breathing beneath the bandana was more haggard than usual, and he was slumped forward in the saddle over the neck of his horse from the long ride. Even through his usual desire to ride his own horse over taking a stagecoach if possible, his body was beginning to feel saddle-sore from the long journey.

Him and Kate had a bit of a… falling out, a few weeks prior. Doc had wanted to move on from Prescott, sick of the hustle and bustle and the Godawful heat interspersed with a truly atrocious amount of Bible-thumpers. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the law had begun cracking down on crime with an upsurge in recruitment. Needless to say, Doc had felt suffocated on all fronts and was practically begging Kate to leave. Unfortunate for him, yet fortunate for her, business was great for her in Prescott, and she was loathe to leave. She wanted to build up her savings again, having not worked since their brief stay in Dodge City. Doc admitted to himself, rather reluctantly, that he’d definitely mishandled the situation, and his lonely exile was perhaps his own fault.

Before what Doc learned in Dodge, he would’ve gone to Wyatt to commiserate with the other man, but after learning of Wyatt’s new beau? Doc refused to go. Refused to watch through green-tinted glass while Wyatt doted on his new woman. Even then, he was still tempted; tempted to see if he could lure Wyatt back to him, if only for another night. After just thinking that, though, he was filled with far too much guilt to remain comfortable with himself if he followed through. As much as he wanted Wyatt for himself, his own warped sense of honor refused to take away Wyatt’s slice of paradise, especially after Doc was given his own small piece in Dodge when Wyatt put his pursuing on hold.

Thus: Nevada. He was tired of big cities, but he didn’t have the energy to deal with a small town without Kate there as a buffer. So he grit his teeth and bore the strain put on him in larger cities. At least their saloons were a bit nicer than the ones found in most dusty little towns this far west.

It was late spring, and the sun was already almost set when Doc managed to square away a hotel room for at least the next week. He sat on the edge of his bed in his room, blankly staring at his luggage uncaringly dropped to the floor. A romantic at heart, he wasn’t ashamed to say he missed Kate something dreadful, but he was ashamed to think of how he was handling it, and how he handled the situation that even led him there. Doc sighed, listless, and wasn’t surprised when a wet cough followed.

Spending the next few minutes hacking away into his poor stained kerchief, he painstakingly managed to suck in an agonized breath that didn’t end with a cough. He leaned back, sweating and shaking faintly, staring down at the blood-stained cloth in his hand. He tried not to think about how much fresh blood was just added.

“I need a drink,” he muttered, voice raw from the fit.

Hauling himself to his feet with a long groan, not bothering to hide it since he was alone, he made his way downstairs to ask the attendant for the nearest half-decent saloon.

Without much surprise, the next several hours were spent trying to get as unbelievably drunk as he could, which was quite a feat considering his tolerance. But as it neared eleven in the evening, he was starting to see double, and he was fairly comfortable in the assumption that if he tried to stand, he would not be getting back up from the ground once he inevitably hit it.

Between one blink and the next the barstool next to him had a new occupant, voicing a gentle request for a shot of tequila. Curious, Doc dragged his eyes over to the newcomer like there were weights attached, and stared. The man was vaguely familiar, whether it be the mustache or the similarly kind looking eyes. Whatever it was, it caused Doc’s fleeting attention to zero in on the young man.

The stranger, catching Doc’s stare, frowned and turned to Doc more fully. “There a problem?”

Doc hummed, leaning most of his weight against the bartop. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to a man by the name Wyatt Earp, would you?” he questioned, tilting his head and resting it against his hand, hardly able to feel the limb. Everything had finally gone pleasantly numb, both his turmoiling emotions and the chronic ache in his chest.

The man beside him frowned while his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Why do you ask?” he said, voice wary.

“Oh, you just look mighty similar to him, my friend,” slurred Doc, waving the hand he wasn’t leaning on around limply.

The other man hummed before slinging back his shot of tequila and answering Doc. “As a matter of fact, I am related to a Wyatt Earp; he’s my brother. I’m Morgan Earp,” Morgan introduced, putting forward his hand to shake.

Doc pulled his head off his hand with great effort, and put it out as well. “Doc Holliday,” he grunted, shaking their hands. “A pleasure to meet another Earp.”

“Oh I’ve heard of ya! Undead-dentist-outlaw-gambler-man,” Morgan exclaimed, grinning over at Doc.

“That is quite the number of adjectives for just one man,” Doc observed, blindly reaching for his glass of whiskey and drinking down the remaining dregs and clumsily motioning for another. He silently hoped that with the presence of someone else, he wouldn’t be cut off so soon.

“Number of what now?”

Doc laughed with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it, my tequila drinking friend,” he soothed, turning to the bartender who was returning with his whiskey. “Another tequila for my friend here, if you will kind sir,” Doc drawled, vision splitting in two once more before slowly remerging.

The bartender surreptitiously glanced over at Morgan to make sure that was alright before going to pour another and put it on Doc’s already overmuch tab.

“While I appreciate the gesture, are you sure you can handle another one?” Morgan asked, looking concerned as he watched Doc drink half his glass in one go. Doc only raised his eyebrows while wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his duster he hadn’t bothered to take off. He didn’t care if it seemed rude. The meek spring heat from the day had been leached out into the sand and cement and left the air just the side of too chilly for Doc’s rail-thin body.

“My friend, I can always handle more whiskey,” Doc said, voice syrup-slow and over careful with the pronunciation even as he grinned at the end.

Morgan only chuckled a little while shrugging. “Alright then, I won’t leave you to drink alone.” He downed his shot of tequila in short fashion with a grimace before flagging down the poor bartender again. “I’ll have what he’s having, but put it on my tab, if you could,” he requested, waving off Doc’s drunken protests.

“We’ve only just met! You don’t need to ply me with drinks to hold my attention, I swear it. You’ll have plenty of time to buy me more in the future if you really wanna,” Morgan admonished, cracking a smile at Doc’s face of resignation. Goes to show that all the Earps were stubborn as all hell. Just his luck.

“Alright, alright, you’ve got me. Consider yourself lucky that I’ve had just a little too much to drink to properly defend my honor,” replied Doc, eyeing the rest of his whiskey before deciding to take pity on himself and the poor bartender and left the rest to finish a little later.

Morgan, distinctly still amused, politely thanked the bartender for the whiskey and took a careful sip. He hummed appreciatively. “Not what I expected a gunslinger like you to drink.”

Doc snorted. “I consider myself more of a gambler, you see. The guns are just… a deterrent.”

Eyeing Doc’s gleaming six-shooters in their customary cavalry draw shoulder holster positions, Morgan decided not to say anything further.

Abruptly, part of their conversation from earlier came to mind and Doc became curious. “Just a moment, where did you hear of me? I can’t imagine it was from Wyatt,” he asked, tilting his head.

Morgan’s face brightened, displaying just how youthful he really was. Despite the minimal age gap, it made Doc feel indescribably old for a few moments while Morgan began speaking.

“Well, a few years ago I happened to be reading the paper when I read about the death of a semi-famous gambler who’d made a mean name for himself out west,” he started while Doc watched attentively. “Said you’d been a dentist, which is probably why I recognized your name when it came up again, ‘cause it struck me as something a bit odd, but I gave the paper to my wife and didn’t think on it any longer.”

“And then?” Doc prompted, curious.

Morgan let out an amused breath, mouth quirking into a slight grin. “And then a few months later I read about some gambler stabbin’ another man and it somehow ending with half the town in flames. For a while, I couldn’t remember where I’d heard your name, but eventually it came to me and I thought it mighty interesting that you’d somehow escaped death. Meeting you is kinda… well, it’s kinda an honor, if I’m to be honest,” Morgan finished, looking a bit bashful at his ending admission.

Doc couldn’t help but find it cute, like one found a puppy begging for scraps cute. “An honor? For little ole me? Oh how you stroke my ego, friend. An unwise move many would tell you, I’m sure,” mused Doc, picking up his whiskey once more and grinning into the glass before signaling for another.

“I think you’ve had enough, partner. I’ll get you some beer, since it’s cheaper ‘n cleaner than the water ‘round here, but no more liquor,” the bartender stated, eyes hard and posture resolute. Doc knew there was no arguing with a man of his countenance, and with his current state and current company, he found he didn’t want to bother with trying.

“A beer then,” Doc amended, grimacing a bit in displeasure. He wasn’t a fan of beer, but he’d had the water in these parts and the man wasn’t lying about the abysmal quality of it.

Doc looked at the remaining dregs of his whiskey for a moment, unceremoniously downing it in one large gulp and professional enough to contain the instinctual splutter. He hummed at the taste and found his eyes drifting over to the dusty piano in the corner, but any desire to play was quashed once he remembered there would be no delicate weight pressed against his back as he drunkenly swayed in time with the keys.

Determined to distract himself, he dragged his heavy gaze away from the piano and settled it on Morgan Earp.

“Well then do me the honor of answering a question of mine,” Doc said, picking up on their previous conversation with ease, as if he hadn’t just been denied a drink and that he wasn’t barely keeping himself in his seat. “What’s a… nice an’ honorable man like you doin’ round these parts? Especially when your dear brother is a good deal further east than here.”

Once again, Morgan brightened, looking genuinely excited by Doc’s question.

“Oh wow, I can’t believe I get to tell you before Wyatt. Me and Virgil were just out visiting Wyatt to make plans to move to a place called Tombstone down in Arizona together. We were just resting here for the evening before headin’ on the rest of the way home,” explained Morgan, taking another sip of his whiskey once he’d finished.

Doc frowned, sorting through his whiskey-addled mind for any memory of a man named Virgil but came up blank.

“And… who is Virgil?” Doc asked, looking over at the approaching bartender and disdainfully taking the glass of beer with a sneer.

“Ah, right. Virgil is our older brother, another lawman. Or, well, former I suppose. This is supposed to be our retirement, though I’m mostly tagging along to get away from the rest of our brothers,” Morgan answered, watching with barely veiled amusement at the open disgust on Doc’s face as he sipped at the beer.

"Our older brother?” Questioned Doc, eyebrow rising curiously.

Morgan laughed, tilting his head back a bit. Doc figured all the tequila and whiskey was starting to hit the man. “Oh yeah. He’s the oldest of our whole bunch, something that Wyatt’s uppity ass is always a bit sour about. Virgil makes a point never to bring it up, but Wyatt’s always pissy when anyone else does,” he explained, grinning loosely.

Doc laughed with Morgan, shaking his head because he could almost perfectly visualize the exact face he imagined Wyatt would make. Likely similar to the one Doc had seen when the man had been on the business side of an outlaw’s gun.

“Why am I not surprised that our Wyatt has a surly streak to him,” commented Doc, voice dry as the cool air outside.

“If you met some of our other brothers, you’d be thanking God for how alright us three turned out,” Morgan mused, mustache twitching.

Doc hummed and looked at Morgan out of the corner of his eye while he gulped down his beer, baring his teeth at it as he slammed it unnecessarily hard onto the counter. He pretended he didn’t see the glare the bartender shot him.

Letting loose a yawn that was quickly followed by a stifled cough, Doc set a ten dollar bill on the bartop to cover his tab, and was quietly glad to see Morgan do the same. They both stood up, but when Doc reached his full height, he suddenly found that everything was swimming around him and forming an indistinct yet colorful blur. He blinked, slow like a cat, and was only a little disappointed when it didn’t clear his vision.

He reached out blindly, missing the first couple of tries by guessing the distance incorrectly before his right hand finally landed on Morgan’s shoulder. He took a step forward and had a feeling the point of contact was the only thing keeping him upright.

“My friend,” he began, words decidedly more slurred than they had been just moments ago, “I believe I’ll be needing your assistance to my place of residence, if you’d be so kind.”

From what Doc’s limited perception told him, Morgan was amused, but thankfully not irate with the drunk gambler. “Sure, Doc. Where’re you holed up, then?”

“Place just a ways down the street. Only hotel on this block, if that helps,” Doc muttered, clumsily adjusting his hat as he was slowly led outside into the noticeably cooler air.

Doc took in a breath not laden with smoke and sweat, and his exhale was only a little raspy. Lord, his lungs sure did like Nevada more than he did. Perhaps Tombstone would be a more enjoyable place to reside with a similar enough climate. Thoughts for later, he supposed. Once he was with Kate again.

“I know it,” Morgan replied, hand carefully grasping Doc’s elbow and tucking it against his side so Doc could lean on him, which he did, liberally.

“Got anything for ya at home?” Doc prompted, disliking the brief silence that had fallen over them. He’d always had a dislike for silence, but now that silence meant those around him could hear the weakness in his lungs, or was met with a powerful feeling of fear when it was broken by a hammer being cocked, he’d found an even deeper dislike.

Morgan let out an almost dreamy sigh, and Doc found his lips twitching up, bemused.

“My wife,” he breathed. “Louisa. Most beautiful woman I ever saw, and she agreed to marry me! I’d asked her half expecting her to laugh at my sorry self, but she just said yes and kissed me silly. Lord, I’m the luckiest man alive, I’d say.”

Doc looked down at his stumbling feet, half as distraction and half as a legitimate desire to not trip and fall.

“You got a woman?” Morgan asked, voice friendly. Doc glanced up and reckoned they were only about halfway to his hotel, so he let out a decidedly less dreamy sigh, one far more weary than Morgan’s, and found himself answering.

“I suppose I do, though we’re a bit on the outs right now, you might say,” Doc muttered.

Morgan looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Hey now, if she’s gonna be yellin’ at me for bringin’ your sorry self home I don’t wanna be involved,” he warned, peering over at Doc.

Doc only snorted and shook his head. “Ah, if only. No, my besotted friend, she’s far, far away in the distant land of Arizona,” he complained, mouth downturned unhappily.

“Well, er. Good?” Morgan said, voice pitching as if asking a question but not fully committing to it.

“Depends, I suppose. Good for her, most definitely bad for me,” replied Doc, solemn.

“Why’s that then?” Morgan asked, voice distracted as he began searching for Doc’s hotel.

“Well, she’s got a real lucrative business over there making her some real money. I find myself unable to begrudge her desire to make a fortune for herself. Unfortunately, me and sticking to one place do not get along much. So when I voiced my desire to leave, she opposed me.” He paused, letting out a half embarrassed sigh this time. “And I can admit that I didn’t handle it as well as I should have.”

Morgan hummed, eyes narrowed in thought. “Have you thought about apologizin’? That usually helps, considering I’m usually the one doing somethin’ wrong,” he suggested, readjusting his hold on Doc which had begun to slip.

Doc scoffed. “Of course, but then what? I apologize and we stay in Prescott even longer? I believe I’ll find myself camped here for a while longer until I believe her more willing to leave. Certainly once she’s compiled a good amount of savings.”

There was a frown on Morgan’s face as he glanced over at Doc. “Well, relationships are about compromise, I guess. Way I see it; why both of ya be really unhappy apart when you can be content together until you decide on where to go?” Wondered Morgan, voice trailing off as they got close to Doc’s hotel.

Doc began to frown as well, mulling over Morgan’s words. They came to a stop at the entrance to the hotel and Doc turned to Morgan.

“How did you become so wise?” Doc accused, words slurring together.

Morgan could only shrug sheepishly. “When me an’ Lou started courting, we only ever did things I liked or talked about my interests, and I noticed how unhappy she got. Suppose most things in a relationship are similar enough to just compromise, since she’s been a lot happier since we started doing things her way too. And since she’s happier, I’m happier I guess.”

Doc eyed him, considering. Coming to a decision, he relinquished his hold on Morgan and took a wobbly step back. “You might just be onto something, my friend. I will take your words into consideration.” He stuck his hand out, and was pleased when Morgan took it in a firm, friendly grip. “Thank you kindly for walking my flammable self home. I hope I’ll see you again shortly.”

Morgan grinned back at Doc. “Me too. You have a good night, Doc,” Morgan said, turning and waving blindly behind him as he walked off.

Doc watched him go, speculative, before he sighed to himself and went inside.

Chapter Text

The next morning saw Doc waking far earlier than he wanted due to a coughing fit that refused to abate for several long minutes. After he was done hacking up what little had to be left of his lungs at that point, he slumped back against the bed and squinted out the covered window, trying to gauge the time past his blinding headache. From his best estimate, it was a little after eight in the morning, which was far too early for any respectable soul to be up and about. Unfortunately, he’d never much considered himself respectable, and even if he did, the headache and unceasing thirst wouldn’t have allowed him to fall back asleep anyway. Just his damnable luck.

With a world-weary sigh out of barely cooperative lungs, Doc heaved himself out of bed and staggered his way over to the pitcher of stale water on the table in the corner of the room. The taste didn’t matter much to him anyway, the past couple years of sickness had practically eradicated his tastebuds, leaving him unable to taste anything less subtle than blood or alcohol. Both of which were very common visitors on his tongue.

He guzzled near half the pitcher before his aching lungs forced him to pull back and breathe. Bracing both arms against the table, he leaned forward and let his head hang low, taking shallow, rasping breaths.

“Dammit all,” he growled. He rested there until his shoulder blades began to ache, pulling himself upright with a quiet groan. He glanced briefly over at his case of cigarettes on the bedside table, but decided not to test his luck any further.

Instead, he used the bathroom down the hall before returning and getting dressed. If he were to be up this early, he might as well pull his horse from the stable and get him ready for the return trip to Prescott. The corner of his mouth pulled distinctly downward in displeasure, but even he could admit Morgan was right. He could only hope Kate wouldn’t be too mad when he returned and brought up Tombstone.

He’d barely gotten his hat fixed on top of his head in an attempt to make the glaring morning sun less debilitating when Doc caught sight of a familiar face. Tilting his head in curiosity, he made his way toward the wagon pulled over on the side of the road, where beside it stood a frustrated Morgan Earp.

“When I expressed my desire to see you shortly, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so short,” Doc called out once he got closer. He saw Morgan turn around with a brief flash of confusion upon his face, before it morphed into a grin when he recognized who’d just called out to him.

“Doc! Y’know, me neither!” he replied, sticking his hand out to shake when Doc was within distance. Doc grinned back at him, teeth flashing in the morning sun as he eagerly shook the man’s hand.

“I thought you’d be gone by now; you don’t strike me as a late riser, and neither does your brother from how you’ve described him,” Doc commented, glancing behind Morgan to the stationary wagon, which was curiously missing its supposed second passenger.

Morgan pulled off his hat and ran an awkward hand through his hair. “Well, we meant to leave a little over an hour ago but one of our horses threw a shoe and we had to get another one put on. Virgil went to get that done with the farrier while I watched over our stuff,” Morgan explained, glancing briefly at the wagon before looking at Doc again.

Once Morgan mentioned it, it didn’t take long for Doc to realize there was a horse missing from the front. “Unfortunate luck,” Doc noted. Morgan only sighed.

“Hopefully Virg’ll be back soon so we can set off. I’d like to make it to town before nightfall, and we’re cutting it close already,” he muttered, peering up at the sun that was only barely beginning to peek over the tallest buildings. Still, it made Doc’s head pound unhappily.

“I don’t mind keeping you company until your brother returns. I’ll probably be setting off soon myself,” Doc said, idly resting each hand on their respective holsters.

Morgan looked at Doc sideways. “Taking my advice, I see,” he said, voice slightly smug.

Doc did not bother garnering that statement with a response, but Morgan still chuckled quietly to himself for a moment.

“Surprised to see you up this early, if I’m bein’ honest, way you was stumbling around last night.” Morgan’s attempt at steering the conversation wasn’t subtle, but nonetheless still appreciated. Doc’s bruised ego would need all the healing it could get before being pummeled down once again by Kate’s viciously truthful words. It was his own fault, he supposed. She kept him honest, or, as honest as a lying, cheating, gambler could be.

Doc only grimaced and pawed at the side of his aching head with closed eyes. “It was not of my own volition, I assure you,” he said dryly.

“Now that doesn’t surprise me,” Morgan replied. Even with closed eyes, Doc could hear the grin in Morgan’s voice. He just glared blindly in the man’s general direction and was delivered a laugh that was near a cackle.

Doc sighed and opened his eyes again, expecting to be met with Morgan’s attention, but found the man looking down the street instead. He followed his gaze and saw an older man with gray hair making his way in their direction while leading a draft horse.

“Ah, Virg is back,” Morgan said, pleased.

Doc squinted at the older man, taking note of the features he seemed to share with Wyatt and Morgan. The mustache was quite familiar, and he had a distant wondering over whether the younger brothers grew theirs similar to his on purpose. He intended to badger Wyatt over it next time he saw the man, most certainly.

“Morgan, who is this feller?” Virgil called, eyeing Doc with a hard gaze. Doc got the distinct impression that this man could become very, very dangerous if provoked. Doc guessed Wyatt had to get that ability from someone, though it seemed Morgan hadn’t quite gotten the dangerous aura down like his brothers.

“Virg, this here is Doc Holliday, the man I was tellin’ you about this morning,” Morgan introduced, gesturing toward Doc.

It was only then that Doc realized he still had both hands placed on his holsters. While the position wasn’t meant to be defensive, he knew it could easily come across that way. Since he had no desire to get on Virgil’s bad side, he easily dropped his hands from his guns and instead reached out to shake Virgil’s free hand once he was in range.

“A pleasure to meet the eldest Earp,” Doc greeted, grinning sharply. While he didn’t want to upset Virgil, it wouldn’t do to give him the wrong impression, either.

Virgil raised a bemused eyebrow, but didn’t hesitate to grasp Doc’s hand, grip noticeably firmer than Morgan’s had been.

“The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure, meeting a dead man,” Virgil drawled, voice impossibly dry.

Doc pulled his hand away with a shrug. “Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated, I’m afraid. Nothing so exciting as me being part of the undead,” Doc replied, voice solemn. The effect was quickly lost though with the amused quirk of his lips at Virgil’s lack of reaction.

There stretched a fair bit of silence before Morgan saw fit to cut in: “Is the shoe all fixed?” he asked, nodding toward the horse Virgil was still leading.

Virgil nodded back with an affirmative grunt. “Should be square for us to ride on now.” He turned to Doc, a curious gleam to his eye that made Doc wary. “Doc, you mind helping me hitch this horse up? Morgan, you climb up there and hold the reins steady.”

Doc felt the request was more of a demand, and wisely only nodded and walked toward the wagon while Virgil got the horse in place.

“I’ll hold her steady here and you make sure she’s secure. She’s still new and a bit skittish so it’s easier with two men,” Virgil directed, keeping a tight grip on the mare’s bridle.

Doc hummed, distracted, as he clipped the horse to the harness and made sure all her kit was cinched correctly.

He pulled back once he was done and eyed his work before looking to Virgil with a tilted head.

Virgil stepped back as well and seemed to be doing the same as Doc, before nodding to himself. Doc took the man’s silence as approval and assumed it would be the best he would get.

“Alright Morg, I’m gonna make sure everything in the back is sturdy then we’ll be good to go,” Virgil said, rounding the back of the wagon.

Doc stepped over toward the side of the road, intending to not be in the way once they set off, but a strong gust of wind carrying some grains of sand from outside the city limits slammed into him before he quite made it. It’d already been a rough morning, and the sand straight down his windpipe was just the cherry on top. Even before the feeling had time to fully culminate into a hacking cough did he have his kerchief in hand and pressed to his mouth.

Absently, he noticed the wind die back down, but the damage had already been done. He gasped in and hacked out harsh coughs, whole body shaking with the force of each one. It didn’t take much time for the taste of blood to come, and even less before he was spitting it up.

The fit went on and on until the world began to darken strangely and his center of balance suddenly left him. He was briefly left confused, as he hadn’t even begun drinking yet, when another debilitating cough ripped from him.

He didn’t even realize he was falling until he felt hands holding onto his arms, keeping him upright as he desperately tried to inhale.

There were a few uncomfortable seconds where it seemed like he’d never be able to draw in a real breath, when finally it felt like the band around his chest snapped and he was able to draw in one desperate gasp, then another, then another, without it ending in a cough. The fact that they were incredibly raspy was easy to ignore when the alternative was simply not breathing at all.

It took a moment for his vision to return, and when it did he immediately noticed the gray haired man keeping him upright with a vaguely concerned expression on his face.

“That don’t sound too good, my friend,” Virgil commented. Doc noticed Morgan watching from the wagon with his concern more plainly shown.

“Ah, I’ll be alright. Nothin’ I can’t handle, I assure you,” Doc rasped. It sounded like he’d spent the last 48 hours chainsmoking and downing absinthe.

Virgil frowned and stepped back when Doc began moving to get out of his grip. “If you’re sure,” he replied.

Doc let out one more pitiful cough before spitting up the blood and phlegm in his mouth onto the hard packed ground. “I’m fine,” he said shortly. “You two best be on your way if you wanna make it home by nightfall like Morgan said. I’ll see you fellers another time.”

He was pleased to see Virgil listen and climb up into the wagon beside Morgan, wordlessly claiming the reins. He was less pleased to see similar expressions of worry on both their faces.

Thankfully, they decided to listen to Doc’s token words and take them at face value. He was glad Kate wasn’t there, suddenly. She’d be fussing like hell over him, and as nice as it was, he felt he didn’t deserve it, just then.

Virgil snapped the reins and the wagon began moving forward.

“Be seein’ you Doc! Good luck with your lady!” Morgan called as they passed. Doc could’ve sworn he heard Virgil snort, but he wasn’t sure over the sound of horseshoes clacking against the pavement.

“Thank you, Morgan!” Doc called back, wryly. He watched them leave for a few minutes, their silhouette slowly fading until they took the turn out of the city north and completely disappearing.

He let out another short cough that surged up his chest before he could stop it, and decided his return trip to Kate could wait another day. He didn’t think she’d be very pleased if he came begging forgiveness half dead on her doorstep.

With a sigh that threatened to turn into yet another cough, Doc turned back toward his hotel. Keats would be fine in the stable for another night. With how Doc usually rode the poor beast, he was sure the horse was grateful for his brief stay in relative luxury.

Five minutes later saw Doc falling face-down onto his bed after undressing and drinking the second half of the stale water. He suspected he might still be a little drunk.

Oh well.

Chapter Text

A week later saw Doc riding through the all-too familiar streets of Prescott. The sneer on his face refused to remain planted, as the entire ride there his health had continued to deteriorate despite his best attempts to curve it. He’d slowed on the drinking and smoking, had actually been drinking an almost healthy amount of water, but he figured riding through deserts had made all his efforts rather pointless.

So despite his efforts to not arrive on Kate’s doorstep half-dead, it seemed that’s how he was going to arrive anyway.

As he rode down the street toward the hotel he left Kate in, he couldn’t withhold a few dry, harsh coughs from pulling from his chest. His bandana spared him the worst of the sand, but it could only do so much. He was exhausted, both from the ride and from his illness, and he was ready to agree to anything Kate requested of him if only she’d let him lie down for a while. He knew it was pathetic, but he’d been dying for over five years at this point. He felt he deserved a little pity, from time to time. His earlier desire to not have Kate see him in this state had evaporated somewhere near New Mexico, he thought. Now he was almost desperate enough to agree to live in Prescott forever.

He had a feeling that if he agreed to that, though, Kate would start planning funeral arrangements.

Finally, he found the right hotel after stopping prematurely twice before at similar joints some ways down the road. He slid off Keats and had to grab onto the saddlehorn to remain upright as his sore legs threatened to buckle. He grit his teeth and steeled himself before letting go and hitching Keats to the post in front of the entrance. Absently he fed the horse a carrot and patted his neck before stumbling his way inside.

However before he could make it to the stairs, the hotel clerk behind the front desk halted him with a: “Wait a minute, mister. You need to buy a room to go up there!”

Doc closed his eyes and exhaled loudly before turning around and walked back over to the desk with his most charming smile. He felt like the effect was a bit diminished by his pale and sweaty face, as well as the sweat-damp bandana hanging around his neck, but needs must.

“Mighty right you are, sir!” Doc agreed jovially, nodding. “You see, my wife and I had an argument some weeks back and I only recently discovered she’s been staying here. Now, I was just wanting to speak with her to reconcile, I’ve missed her, you understand,” Doc explained patiently, adopting a suitably chastised look. “It was my fault, I fear. Too much to drink, she didn’t much appreciate me breaking her mother’s favorite vase.”

The clerk looked unsure.

“Her name is Kate. I believe she’s staying in one of the rooms on the second floor,” Doc prompted, acting as if he didn’t know exactly which room she was in. He’d paid the initial night’s fee for it, though with a different clerk, unfortunately.

Suddenly the clerk looked uncomfortable and had a bit of pity on his features. “Look, feller, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think your wife has become a bit more… promiscuous in your time apart,” he said, voice low.

Doc had to fight the grin he felt from taking over his face. Instead, he put on a frown and raised an eyebrow. “However do you mean?”

The clerk swallowed and looked around, though the lobby was as empty as it was upon Doc’s entrance.

“I mean that she’s become a… a working woman,” he whispered, voice harsh.

Doc opened his mouth, acting suitably shocked. “No!” He denied, eyes dramatically wide.

The clerk nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry to say it’s true, sir. Different men come through here or escort her here every night. It must be most distressing to hear, I’m sure.”

Doc could only nod back, fighting even harder to contain his amusement. “Indeed it is, kind fellow. Though I do appreciate your honesty. However, even now that the nature of my visit has changed, I would still like to hash things out with her, you understand,” Doc said, voice wavering. After his apology to Kate, he’d have to tell her about this. She’d be impressed with his acting skills, he’s sure.

The clerk shook his head sadly in understanding. “Of course, sir. She’s in room six, just don’t do anything violent in my establishment, if you wouldn’t mind? I’ve got a reputation to uphold…”

Doc sighed wistfully and reached forward to shake the clerk’s limp hand. “Of course, friend. And again, thank you for your honesty. I’d much rather hear it from a friendly face than from one of her… night time visitors, if you will.”

The clerk shook Doc’s hand sadly and watched as Doc turned and began climbing the stairs. As soon as Doc was around the landing and out of sight, a grin split his features.

That’d been the most fun he’d had in weeks.

Unfortunately his mirth was short-lived. Upon cresting the final step for the second floor, his ailing lungs decided now was an excellent time to make his life more difficult.

He made it about two steps down the hall before he ended up slamming his shoulder against the wall and hunching forward into himself, hacking relentlessly into his already damp bandana. It was definitely in need of a wash, Doc thought absently as he tried to force his lungs into obeying his commands. He didn’t think he was asking for much. Just a proper inhale, maybe.

In the middle of a fresh bout of coughs, the door at the end of the hall slammed open against the wall so hard, two framed paintings popped off the wall. He at least had the decency to try and look apologetic on top of being an utterly pathetic sight.

“John Henry Holliday!” Kate snarled, wasting no time in stomping toward him, her heels clacking on the hardwood floor even through the thin rug rather loudly.

Dragging in a breath that felt like being strangled, and he would know, he managed to rasp out a greeting: “‘ello Kate.”

“Don’t ‘hello Kate’ me, you dumbass. Can’t leave you alone for more than a Goddamn week without you going and falling apart at the seams!” She snarled, grabbing his elbow in a firm yet gentle grip and leading him back to her room. “Are you drunk?” She sniffed.

“If only,” he muttered, shoulders heaving with how hard he was trying to breathe, lungs fighting him all the way. He felt a bit nauseous.

“Well, at least you’ve got some brains in you,” she huffed, leading him over to the bed and shoving him onto it. He landed with a muffled grunt, followed by a couple of retching coughs. Kate managed to look a little guilty as she watched him recompose himself before getting him some water.

Doc didn’t even bother trying to ask for whiskey. He knew the answer already.

He leaned more fully against the pillows, breaths rasping loudly out of him as his bandana hung loosely around his slick neck. Christ, he felt soaked, and his body was wracked with small shivers because of it. Blindly he reached up for his hat and tossed it beside the bed before trying to toe off his boots that were hanging over the edge of the bed. After a few moments of futile attempts causing his spurs to jingle, he gave up and slumped back in defeat.

“Just leave me to death, darlin’,” he moaned, spreading his arms wide beside him to take up the breadth of the bed.

Kate sighed, and he could practically hear her eyeroll from across the room. “You ain’t dying, not yet,” she said, voice lacking any pity. He cracked an eye open to see her rifling through one of the drawers. Despite there being no emotion in her voice, her face was pinched in worry.

Pleased that she wasn’t actually going to toss him out for the strays and drunks, he closed his eyes once more and tried as hard as he could to melt into the bed and ignore the burning pressure in his lungs that was creeping up his throat.

Goddamn, he hadn’t had a relapse this bad since their little run from Ed Bailey’s goons.

“What’re you lookin’ for, love?” he asked, voice rough and pitching a bit weird. He cleared his throat to try and fix it, but he doubted its effectiveness.

He heard a frustrated sigh as she slammed the drawer shut and began looking in another one.

“The general store actually had Dr McGillicuddy in when I stopped by the other day and managed to snag the last bottle for your sad sorry ass,” she said, accent harshening a little in her anger.

“Hard to find any of that this far west,” he croaked, trying not to get his hopes up on her finding it. One of the worst things about living so far west was that menthol drinks were few and far to come across, and if a store was lucky enough to get it, other unfortunate souls marked with consumption usually got to it before anyone else. Further east, the New Englanders drank it almost like water. He grimaced at the thought. As soothing as it was for his aches and pains, the idea of willingly drinking it made even his stomach curdle.

There was a shout of triumph before Kate thrust into the air an unopened bottle of the liqueur. “I told you I’d found some,” she said smugly, walking back toward the table where a glass of water and another empty glass sat. He figured he’d be receiving the water after downing what she was willing to give him of the menthol.

A few moments later saw Kate walking toward him with a glass full of the putrid liquid that would hopefully numb some of the fire in his chest. He hauled himself up on his elbows and took the proffered glass with a shaking hand, downing the half-full container without giving himself time to think about it.

He swallowed and immediately grimaced, handing back the glass to Kate. “Christ that’s awful,” he muttered, already feeling the liquid spread its icy warmth through his throat and chest. A relieved sigh escaped his sigh, but before he could relax back into the pillows, Kate’s irate voice stopped him.

“Don’t fall back just yet. You’re drinking this water first,” she instructed, returning once again with an entirely different glass. He wasted no time in drinking this one as well just so he could relax back, shoulders sore from holding him up for even just that long.

He looked down pitifully at his boots, but knew if he tried to stand to take them off he’d just start another fit, alcohol relief or not. The idea of asking Kate to help burned him. He’d come to apologize and here she was fixing him up. Again.

Doc blinked up at the ceiling, yellow from time and likely years worth of chainsmokers. “Kate, darlin’, would you come sit beside me?” He asked, voice almost hesitant.

She glared over at him with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms. “And why would I want to do that, Holliday?”

Ouch. Last name.

“I missed you,” he said honestly.

Kate froze before sighing loudly, features softening. She walked back toward him before lifting her skirts to sit beside him on the bed. It was wide enough that his outstretched arm just grazed her clothed thigh.

Doc cleared his throat again; coughed once more. “You know, I rode all the way back here from Carson City with the intent to apologize for my… boorish actions, from our last interaction,” he began, peering over at her to gauge her reaction.

She wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, her head was turned to look out the open window. She did hum to show she was listening, at least, so Doc forged on.

“After some… time and consideration, I’ve realized I handled things rather poorly. You are your own woman, and I should have taken your words and your motives for being here into more consideration. I do apologize, darlin’. I was an utter ass,” he finished, relieved at her bemused and reluctant smile.

This time, Doc got to see Kate’s eyeroll. “You’re just too sad to stay mad at,” she complained, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his mouth. He smiled into it before kissing back for a few moments. She pulled away and placed a deceivingly calloused hand on his bristly cheek.

“When did you last shave?” She admonished, scratching at the stubble with her nails.

“When I left Nevada,” he admitted. Kate hummed before patting his cheek and pulling away.

“We’ll get you all prettied up tomorrow,” she promised, sliding off the bed and making her way to where Doc’s feet were limply hanging off the edge.

His eyes widened a bit once he caught on to what she was doing when she began unbuckling his spurs.

“Ah, darlin’, you don’t…” he trailed off at the look she gave him.

“I know you weren’t gonna be able to take them off, and like hell am I letting you sleep next to me with boots and spurs on,” she said, tossing his spurs onto the table behind her.

Doc only sighed and braced his legs and angled his feet the right way once she started pulling off his boots.

They landed on the floor with spaced out clunks. He could only let out a breath of relief. Felt like he hadn’t taken them off in days.

“Thank you, Kate,” he murmured, watching her as she sighed and leaned back.

“You’re just lucky you’re pathetic,” she replied, refusing to meet his eyes.

There was a brief pause where Doc weighed up his chances of success.

“Would you be willing to lie with me?” He requested, looking at her with pleading eyes.

There was a slightly disgruntled look on her face. “It’s barely after noon,” she argued.

“I bought you a new detective thriller on the way here. It’s in my saddlebags outside,” he enticed, raising both eyebrows imploringly.

Kate stared at him for a long moment before her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Oh I suppose. I’ve been working plenty hard while you’ve been gone to warrant a break,” she said, wasting no time in patting his foot and leaving the room to collect her treasure.

While she was gone, Doc took his opportunity to wriggle his way out of his long coat, set aside his guns and toss his holsters, unbutton and discard his waistcoat, and shimmy out of his pants. Finished, he slumped back against the bed panting harshly, clad only in his untucked overshirt, underwear, and socks. He knew he looked a sorry sight, and that it was barely late enough to warrant drinking let alone sleeping, yet the idea of getting up and being any more productive made him want to gouge his eyes out.

A gentle breeze blew in from the open window and hit his sweat-soaked body, reminding him of the filthy bandana still tied around his neck. With a sneer, he ripped it off and threw it near where the rest of his clothes ended up. Another breeze and he began to shiver. He sighed before slowly slipping under the covers, silently glad he’d chosen one of the nicer hotels just for the luxury of getting to have no threadbare and scratchy blankets.

He was still shifting around to get comfortable when Kate returned, eyes immediately zeroing in on his pile of discarded clothes and then to him now under the covers. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Doc watched as she set the book down and undressed to her chemise, picking it up again before climbing into bed beside him, though still on top of the covers for now.

Suddenly, Morgan’s words from their first conversation came to mind. Gently, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist before she could open the book to begin reading. She glanced sharply over at him.

“If this was all a ruse to get me undressed and in bed with you, it won’t work. I’m still mad and you are in no condition-”

Doc stopped her with a short laugh. “No, no. I was wondering if you would be more open to a change of scenery this time around,” he said, slightly amused.

She narrowed her eyes at him and he quickly withdrew his hand. “If this is just because you’re still in a tizzy about last time…” she trailed off, waiting for Doc to explain, unhappily.

“I ran into one of Wyatt’s brothers over in Carson City,” he started, pleased to see her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Yes, I know. His little brother, too. Said him, Wyatt, and their older brother were all moving to this up-and-coming boom town called Tombstone here in Arizona. Figured it would be a place of great opportunity, for both of us,” he elaborated, hoping to draw her in with the promise of her own money being able to be made.

There was a beat of silence, then: “This isn’t just to be with Wyatt, is it?” She asked, voice soft.

Doc’s eyes shifted down. He swallowed. “No. No, I wouldn’t do that to him and his lady. To you, my dear. But it would be dishonest of me to say I do not miss him. But being with him in only a friendly capacity is enough for me, to ensure both his and your happiness, darlin’. I just believe it would be nice to place roots in a place with other friendly faces,” he murmured, reaching over to grab her hand and bring it to his lips to kiss softly.

Kate could only sigh and mutter, “Charmer.” The fondness in her gaze was unmistakable.

Doc smiled against her skin and peered up at her. “So?”

Kate tilted her head back until it bumped against the wall. “Oh, I suppose I can indulge you this once. You’ve had such a trying go of it lately as it is. And I’ve tired of business around here. My regulars have been getting a bit too comfortable with me and have begun expressing desires to court me,” she said dramatically, mouth downturning at the mention of “courting”.

“Oh darlin’, I knew you liked me deep down.” He grinned up at her.

She smiled indulgently and leaned down. “My loving man,” she purred, kissing him.

“My Kate,” he breathed, kissing her back for a few soft moments before his lungs gave a burning warning.

He pulled away with a grimace, though ended up smiling a bit when Kate caressed his bristly cheek before leaning back once again and opening her paperback.

Doc scooted over and rested his forehead near her hip and was pleased when Kate lowered a hand into his hair, running it through the strands gently. He let out a relaxed sigh.

Silently he was thanking Morgan for his advice, and cursing himself for having to take advice on a matter so easily fixed.

It wasn’t long until his awareness began to drift and the burning in his lungs faded. He fell asleep, fully comfortable for the first time since he’d originally left Kate’s side.

Chapter Text

Tombstone was smaller than Doc expected, and he hadn’t exactly been expecting much to begin with.

He and Kate rode in about a month after agreeing to head that way. She’d needed to settle all her things in Prescott, and Doc had used the time to rest his lungs, and was feeling better than he had been for the first time since Carson City. He could only hope the dusty environment that now surrounded him didn’t completely eliminate any and all progress he’d made.

Doc could tell both he and Kate’s horses were tired from the long journey, and he only had to get off Keats and hand the reins over to Kate before she was heading toward the nearest hotel to settle their things.

Curious to see if the Earps had arrived yet, he wandered over to the post office and asked about them.

“Now I haven’t heard about any Earps, but a train from Tucson came in yesterday and usually we get a few stragglers out here. If your guys are heading this way, they’ll likely be here today, or next week if they wanted to catch the next train this far south,” the postmaster explained. Doc thanked the man curtly and left.

Deciding he had nothing better to do, he camped out in the shade of an overhang from a quaint little shop behind him on Main street.

To kill the time, he smoked the last cigarette in his case as slowly as he could, silently reminding himself to pick some more up later. While smoking as slowly as he could without the end burning out, he idly watched the people of the town move past him. Curiously, he caught a few rougher looking men wearing red sashes, but he had no idea what it might signify. He hadn’t been in Arizona a long while, and even then it wasn’t this close to the Mexican border.

Just around midday when he was about ready to put a pause to his watch just to get some smokes, his eyes caught on three familiar figures heading his way.

However, as he was about to step out and greet them, his gaze snapped to the angry looking fellow with a shotgun and blood dripping from his mouth stomping his way. Or, more accurately, toward the Earps.

It took a moment for him to recognize the man, and an even longer moment for his name to come to mind. He’d played a game or seven of poker with the man and a few of his buddies a few months back further north. It’d been a nowhere town he and Kate had been stuck in for a few weeks until the snow storm blocking them in had abated and the snow had melted enough for them to scarper off. Good timing, too, as the small town had begun to get increasingly more incensed at Doc’s winning streak. He didn’t have the heart to tell them he’d never had to cheat; they’d just never been very good.

“Why Johnny Tyler!” Doc shouted, hoping his lungs wouldn’t attempt to punish him for the volume of his voice. Or at least that they’d hold off until after this was taken care of.

All three Earps quickly started and turned toward his voice, and Doc was quietly amused. Briefly he wondered if Virgil and Morgan had told Wyatt he’d met them.

“The madcap,” he tacked on, simply trying to take the angry man’s attention off of whichever Earp had pissed him off so drastically, though he had a pretty good idea who.

“...Doc?” Johnny called, suitably confused.

“Where you going with that shotgun?” Doc asked, tilting his head to feign curiosity as he stepped off the front step of the porch he’d been loitering on.

“I didn’t know you was back in town,” Johnny said, incredulous.

Satisfied that the situation had been subverted from its more violent end, Doc walked completely past Johnny Tyler and instead right up to the three Earp brothers.

Wyatt’s face was surprised, but Doc noted the fact that he looked pleased as well.

“Well, well,” Wyatt drawled, pulling out his cigar and blowing out the smoke. “How the hell are you?” He grinned.

Locking eyes with the man, he let his own flicker of a smile show before saying, “Wyatt, I am rolling.” Seeing Morgan begin to look put out, he turned toward the younger man and tipped his hat. “Morgan,” he greeted.

Morgan smiled and stuck his hand out for Doc to shake. “Doc,” he returned.

Doc easily shook Morgan’s hand before looking over at Virgil. It’d be rude at this point not to say hello to them all, even if he didn’t know Virgil all that well, other than the fact that he’d held Doc up while he was giving it his best go to become fast friends with the Nevada dirt.

“Virgil,” he said, tipping his hat once more.

“Hello, Doc,” Virgil responded, voice gruff, though Doc could note a touch of fondness there. Perhaps he and Wyatt had discussed him.

“Wyatt Earp?” Johnny piped in, unsure, and just a little afraid if the waver in his voice meant anything.

All four of them glanced over at him, and Doc couldn’t help but snort at the hidden morbid humor he saw in Wyatt’s eyes. If anyone tried to tell you that Wyatt didn’t like the fear his reputation wrought in the hearts of wild young men, they’d be lying out their sorry sinning ass. Wyatt had always derived a sick sort of pleasure out of it; it’d been part of what had drawn Doc to him in the first place. That, and his own unconquerable desire to fall headfirst into danger, no matter the subject matter.

Morgan’s the first to speak up, joining in on their pettiness with no hesitation.

“We’re going into business for ourselves, Doc. Wyatt just got us a faro game,” he bragged, glancing to Wyatt before sticking his own cigar between his teeth.

That struck Doc something funny, and he couldn’t help but ask Wyatt, head tilted curiously, “Oh, since when is faro a business?”

Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say that gambling’s an honest trade?”

Doc suddenly regretted that he’d smoked his last cigarette.

“No, I said poker’s an honest trade,” he corrected haughtily, gesturing loosely with his hand. “Only suckers buck the tiger, because the odds are all on the house,” he admonished, looking Wyatt up and down pointedly, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Depends on how you look at it,” Wyatt defended. “It’s not like anyone’s putting a gun up to their head now is it?”

Doc grinned. “That’s what I love about Wyatt,” he chuckled. “He can talk himself into anything.”

He quickly stuck his hand forward to shake Wyatt’s to take attention off the way he’d been looking at Wyatt, hoping the brothers hadn’t noticed. He was quickly satisfied when all three of them laughed at his comment, and he tried not to let his relief show.

Finally, Doc figured it was time to send Johnny off if he wasn’t wise enough to run on his own.

He turned toward Johnny and plastered on a genial smile. “Oh. Johnny, I apologize. I forgot you were there,” he paused and eyed the other man for a long moment. “You may go now,” he dismissed with a pointed hand wave.

Johnny looked a bit unsure for a moment before turning to leave when Wyatt stopped him.

“Just leave that shotgun,” Wyatt ordered, puffing on his cigar.

They all watched as Johnny slowly walked toward them, holding the shotgun by the barrel and intending to hand it over to Wyatt.

Doc had to smother a grin behind his hand when Wyatt just repeated for Johnny to leave it.

Carefully, the spooked man placed his shotgun on the ground and even thanked them, Doc assumed for not punishing him further, before he quickly scurried off.

All four of them reconvened, and Doc was none too shocked to see Wyatt chuckling to himself. Then his attention seemed to catch on something beside him and Doc looked to where Wyatt was. It didn’t take long to see the sheriff’s badge.

Oh Wyatt, you’d better not…

“Sheriff Behan!” Wyatt called, tone nice and friendly. The man walked over easily enough, cane swinging.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted as he approached.

“Sheriff, have you met Doc Holliday?” Wyatt asked. Doc silently promised to smother Wyatt with a pillow in his sleep that night.

“Piss on you, Wyatt,” he muttered, looking away from the sheriff. He suddenly wished for a coughing fit, if only to avoid the interaction. Or at the very least to be able to spit blood on the man’s pristine shoes.

“Mr. Holliday,” Behan said, holding his hand out to shake. Doc glanced down at it for half a second before looking back up.

“Forgive me if I don’t shake hands,” he apologized, snide and not at all sincere.

Behan spent the next minute trying to convince Doc and the Earps of the absolute prestige the town was building. If Tombstone was a respectable town, Doc wasn’t dying.

Behan’s spiel over the utter sophistication of Tombstone was coincidentally interrupted with a chorus of gunshots from the building behind them.

They all whipped around to see what was causing the ruckus.

Four men stumbled out, and within another ten seconds only two were left standing.

Doc glanced over toward Behan’s dispassionate face and laughed. “Very cosmopolitan,” he mused sardonically.

As expected, Behan turned sharply to glare over at him, but Doc just continued to face forward and pretend he didn’t see it.

“I know him. That’s Creek Johnson,” Wyatt realized.

“Wyatt? Doc?” Jack called, having spotted the small party observing the chaos.

Doc smiled and waved. Wyatt just said, “Jack,” in reply.

“What do you say, old friend?” Jack asked, walking over along with Creek.

“What was that all about, Creek?” Wyatt huffed.

“They crawfished a bet and called me a liar,” Creek muttered peevishly.

Sensing an opportunity, Doc introduced: “Sheriff, may I present a pair of fellow sophisticates? ‘Turkey Creek’ Jack Johnson and ‘Texas’ Jack Vermillion.”

A flash of red caught his eye and he motioned for his own corresponding ear. “Watch your ear, Creek.”

Creek took off his hat and touched a finger to his bleeding ear, frowning.

The town marshall finally arrived and confiscated both the men’s guns despite their half-assed complaints.

His words of, “Law and order every time, that’s us,” felt more like a joke or a bad omen than an actual rule. Doc tried not to let his thoughts linger too long on them.

Suddenly, a stagecoach rolled in and came to a fast stop. Doc wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to look over. So did all the Earps as well, apparently.

The first to exit was a frightfully handsome man, though a bit too pretty for Doc’s usual tastes. He soon helped out a very lovely woman, one who Doc might have tried to pursue if not for having Kate, and even Wyatt in his heart.

“What the hell kinda town is this?” Morgan muttered.

Doc happened to glance over at Wyatt right as the woman fully emerged, and he felt his heart twist uncomfortably at the enamored look on his face. He swallowed, throat tight. He could handle him with Mattie, she was his wife in all but name these days, but if he weren’t even faithful to her, what did that make Doc? A fun passing thought, but one best left to the past?

“Nice scenery,” Morgan commented once he caught sight of her. Doc would’ve found it amusing how fast he changed his tune if it were any other scenario.

Doc tried to ignore how both the woman and Wyatt seemed to be staring right at each other. In a rather desperate and sad attempt to distract the man, he just said, “Well. An enchanted moment,” lamely.

The rest of the men all wandered off, but Doc found himself unable to leave. A glutton for punishment, he was.

The woman continued to stare coyly, but Wyatt broke her gaze and looked over at Doc.

Doc wasn’t sure what he looked like, but Wyatt couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a moment before looking hastily down at the ground. Doc couldn’t help but feel a bit smug. Wyatt had clearly been thinking of him.

Still, he’d said his hello’s, he oughta be heading back to Kate.

“I should head back to Kate and help her sort our room,” Doc said, breaking the silence.

Wyatt looked back up at him. “She and you still wandering around together then?”

Doc smiled a little. “Somehow, she has yet to dump me on my ass, and many a chance she has had, I assure you. All of my own fault, of course.”

“Of course,” Wyatt echoed, looking a bit distant.

Sensing that Wyatt’s mind was elsewhere, he took advantage of the man’s distraction to tip his hat in farewell before heading off in the direction he’d seen Kate go.

Tombstone wasn’t so big, he didn’t think it would take him long to find their hotel.

For once, it seemed Doc’s hunch was correct. There was only one hotel on Main street, and it took less than five minutes to find and see their horses still hitched outside. He’d have to see about stabling them, later.

Stepping in, a colorful advertisement behind the clerk’s booth caught his roving eye. Thankfully, the clerk in question was conspicuously absent, which allowed Doc to read the poster freely and avoid any unwanted conversation.

As his eyes traced the words printed, a slow grin crept on his face. No doubt half the town would be in attendance, the Earps and their lovely wives included. Slowly, his gaze went up, staring at the ceiling as if he could see straight to Kate.

He didn’t think it would be all that hard to convince her.

Doc leisurely made his way up the stairs, sure he’d find either a clue as to which room they were staying in, or the door itself being open.

Cresting the top step, he found it was the latter. Quickly, he made his way to the room and ducked inside, stopping and looking wide eyed at the mess of the room.

All of Kate’s dresses were laid out or in the process of being hung up, as were some of Doc’s nicer shirts and waistcoats.

Kate herself was muttering to herself as she hurriedly folded a pair of Doc’s pants and shoved them into a drawer.

Doc blinked at the scene for a moment longer before turning to her. “Er, darlin’? Why are all our clothes out like this…?”

Kate huffed and barely spared Doc a glance before grabbing another pair of his pants to fold.

“Been a long while since our clothes had been properly aired out. Wanted to be sure no moths had gotten in while we were traveling, or errant mice,” she explained distractedly, now onto folding their socks and underwear.

Doc couldn’t find fault in her words, but the scene was still a bit startling. Most pointedly so being her blood-red dress spread over the pillows in an almost lazy manner. It’s what caught his attention when he first walked in. For a split second, his mind had flipped toward the worst possible scenario until it clicked what he was seeing. Doc swallowed.

Trying to appear unphased but not trying very hard as he knew she was thoroughly distracted, Doc leaned against the doorframe, knocking one of his spurs against the frame as he propped his heel against it.

“The Earps made it into town alright; saw them come in not long after us,” Doc said, figuring Kate at least a little curious.

He only received a hum, but he knew she was listening.

“Believe we all came in at the right time, actually, my dear,” Doc stated, trying to lead her into participating a little more in the conversation.

“How so?” She finally asked, clearly indulging Doc by the sigh in her voice.

“I saw an advertisement for a production just this evening at the Bird Cage theater; the only one in town. Seemed as if the whole town would be there, likely the Earps and their wives as well. Figured you could meet them and get to talking, perhaps,” said Doc, watching for Kate’s reaction. He was rewarded with a sharp side eye.

“You know most women don’t act like me,” she huffed, moving over to the wardrobe and beginning to hang Doc’s shirts.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t make friends with them,” he pointed out, slightly annoyed.

Kate rolled her eyes. “Way you talk about the Earps, feel as if I’d get along better with them, long as they don’t treat me like their wives,” she replied.

Doc had to admit she was right. For as long as he’d known her, she’d never connected to other women so well; whether it be because she was foreign, knowingly with someone who was an outlaw in all but name, or for the fact that she didn’t ride a horse side-saddle. She was more likely to spit on a man’s shoe than slap them; take a shot of whiskey rather than gin.

Though, he thought back to the conversation he’d had with her a while back about he and Wyatt that eventually circled back to her. He could only imagine that she just hadn’t met the right kind of woman, yet. She’d only met softened wives. This far west though, you’d be just as likely to find a woman with a spine of steel, traveling the desert on her lonesome and trying to make ends meet like any other man.

Where Kate tended to frequent unfortunately lacked most of those women, what with her usually catering to men. Doc’s mind flashed to the woman who’d stepped out of that carriage with an air that spoke of clearly having seen many a town similar to Tombstone. Then he was reminded of how she and Wyatt had been looking at each other and decided to drop the matter.

For now, Kate could get along with the Earps’ wives. If they were together with men like that, especially Virgil, he had a feeling there was more to them than most would expect. However, he decided to leave that to Kate’s discretion. He’d learned his lesson in trying to strongarm her into anything.

“Anyway,” he side-tracked, “would you be willing to accompany me to the show, darlin’? I think it’d be a nice way to spend our first evenin’ here,” he offered.

Kate stepped back and eyed all the clothes still strewn around the room.

“What time is this show again?” She questioned.

Doc pulled out his pocket watch and squinted down at the dials.

“We’ve got a good four hours before showtime,” he informed her, snapping the case shut and tucking it back into his shirt pocket.

Kate slowly turned to him with a sinister grin. “Plenty of time for you to help and for us to wash up,” she stated, pointedly looking over at the clothes.

Doc could only sigh and roll up his shirtsleeves.

“Yes ma’am,” he muttered in acquiescence.

Kate just continued to smile. Doc wondered why he only opened his heart to the oddest of the bunch of people he’d met.

Then Kate walked over to kiss his cheek, humming happily at the fact that his face was still fairly smooth from his morning shave. He thought of her helping him to bed on his sickest days despite his token protests; thought of her never hesitating to hold a man at gunpoint to defend Doc; thought of how she’d single handedly saved him from Ed Bailey’s irate friends and had set half the town on fire in her attempt. Doc smiled and leaned into the kiss.

Perhaps he had an idea as to why.

Chapter Text

Later in the evening, Doc and Kate walked up to the Bird Cage theater in one of their nicer outfits. Doc’s hair was still a little damp from his frantic attempts at trying to clean the sand out of it right before they’d left. Putting up their over-big collection of clothes took far too long, and then he and Kate might have gotten a little distracted with each other once they discovered how soft their bed was and well…

Doc raked a distracted hand through his hair as they approached the theater, hastily replacing his hat once he noticed three familiar faces heading their way from the opposite direction. Doc’s slightly harried expression brightened a little and he gently took hold of Kate’s arm so she could keep pace with him as he sped up. It seemed his guess about the Earps showing up had been an accurate one.

“Well if it isn’t the Earps! Fancy seein’ you here,” Doc called, grinning at Wyatt’s exasperated expression.

“And just when I was forgettin’ the sight of your sorry mug,” Wyatt replied wryly, causing Doc to grin wider, teeth glinting in the lights from the theater entrance.

“Ah, you could never be rid of me for too long, my friend. Morgan can attest to that one,” Doc said, pointing over to Morgan dramatically. Morgan just spluttered, unprepared to be dragged into the conversation while his wife, Louisa, if Doc remembered correctly, giggled into her hand.

Wyatt flicked Doc’s shoulder with a pointed frown. “Don’t go pickin’ on my little brother,” he reprimanded before his eyes slowly slid over to Morgan’s grateful face, and his own let the slightest smile show. “He has a delicate constitution, he simply couldn’t withstand your wiling ways,” Wyatt finished, solemn.

That one startled a laugh out of the whole group, including even Virgil and his wife. Wyatt looked pleased with himself, and Doc couldn’t help but knock him down a peg.

“I’m sure he learned well from you on that front, right Wyatt?” Doc jeered, causing Kate to turn away and snort indelicately. Doc’s words garnered a huff of laughter from Virgil, and Doc just looked smugly at Wyatt.

Wyatt simply pretended Doc had never spoken. “We’ve got some balcony seats with plenty of room. Would you and Kate like to join us? You could sit with Mattie and I,” Wyatt offered.

It was only then that Doc even noticed Mattie. She was standing at the back of the group looking distinctly unhappy at Wyatt’s suggestion. Doc fought the urge to frown at her reaction, surprised at her animosity, before turning back to Wyatt with a grin that was only slightly false.

“What do you say, darlin’, think you can put up with this brute for an evenin’?” Doc asked after turning to Kate. She hummed thoughtfully and looked Wyatt up and down.

“Oh, I suppose,” she sighed, though the smile on her face made the bite of her words lessen.

Doc was glad to see that Wyatt only looked amused at Kate’s actions.

“Come on, then. The show’s gonna be startin’ soon,” Morgan urged impatiently, already beginning to walk in ahead of them. The rest of the group followed his lead, heading inside the large building and going up the stairs at the side of the lobby.

Doc managed to snag a program as they walked through, tucking it under his arm as they climbed the stairs.

The area at the top was nice, well-lit. The chairs and tables were sectioned off a little, but not isolating.

Morgan, Louisa, Virgil and Allie all sat at the first open table, and Wyatt, Mattie, Doc and Kate snagged the empty one beside them.

Doc, falling back into his southern roots in the oddly sophisticated environment he found himself in, pulled Kate’s coat off of her before tugging her chair out for her and pushing it back in once she’d sat. She just watched him from the corner of her eye as he did so, and soon he was sitting as well.

Wyatt glanced guiltily over at Kate before saying, “Hello, Kate. Sorry for not sayin’ anything earlier. Got a bit distracted. How you been doin’?”

Kate looked pleased at the attention, though Mattie certainly didn’t.

“Oh, I’ve been just fine, Wyatt. Certainly better than our resident gambler, I’d say. And you?” She asked, ignoring Doc’s playfully affronted expression.

“It doesn't feel that difficult to be doing better than Doc, I’d think,” Wyatt mused, chuckling at Doc’s eye roll. “But I’m doing well, Mattie and me both. I think moving to Tombstone is gonna be a good change for our lives,” Wyatt said.

Kate nodded at his answer, seemingly pleased.

“We done bullyin’ me then?” Doc muttered wryly.

Kate smiled coyly and left a lingering kiss on his cheek. “For now.”

Doc sighed.

“Mattie, you look ravishing,” Doc complimented, leaning across the table to kiss her hand, trying to smooth over the feathers he’d seemingly unknowingly ruffled at some point.

“Doc,” she acknowledged. Doc assumed Wyatt must have mentioned him at some point or other, she didn’t seem confused by his presence, more annoyed.

Just then, there was a loud hoot from below and a brief crashing sound. It suddenly brought to Doc’s attention just how loud the general admission section was. He peered down at the unruly people below and frowned, grateful Wyatt had invited them up. He didn’t think he could stomach being down there without constantly having a hand on one of his revolvers and dealing with a healthy dose of paranoia.

Doc’s gaze was temporarily diverted to Kate, who looked incredibly beautiful in the lighting. She noticed his attention and the barest of smiles graced her lips.

Unfortunately, he was distracted by the arrival of Marshall White walking up to their table.

“Wyatt, I’d like you to meet Mayor Clum and his wife,” White introduced.

Doc was a little surprised when Wyatt stood to shake the mayor’s hand.

“Mr. Earp, your reputation precedes you,” the mayor greeted, earnestly shaking Wyatt’s hand. “I was wondering if you-”

Doc was a lot less surprised when Wyatt quickly turned away and sat back down. “Not a prayer. Nice meeting you,” the man said, not even looking at who he was speaking to. Doc raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Wyatt, who ignored it.

The three newcomers took the hint and quickly departed, with good timing too it appeared, as the music for the show was beginning to play. Idly, he noticed that it was Danse Macabre.

Doc settled his arm around the back of Kate’s chair and was quietly pleased when she leaned back against it.

Soon the lights dimmed and the curtain came up. Doc heard some yelling from below, but ignored it up until a man fired a round at the poor performer. The sound of the gunshot startled Doc, and he felt Kate’s hand settle on his thigh. He frowned to himself, slightly ashamedf, but in his defense, most times he heard gunshots, they were aimed at him.

The performer scurried off stage, and Doc briefly worried that the show would be canceled, but was pleasantly surprised when the pretty man he’d seen from the carriage earlier appeared on stage, hesitant but seemingly unafraid.

“Prettiest man I ever saw,” laughed someone below, and Doc could silently agree with the sentiment.

The man began to introduce his monologue when yet another round was fired at the stage, hitting a pillar and causing parts of it to splinter off. This time Doc didn’t flinch, but the performer did. Surprisingly, the man only brushed off his clothes before continuing.

Near the end of it, Doc lit himself a cigarette before pouring some of the whiskey from his flask into the glass of whatever beverage he’d been given. He didn’t much care to find out. He just wanted to preemptively nullify the burn in his chest before the smoke caused it to become more irritated.

The monologue ended, and the crowd below went into almost a frenzy, firing at the ceiling like a bunch of inbred hillbillies. Doc’s lip curled up in mild irritation, no longer scared of the noise but annoyed by its interruption. He hadn’t seen a show in a while, much less one with Kate or Wyatt. He was trying to enjoy himself.

The next show soon began, and Doc had the barest memory of what it was about. Unable to resist himself, he leaned forward and murmured in Kate’s ear, “Is your soul for sale, dear?”

She only smiled. Doc chuckled and blew out the smoke from the last draw of his cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray and continuing to watch.

Doc took a drink from his glass, finishing it off and only just then realizing how much he was sweating. Electing to ignore it, like he usually did when it came to symptoms of his illness, he simply commented, “Very instructive,” at the end of the scene.

The cast came out to bow to the crowd, and Doc glanced over at Wyatt who was busy scanning the performers.

“But who was the devil?” Wyatt questioned.

Doc, who’d yet to see the woman who’d stepped out of the carriage with the other performer, had a feeling he knew who she’d been.

Doc’s suspicions were only confirmed when the devil ripped off his mask to reveal the woman from earlier, grinning and flushed from her performance. He chanced a look over at Wyatt despite knowing it was a bad idea, and felt a pit form in his stomach at the sight of Wyatt’s enamored gaze staring down at the stage. Doc peered beside Wyatt and was unsurprised to see Mattie glaring at Wyatt.

“I’ll be damned,” Wyatt breathed, seemingly unaware of his own woman glaring daggers into the side of his skull.

Trying to ignore his own disquiet, Doc grinned and suggested, “You may indeed, if you get lucky.” Always unable to refuse stirring the pot, he only felt a little bad for Wyatt when he remembered Mattie was beside him.

Curious as to why Kate had been quiet through that interaction, he glanced over and felt his stomach drop down to the floor.

Kate had the exact same expression Wyatt had been wearing, and she too was staring down at the woman. Doc swallowed. Despite his own brief toying at the idea of Kate being interested in this mystery woman, seeing his own ideas come to life made him feel a bit nauseous, more so than what he always felt.

He didn’t mind Kate being a working woman, because at the end of the day, she always came back to him. He didn’t even mind when she went off for a few days on her own on non-business trips with other men, because she’d always find herself back to where Doc was with a coy smile and a story to tell.

But this - this felt different. It felt like a bad omen, all of a sudden, the production they’d just watched. Wyatt had Mattie, yet he still wanted this actress. Kate had Doc, and she too had similar desires. Where did that leave Doc?

He swallowed and tried not to get ahead of himself. What said either of them even ended up pursuing this woman? Or if she’d even be open to a relationship with Kate or Wyatt, though her tenure in the theater made it seem more likely in Kate’s case. Doc tried to ignore the crushing loneliness he felt closing in on him, causing his chest to tighten with the urge to cough.

Exhaling harshly into his sleeve, trying to hold off a full-fledged attack, he just swallowed once again, tasting bile and blood.

The group of them quickly departed with Wyatt and Morgan planning on heading to the Oriental to start up their faro game. Doc decided to join them, but chose to walk Kate back to their hotel so she could freshen up and get ready to rejoin.

He stopped at the door to their room while Kate continued in. Sighing, he thought about what to say for just a moment. Kate turned around, curious about his lingering silence.

Doc’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I saw how you were lookin’ at that actress, tonight,” he said simply.

Kate’s eyes quickly narrowed. “Am I not allowed to look, now? Or should we mention the looks you’ve been giving Wyatt since we got here,” she snapped.

Doc sighed. “I wasn’t being an ass, it was just an observation,” he defended, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Just- I wanted to warn you that Wyatt might try goin’ after her as well.”

Kate’s posture became less defensive even when she began to frown. “Isn’t he still with that Mattie girl?”

Doc grimaced. “Yes.”

Her expression softened a bit. “Oh, love. Even if I were to pursue someone else, I would never leave you behind,” she murmured, walking right up to him and placing a hand on his cheek. He should’ve known she’d see right through him so fast. She’d always been smarter than him, he suspected.

“I know, darlin’,” he muttered, eyes going half-lidded as he leaned into her touch.

“And piss on Wyatt for not knowing a good thing when he’s had it. Twice in his case,” she huffed, shaking her head. Doc smiled a little at her anger at Wyatt on his behalf.

“Well, you know me. I’m not one to give up. If we both see an opportunity for our prospective partners, well…” he trailed off pointedly, raising both eyebrows.

Kate hummed and dropped her hand. “I see.”

Doc dropped a hand to her waist and pulled her closer. “Until then, well. I don’t see any reason to cut our own happiness short,” he murmured, pressing a lasting kiss to Kate’s neck which still faintly smelled of the perfume she’d patted on earlier that evening.

“Deal,” she agreed, pulling out of Doc’s hold to stick her hand out for him to shake. Both of his eyebrows shot up once again in surprise, but he couldn’t help but laugh and meet her hand with his, shaking firmly.

“Deal,” he grinned.

By the time he made his way to the Oriental, it was already packed and loud. He caught a glimpse of Wyatt behind the faro table, but figured he’d be alright another couple minutes while he snagged a bottle of whiskey to see him through the night. Kate told him to head off without her and assumed she’d be back before long.

Doc took his whiskey off the bartop before sauntering his way toward Wyatt across the room, brushing shoulders with a good number of sweatier patrons than him, which was quite a feat, he knew. He took up position behind Wyatt’s left shoulder, tin cup hanging off his pinky finger as he unscrewed the cap of his whiskey.

Once Wyatt finished the game he’d been dealing to the latest person - he’d lost - he turned toward Doc and smiled slightly.

“Heya Doc, wasn’t sure if you’d make it over here tonight,” Wyatt greeted.

Doc only tilted his head with narrowed eyes. “I’m no fair maiden Wyatt, as I’m sure you remember,” he huffed. It was the first mention he’d made to their prior engagements since coming across each other again in Tombstone, and Wyatt clearly noticed that detail as well if the faintly distracted look in his eyes meant anything. Doc had a feeling he was remembering the last time they’d fucked, and covered his grin with a cough.

“Hard to forget,” Wyatt finally muttered, eyeing Doc as he poured his whiskey into his cup before downing it in one go.

“Good,” Doc leered.

“C’mon, Wyatt. Let’s keep playing, we gotta packed house,” Morgan admonished, snapping the other two men out of whatever stupor they’d been in. Doc was suddenly grateful for how loud the room was, obscuring their conversation from poor Morgan’s ears.

“Right you are, Morgan. You there, kind sir! Care for a game of faro? You’re lookin’ real lucky tonight!” Wyatt called, trying to reel another unfortunate soul in.

Doc just watched and continued to drink.

He was about a fourth of the way into the bottle when Kate finally reappeared, and the room was only barely starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges. Throwing decorum aside, if only for a moment, Doc took a long swig from the bottle itself as Kate came to stand beside him. There was a distinctly mischievous look on her face that worried Doc a little, leaving him to wonder what she’d done and if he should be looking over his shoulder for the foreseeable future over it.

His concerns were soon put to rest when Kate leaned against him and murmured into his ear, “Did you see the way Wyatt was looking at you while you drank that, dear?”

Doc blinked and glanced toward Wyatt, who was facing forward resolutely. Doc wouldn’t have noticed anything off if not for how tense the other man’s shoulders were. He turned back to Kate and hid a smile against her neck, feeling her chuckle as well.

“Perhaps you aren’t so hopeless,” she noted, only laughing and half-ducking away from Doc’s playful flick to her ribs.

“No domestic violence at my table, Doc,” Wyatt drawled, not even looking behind him. Doc locked eyes with a laughing Morgan and sighed, pouring more whiskey into his cup and drinking it down once more in short order.

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Doc was about halfway through his bottle of whiskey when the perpetual chill to his bones finally began to abate. That feeling alone was a relief, but with the amount of liquor in him, it did more than just hide his ailments, but also blurred the room around the edges. The colors were less vibrant and the noises and jeers from the patrons surrounding him were less jarring.

He was watching Wyatt swindle yet another poor fool out of his money, placed ostensibly over his shoulder with Kate standing beside him, smoking a cigarette lazily and her free arm tucked around Doc’s slim waist.

Doc was incredibly unsurprised that the man’s winning streak came to an abrupt and unfortunate end, fortuitously giving Wyatt a new in with the mining industry around the settlement. With no one else itching to ‘buck the tiger’, Doc saw Wyatt stand and head over to the bar for a break. He and Morgan glanced at each other for only a moment before following after the man.

Doc’s stride was almost the exact same as when he was sober, but if one happened to look at his face they’d see his look of pure concentration. It felt as if only the beating of his heart would throw him off-balance.

Once at the bar, he wasted no time in leaning heavily against it, quickly looking to where they were and seeing Kate leaning against the wall, bored and smoking another cigarette. The air in the saloon was beginning to thicken, and even Doc’s whiskey-addled lungs were finding it a bit difficult to slog through the smoggy air. Still, he persevered through long habit and pride.

Wyatt slapped the mining deeds onto the bartop with a triumphant grin as Doc swallowed the rest of the whiskey in his glass, glumly remembering he’d left the bottle with Kate.

“So, now we’re in the mining business,” Wyatt concluded, peering down at his winnings.

“You’re the one Wyatt,” Morgan said, shaking his head in baffled amusement.

“We’re turning into regular tycoons,” Joked Wyatt, grinning at Morgan. “Think I’ll call this one the Mattie Blaylock. Mattie will get a kick outta that,” he decided, pointing at one of the deeds. “That’s her maiden name,” he explained to Morgan.

Doc was like a shark smelling blood. Once he caught a whiff, he’d never leave off the trail. And the proverbial blood in this scenario was Wyatt’s clearly fraying relationship with Mattie. Before, Doc had been… content to leave them alone to ensure Wyatt’s happiness, but clearly Wyatt was no longer happy, and so Doc’s self-appointed oath was null and void. This left him able to heckle Wyatt with great joy.

“And what a maiden,” Doc slurred, the corners of his mouth ticking up in amusement. “Pure as the driven snow, I’m sure.” He peered down into his empty glass, searching for any errant drops and coming up disappointed.

“Hey, Doc, come on now,” Morgan cajoled, clearly trying to defend Wyatt.

“It’s just his style, Morg. It doesn’t mean anything,” Wyatt said, patting Morgan’s shoulder.

Doc couldn’t help but be at least a little smug that Wyatt had defended him. He wasn’t quite sure where they stood with each other lately, having not been alone in each other’s company since blowing into town, but it was a small comfort nonetheless that Wyatt cared enough to refute his own brother.

Yet even with that little bridge offered, Doc couldn’t help but stir the pot a little. He wouldn’t be Doc Holliday if he didn’t. Because just moments ago he’d caught the faintest glimpse of their mystery woman at the entrance to the saloon, held back from entering fully by her adoring fans crowding her.

“Tell me something, my friend,” prompted Doc, “I’m curious. Do you actually consider yourself a married man? Forsaking all others?”

The sharp look he got from Wyatt as they all began to head back to the faro table made Doc want to laugh. He knew Wyatt thought he was talking about himself. It was a too amusing choice of words to pass up. Even if it did send a pang of longing through his already aching chest.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he said slowly, watching Doc out of the corner of his eye. “I was no angel when we met, neither was she” he stated, more for Morgan’s benefit than Doc’s own, he was sure. Here, Wyatt dropped his gaze to the floor before snapping his eyes back up to trail over the crowd. “People can change, Doc. Sooner or later you gotta grow up.”

Doc could barely hold back his grimace, chest burning in anger and shame. How dare he…

He could only pretend to take a sip from his drink, sneering into the glass. “I see,” he muttered, looking as the actress finally managed to slip inside. Abruptly, he wished with all his might that Wyatt would pursue this woman, if only to ruin his relationship with Mattie more completely. Despite the turmoil, Doc was certain it would hurt the man. However, as soon as the thought came to him, he quickly shoved it away, almost fearfully. No. No, he had his limits, and wishing ill will upon Wyatt was one of them, unfortunately.

They stopped further down the bartop to let a large group walk past them.

“And what would you do if she walked in here?” Doc questioned, avoiding Wyatt’s eyes.

He didn’t have to be looking at the man to hear the confusion in his voice. “She?”

“Yeah. You know damn well who I mean. That dusky-hued Lady Satan, that’s who,” he huffed, forcing a sharp grin onto his face to hide away the sneer that wanted to appear.

“I’d probably ignore her,” Wyatt decided, looking pleased with himself.

“Ignore her?” Doc repeated, incredulous.

“I’d ignore her,” Wyatt insisted, bringing his mug up to take a drink, pausing for a moment to reiterate to Doc: “People can change, Doc.” As if it hurt any less to hear it twice.

“I’ll remember you said that,” Doc said with feigned cheer, clinking his empty glass to Wyatt’s and stepping aside so Wyatt could see who he was talking about.

“What?” Wyatt asked, turning sideways.

Finally, it seemed Wyatt figured it out, and Doc had to hold back an unseemly snort at how fast the other man’s face dropped. Morgan seemed to be holding back his own laughter as well.

“Ah, hell,” Wyatt growled.

The woman made her way over, clearly intending to speak to Wyatt, and Doc could only watch, supremely interested in the way Wyatt froze up, eyes wide. He watched the other man swallow as she bowed, and was suitably surprised when Wyatt instead turned to lock eyes with Doc.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Supposedly, people can change. Did that number include Wyatt? Moments ago, he was certain, but now…?

The actress was lured away by Sheriff Behan offering to buy her something to drink, and Wyatt continued to hold his stare, simply tilting his head as he asked, “Satisfied?”

“I stand corrected Wyatt,” Doc said, straightening up a little. “You are an oak.”

Wyatt smiled smugly at him before nodding and turning, clearly heading back to the faro table. Doc caught Morgan watching him curiously, and he resolutely avoided his gaze and followed after Wyatt with Morgan trailing. Unfortunately, he only saw himself following Wyatt, no matter what the other man did or said to him, it seemed. His one true failing, and his only virtue.

Once back at the faro table, Morgan and Wyatt reclaimed their seats with Doc taking up his position behind Wyatt’s shoulder, yet again. He was silently happy when Kate leaned into him with a small look of concern on her face as she tucked her arm around Doc’s waist again.

“I’ve learned some things about our little actress,” Kate said, resting her cheek on Doc’s shoulder so she could talk without raising her voice or seeming suspicious.

“Did you now?” Doc murmured, turning his head a little to settle his cheek against the top of her head.

He felt more than heard Kate’s responding hum. “Her name is Josephine Marcus. She’s a fairly well-known actress around these parts. Her and her little troupe are gonna be sticking around for a little while, it seems,” Kate relayed. Doc didn’t have to be looking at her to know she was watching this Josephine with intense focus.

“And how about any notion on her… proclivities?” Doc asked, curious.

Another hum, this one less satisfied. “Still not too sure. That man she’s with, Fabian, cannot be only into women, so I’d assume she wouldn’t only be into men,” Kate explained.

“But?”

“But assuming based on so little evidence is how fatal ‘accidents’ happen,” Kate returned shortly.

Doc couldn’t blame her for her caution. He only pursued men he was very confident would be willing. With women, it was a little harder to ascertain their desires, having a little more freedom in behaving around the same sex than most men did.

“Well, I wish you luck, dear. You’re gonna need it if you want to overtake Wyatt,” Doc mused, slanting his gaze in Wyatt’s direction.

“Perhaps things will turn out for both of us,” Kate offered.

“Perhaps,” Doc replied, less sure.

It was then that two things happened. The pretty actor, Fabian, walked in to thundering applause, and two men with red sashes walked in behind him. Doc recognized both of them, but for very different reasons. The laughing one he remembered vividly from the theater, but the quieter one beside him, he’d seen on Wanted posters for months. Johnny Ringo. In the towns his poster was posted more prolifically came the nasty stories that followed him when he blew through the town. At this point, his reputation rivaled even Doc’s, though notably more nasty.

Doc pulled away from Kate a little, leaving her arm around his waist while he grabbed the whiskey on the edge of the table and refilled his cup, having set the glass down somewhere without realizing it. He felt like he was about to really need a drink.

A cloud of smoke blew toward him due to the wind coming through the briefly opened door, and he coughed roughly into his sleeve for a long few moments before managing to control it. Kate was frowning worriedly at him, and he already knew his face had paled even more because he could feel the cold sweat that precluded it budding on his forehead. And to think he was having a good evening.

A man was excitedly trying to get Wyatt’s autograph when the two red-sashed men walked up and ripped the paper from the man’s hands with a leering grin.

“Wyatt Earp, huh?” The loud one asked, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. A third man Doc hadn’t previously noticed silently appeared on the opposite end of the table from him, and Doc kicked himself for his lapse. He felt Kate’s arm tighten around his waist, and he spared her a quick glance before returning his attention to the situation at hand.

“Heard of you,” the same man said, motioning in Wyatt’s direction.

The man Doc hadn’t noticed before slammed his drink down before leaning down toward Wyatt, trying to intimidate him. Doc thought his name might be Ike Clanton, but he couldn’t be sure where he’d heard it before. He was still unsure of the loud one’s name, but figured he’d be finding out by night’s end.

“Listen now, mister Kansas law dog,” Ike sneered. Doc felt bad for Wyatt, sure the man’s stinking breath was being blown right into Wyatt’s face. “Law don’t go around here. Savvy?”

Wyatt merely glanced at the man before looking back at the loud one, assuming as Doc was that he was the one in charge.

“I’m retired,” he said shortly.

The loud one laughed. “Good. That’s real good.” He leaned down to place a bet, grinning.

“Yeah. Yeah that’s real good, law dog, because law just don’t go around here” Ike reiterated. Doc hid a smile in his cup and waited for Wyatt’s inevitable reply.

Wyatt shuffled the cards, pointedly ignoring the man as he replied, “Yeah, I heard you the first time.” He drew the top card. “Winner to the king, five hundred dollars.”

Morgan silently counted out the bills before tossing them onto the table for the man to take.

He stared for a moment before laughing again, claiming his money and glaring over at Ike. “Shut up, Ike.”

Johnny Ringo, sensing his chance, looked to Doc. “You must be Doc Holliday,” he said, tone even.

Doc felt a cough burning in his throat and managed to keep it to a small, barely-there sharp exhale. “That’s the rumor,” he managed, swallowing thickly. What a God-awful time for his illness to really show itself.

“Are you retired too?” Ringo asked, clearly poking at Doc’s disheveled and sickly state. Doc didn’t even have the energy to be offended; this many years into his ailment, he’d gotten used to the comments. Had to, if he wanted to continue enjoying the life he lived. Still, didn’t mean he had to take it lying down.

“Not me. I’m in my prime,” he drawled, maintaining eye contact. He may be dying, but he wasn’t weak; wasn’t one to back down from a fight. Weren’t a coward.

“Yeah, you look it.” Ringo’s voice was disbelieving, but Doc didn’t care. He just drained the rest of his cup and savored the sharp burn from the alcohol that simultaneously soothed the raw burn in his chest.

“Ah,” Doc said, acting as if he only just realized who he was speaking to. “You must be Ringo.” Trying to subtly explain his animosity, he dragged Kate into the conversation. He wanted her to pay attention, in case things went sour and she had to scarper. “Look darlin’. Johnny Ringo. Deadliest pistolier there is since Wild Bill, they say,” he introduced, turning back to Ringo.

“What do you say, darlin’? Should I hate him?” He asked, already knowing her answer.

“You don’t even know him,” responded Kate, voice just slightly teasing.

“No, that’s true, but I don’t know,” he exhaled. “There’s just- somethin’ about him. Somethin’ around the eyes,” he stated. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wyatt steadily aiming the sawed off he’d pinned under the table. He’d heard enough gambling stories from Doc to know to be wary. It was nice to know his words had been heeded.

He took a deep breath, feeling the ache as he did so. “I don’t know,” he prevaricated. An idea suddenly came to mind, and he couldn’t help himself, once he noticed the similarities. “Reminds me of… me,” he made it sound like a sudden realization, smiling sharply. He wasn’t yet showing teeth, though only because he wanted to antagonize the man so much in Wyatt’s space.

“No,” he decided. “I’m sure of it. I hate ‘im.”

Immediately, Wyatt was raising a placating hand, with his left suspiciously absent. “He’s drunk,” he excused.

Noticing Kate had refilled his cup, he gulped it down. Wanting to end the conversation, he thought he could beat Ringo with some high-society intelligence. “In vino veritas.”

“Age quod agis,” Ringo retorted, halting Doc in his movement of taking another drink. He looked back up sharply, raising an eyebrow.

He wanted to see how far this could go. “Credat judaeus apella, non ego,” he answered, narrowing his eyes.

Doc was very aware of the heavy eye contact between them, neither willing to look away first even as Ringo creeped a little closer. “Iuventus stultorum magister.”

To say Ringo being conventionally educated was a surprise would be an understatement, but Doc was not about to let that show. The man had just revealed his own hand by replying to Doc’s impromptu latin, and if Doc knew anything, it was how to hold a good hand, and when to fold on a bad one.

He could tell Kate was getting nervous by an interaction she couldn’t wholly understand. Her scattered latin wasn’t good enough to piece together the whole conversation. She slowly moved from beside him to behind Wyatt and him. He had a feeling she was regretting not packing the pistol he’d gifted her. Gotten it engraved with her initials and design of her choice as well. It was small enough to fit in her little hand-bag, far more versatile than when she had to steal Doc’s shotgun.

“In pace requiescat,” he replied shortly, not wanting to upset Kate further.

It was then Marshal White decided to intervene. “C’mon, boys,” he hedged. “We don’t want any trouble in here, not in any language.”

Doc and Ringo were still staring each other down, hackles raised despite the Marshal’s attempts to do otherwise.

“That’s latin, darlin’,” Doc stated suddenly, switching topics sharply and facing Kate, finally breaking the eye contact. “Evidently, mister Ringo is an educated man.”

He turned back to Ringo, letting the words lie for a moment. His face dropped into an angrier visage as he said lowly, “Now I really hate ‘im.”

His words had barely cleared the air when Ringo whipped his six shooter from its holster and held it up at Doc.

Doc was not concerned. He knew the man wasn’t going to shoot him point blank in front of a slew of law officials with no real cause. He was, however, curious as to how he would play off his hasty draw.

“Watch it, Johnny,” the loud one warned, only confirming Doc’s suspicions.

Doc could just barely pick up Wyatt cocking back the hammer on his shotgun, and felt a little vindicated that Wyatt still felt the need to defend him, despite his claims of changing.

“I’ve heard he’s real fast,” the man cautioned, seemingly serious for once.

It didn’t take long for Ringo to come up with an idea to save what remained of his dignity, whirling the revolver around his forefinger in a flashy show. The saloon was eating it up, cheering and clapping as the man whipped the gun around. Finally, he twirled it one last time before slamming it back into its holster with a dull thunk. Doc was not impressed. Any two-bit shooter could do what he’d done with any amount of practice. It showed none of his shooting ability and all of his ego.

That didn’t mean Doc was above mocking him, though.

He let the crowd cheer for another few moments as he emptied his cup of any remaining whiskey, glancing over to find Wyatt already looking at him, silently wondering how Doc was going to retaliate. Doc just tilted his head with the barest of smirks before facing straight again.

With the first twirl of the cup around his finger, he could tell he’d just simultaneously relieved and amused everyone in the building. Never one to pass up a dramatic moment, Doc copied most of Ringo’s little show with overdone hand movements and widened eyes. He knew he looked half-crazed, but he surely didn’t care.

After another few seconds of flipping and spinning, he spun it once more like Ringo had done and dropped it down to his hip, pretending to slot it into a holster.

The whole saloon laughed, and Doc caught a glimpse of even Morgan joining in. Unamused, Ringo and his buddy walked off with the latter laughing it up. Doc assumed it was his way of trying to be disarming, but felt it did the opposite effect.

Wyatt grinning and, shaking his head, caught his attention, and they looked at each other for a long, long moment, before Wyatt looked away first, still smiling slightly.

“Drinks are on me,” the loud one proclaimed, tossing some of his winnings into the air to show off. The whole saloon went into an uproar, and Doc had to fight a wince at the volume. Whiskey. He needed more whiskey.

“Gettin’ kinda spooky around here,” Marshal White observed, watching as Wyatt began dealing once more.

“Curly Bill, huh?” Morgan prompted, finally giving Doc the name for the face, though he was a little curious as to how Morgan knew and he didn’t.

“Who was that other idiot?” Wyatt muttered, glancing down at the cards.

White laughed. “Ike Clanton,” he replied. Doc was glad to be right. He felt Kate’s arm slide around his waist once more, and he looked over, relieved to see her back where she’d been.

“Table’s open!” Wyatt called, leaning back in his chair and widening his stance a little.

Doc sighed, filling his cup to the brim. A long night indeed.

It was a little after midnight and the saloon was finally beginning to clear out, though Mayor Clum, Sheriff Behan, and Marshal White were all grouped together at the bar talking with Josephine looking tired beside them.

At this point, Doc had finished his bottle of whiskey and had taken to stealing sips of Wyatt’s when he felt thirsty. Once the majority of the crowd had disappeared, Doc began to tire of standing silently over Wyatt’s shoulder and instead made his way to the piano, falling onto the seat heavily.

A moment later he heard footsteps behind him. Curious and mildly concerned after his confrontation with Ringo earlier, he turned his head just slightly to catch who was coming up behind him. At the sight of Kate, he immediately relaxed and faced forward again, lifting up the fallboard and cracking his knuckles to play. He felt Kate sit on the edge of the bench, her back pressing against his and lying her head on his shoulder.

“Comfortable, dear?” He mused, peering down at the keys and trying to make them stop moving, silently watching as they swirled black-and-white around in his vision.

“Just about,” Kate returned. Doc knew she was doing that usual smug smile of hers, and he refused to acknowledge it.

“And where has your attention gone this fine evening, because I am for certain it was not on those dreary faro games Wyatt’s been hosting,” Doc questioned, pressing an idle finger down on one of the keys, pleased to hear it relatively in tune.

He felt Kate’s responding hum against his back. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” she sniffed.

Doc only chuckled slightly before refocusing on the piano, looking at the wavering keys, contemplating.

“What should I play, darlin’?” He murmured, pressing another random key to try and inspire a piece to come to mind.

“Play some Chopin for me, love. I do so enjoy Chopin,” Kate purred, pushing her head a little firmer against Doc’s shoulder.

“Did you speak to Miss Josephine while I had my back turned at all this fine evening?” He asked, refusing to drop that bone just yet. Still, his fingers started to slowly acquaint themselves with Chopin’s Nocturne n. 19.

Kate sighed. Loudly. “Briefly,” she grudgingly admitted while Doc unseeingly grinned. “While I was getting some more whiskey for myself. We spoke about her in the play for a minute before going our separate ways.”

“Well there you go,” Doc said, pleased. “A step in the right direction, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps,” Kate hedged.

Before Doc could reassure her, he caught the disbelieving murmuring from one of those red-sashed men who hadn’t left with Curly Bill earlier.

“What’s she doing with that lunger?” One laughed. Doc continued to play, uncaring, but he felt Kate press herself further against him, almost possessively.

Doc hoped that by ignoring the man’s jeering comments, he’d eventually get bored and leave off, but it seemed Doc’s usual luck wasn’t with him this evening.

“Hey,” the man called, clearly drunk. Doc knew Wyatt was behind him, so he wasn’t too concerned, and continued to ignore the man. He was only halfway through the piece and wanted to finish it.

The man walked closer, coming up on Doc’s right side until he was able to see him if he looked sideways. “Hey,” he repeated, slightly louder. Doc was beginning to feel annoyed. It’d been a long night, and he was just waiting for Wyatt to finally get tired and pack up for the evening. He knew Kate was ready to sleep as well.

“Is that ‘Old Dog Tray?’” The man asked, leaning against the piano obnoxiously close. Doc could only wrinkle his nose. It smelled like the man hadn’t had a bath in weeks.

“That sounds like ‘Old Dog Tray’ to me,” he repeated, looking to his friend and grinning.

Finally, he was unable to continue ignoring the man and halted his playing, leaving his fingers pressed onto the last keys he’d played. “Pardon?” He muttered peevishly.

“You know, Stephen Foster. ‘Oh Susanna!’ ‘De Camptown Races’” He returned, pushing off the piano and wandered over to the opposite side, leaning in close to Doc’s face. His own mistake.

The man stood there for a minute before plastering himself against the side of the piano once again, staring down at Doc.

“Stephen stinkin’ Foster,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Oh, yes. Well, this happens to be a nocturne,” Doc replied, voice slow so he wouldn’t slur as bad. He had very little confidence that this man knew what a nocturne even was, though. He felt Kate rolling her head along his shoulder blades and knew she was enjoying herself.

“A which?” The man asked, confirming Doc’s suspicions.

Done with the conversation, Doc sighed and turned to look at the parasite latched onto the piano.

“You know. Frederick fucking Chopin,” he growled, feeling Kate laugh openly against his back.

Sufficiently done with the interaction, he turned back to the piano and began playing where he left off, beyond happy when the man sneered and peeled off to talk with his friend once more.

He’d barely managed to finish the piece before gunfire erupted outside, leaving Doc to groan and drop his head forward in annoyance. First night in Tombstone, and not even one Goddamn second of peace to be had.

Sheriff Behan rushed back in, clearly having been about to head home for the night before all this happened.

“Do you see what’s going on in the street?” He demanded, coming to an abrupt stop. Doc had managed to turn his body sideways on the bench to see what was going on. He saw Wyatt calmly look toward Behan, still holding the cards he’d been shuffling.

“Somebody’s gotta do something,” Behan stated, clearly meaning for Wyatt to do something. Josephine trailed after Behan, but Doc noted the way she glanced over at Kate for a moment before looking back at Wyatt. Doc had to fight a smile.

“Well, I believe you’re the sheriff,” Mayor Clum reminded, eyebrows pointedly raised.

“No, no, no,” Behan refuted, shaking his head erratically. “This is not county business, this is a town matter,” he argued. “Marshal?”

White turned partially toward the sound of Curly Bill’s rampage, clearly nervous.

“Why don’t you just leave it alone,” Wyatt suggested, sipping from his drink.

“No… I uh. I gotta do something,” he decided, glaring at Behan for his obvious negligence.

Doc watched as the man exited the saloon, having a bad feeling. Unwilling to return to playing, he instead began to look out the window at the confrontation.

White managed to get Curly Bill to surrender, stumbling over with his guns hanging off his fingers. However, just as White holstered his weapon, Curly Bill fired right into White’s chest. Doc blinked, frowning. He wasn’t sure if the shot was intentional or not, but a man had died in the street either way. Glancing over, he was unsurprised to see Wyatt slam the cards down and hurry outside.

Kate shifted a little so she could see outside as well, and half the saloon followed Wyatt out where a large crowd was forming. He was content to sit and watch up until Wyatt very clearly had his gun pointed at Ike Clanton’s head, snarling back at his compatriots.

He sighed and turned to Kate, who already knew what he was going to say. “I shall be right back to escort you back to the hotel, dear,” he promised, hauling himself to his feet and making his way outside despite the way gravity was trying its utmost to pull him down.

Taking a swig from some of the whiskey he’d stolen off Wyatt, he managed to get down the steps onto the hard packed ground where the more violent of the crowd were circling Wyatt like hungry wolves.

The man who’d been antagonizing him earlier was in front of him, and he heard Ike call him ‘Billy.’ Least he had a name, now.

With his cup in one hand, he drew one of his revolvers with the other and held it up, wavering only slightly.

“And you, music lover,” he called, taking a few more languid steps forward. “You’re next,” he threatened.

Billy turned around, his look of surprise morphing into morbid amusement.

He laughed to himself, tilting his head a little. “The drunk piano player. You’re so drunk, you can’t hit nothin’,” he stated. Doc made sure to keep an eye on him even as he finished what was left in his cup.

“In fact…” Billy breathed, “you’re probably seein’ double.” He began to draw out a wicked looking blade, believing to sense Doc’s weakness.

Doc withdrew his second revolver. “I have two guns,” he slurred, spinning them both in opposing directions, “one for each of ya.” This time, his aim was unerring.

Abruptly, the harried figures of Virgil and Morgan came running up with Virgil shooting his shotgun into the air to startle off any passerbys.

“Alright, break it up now!” Shouted Virgil. “Go home now!” He ordered once he and Morgan had their guns trained on any potential threat left.

Thankfully, everyone began a slow, reluctant retreat, with Ike threatening Wyatt, and Billy threatening Doc.

“We’ll meet again,” Billy warned, continuing to backstep for a good distance.

They all stood there for a moment before Wyatt dragged Curly Bill off to the county jail with Morgan and Virgil making sure no one tried to come back. Seeing the situation handled, he walked back in to collect Kate and pay off his tab.

Kate stared at the body of Marshal White as they passed, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she just tucked her arm into Doc’s elbow as they both silently made their way back to their hotel.

Doc turned around and spotted Wyatt’s retreating form.

Suddenly exhausted, he desperately hoped not every night was this exciting. As fun as it was, he didn’t think he could keep up.

Later, when they were getting ready for bed, Doc kept both revolvers under his pillow instead of just the one, just in case. He refused to let anything happen to Kate on his watch. Not while he was still able.

Chapter Text

It was several relatively uneventful weeks after the cowboys incident, as Doc liked to title the two events that happened that night. In that time, he’d rented an apartment for he and Kate, learned who the Cowboys were, and taken up drinking in new fashion. In simpler terms, he had begun to drink even more and stay out even later than before. Despite Curly Bill’s clearly stacked trial and subsequent release, Doc wasn’t all too worried about the man doing something foolish, at least, not yet.

Their room had become too stifling of late. Kate was still clearly eyeing Josephine, and Doc was still eyeing Wyatt. They still shared a bed every night and even lazily kissed every once and a while, but they were too heartsick to go much further than that.

Due to Wyatt being an unreachable dream for Doc, he got to hear everything and anything Kate had to share about her last interaction with Josie. He didn’t really mind, not as long as he’d been drinking a while, as he’d even endorsed the pursuing. Yet it still hurt so strongly, simply because once Kate moved on from him, he’d have no one, not truly.

Wyatt would always be a long-distant friend whom he would die for unquestioningly, but he felt as if their new relationship did not constitute late night talks over too many glasses of bourbon or whiskey. No more longing looks through tired eyes over a straining lantern light. Doc tried not to remember the feel of Wyatt’s gun-calloused hands gently curled around his bare side. The rasp of his facial hair against Doc’s own.

In those long weeks of dull inactivity, leaving himself to briefly regret asking for it in the first place, he’d begun staying longer and longer at the Oriental until he was either thrown or dragged out. He’d become real accustomed to the wooden floors in the joint. He’d dusted enough sand and dirt from his clothes since his visits had increased in duration and number to claim such an idea.

It was a brisk September evening, though practically morning now if the faint glimpses of weak lighting pouring in from the windows meant anything. The saloon had left him sweating when he’d first arrived, but as the room cleared out it’d began to cool. Joyce had left him passed out in the corner of a room wedged in a chair for a few hours while the man slept before coming back down to blearily reopen.

He waited around a few hours, eating a breakfast of bar nuts and drinking beer instead of whiskey to sober up a little. Played some solitaire by himself until a few of the patrons he briefly remembered swindling the evening before came trickling back in for a chance at redemption.

It was when Wyatt returned around noon with a hard frown did Doc begin to suspect something. But by then he’d already switched back to whiskey and his thoughts were pleasantly muddied. The persistent burn in his lungs was even dulled, which was half the reason behind his actions in the first place, with the other half being an insistently annoying former lawman and his unbelieving ability to care for someone as half-rotten inside as Doc.

Doc still caught sight of Wyatt staring at Josephine from afar many times, but more often he saw Josephine staring at Kate when Kate was distracted. Doc almost always noticed and almost always had to fight back a grin.

Wyatt left soon after he arrived, and Doc only spared a curious thought for a moment before returning to his poker game. Already, he’d doubled the money he’d woken up on the floor of the Oriental with, and could tell his current partners were going to get frustrated and leave soon.

He was just laying out another winning hand when he saw Wyatt and Morgan both appear inside the saloon, looking at him with narrowed eyes. Doc narrowed his own in return and stared at them until someone else at the table growled for his attention.

He only blinked passively before drawing another card. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morgan and Wyatt muttering to each other about something, likely him if their furtive glances and downturned mouths gave anything away.

It wasn’t long before Morgan walked over to him after seeing Doc fold his current hand with a sneer.

When the man was standing next to Doc’s chair, he only tipped his head back and squinted up at Morgan’s face.

“How long have you been here, Doc?” Morgan questioned, eyebrows pulled together in worry.

Doc hummed thoughtfully, slowly doing the math. “Fifteen hours or so,” he decided.

Morgan frowned harder. “How ‘bout you head on back home and Kate will be right there,” he suggested, hands spread placatingly.

Doc eyed him, then looked over at the barely disguised fury on some of the faces around him, and decided to give in to Wyatt and Morgan this time. He sighed and nodded, pulling his money into his arms and standing. He caught Wyatt slipping out as soon as Doc agreed, but he was soon distracted by Morgan slinging an arm around his shoulders and leading him on. If Doc’s slight lack of balance actually had him leaning into Morgan’s grip, that was between him and the Devil.

They stepped outside, and the bright sunshine had Doc squinting aggressively, definitely relying on Morgan’s hold then.

“Alright, back to your apartment big guy,” Morgan mused, snorting at Doc’s grumbling. “Kate’s been worried for ya. Says your cough’s been actin’ up.”

Doc sighed, which turned into a brief cough when it felt like something caught in his throat for a moment. He cleared his throat and shrugged. Damn his timing.

And damn how far his apartment was from the Oriental. They’d started walking, but Doc knew it would be a good ten minutes before they arrived at his place. His ‘apartment’ was really just a house that’d been sectioned off by floor when those building it felt like truly capitalizing on the small space. Doc didn’t care, he’d managed to snag the bottom half of the building, which saved his drunken, ailing ass from climbing up a flight of stairs. Truly, he believed he’d be dead if he had to make a trip like that every night. He’d seen the stairs, too. They didn’t look all too sturdy to begin with. But the place itself was right on the edge of Tombstone’s ever growing body, and the place still smelt of freshly cut lumber.

So he resigned himself to a long and umbilicating walk partially attached to poor Morgan. They’d barely made it onto the busy street before Doc’s hat slid back just enough to let the sunlight hit his sensitive eyes and it was all downhill from there.

He swallowed. “Morgan, if you do not get me to a nearby alleyway, I will be heaving nothing but very flammable fluid onto a busy thoroughfare,” Doc said conversationally, swallowing convulsively, but the nausea was beginning to win.

Morgan looked especially alarmed, but he did listen and steered Doc toward a shaded area between a general store and tailor shop. He even stood in front of Doc’s hunched over form to keep him from prying eyes, which Doc thought was something he should thank the man for. Another hack brought up more burning liquid which he spat angrily into the sand. Perhaps when his insides weren’t so acquainted with being outside.

Once the roiling in his stomach had settled into its usual brand of slightly-annoying yet ignorable that he dealt with daily, Doc stood back up and pulled out one of his kerchiefs to wipe his face. He spat one last time with a grimace before resettling his hat properly and walking back to Morgan with one hand on the wall beside him keeping him upright.

He patted Morgan’s shoulder with an easy grin. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. Morgan only blinked at him before ducking his head with a slightly bashful smile.

“You ready to head on?” Morgan asked, glancing at Doc’s pale and sweaty form from the corner of his eye. Doc was almost always pale and sweaty, but to be fair to Morgan, he’d been drinking on an empty stomach and that surely didn’t help with his complexion.

Doc exhaled loudly, and was relieved it only came out a little raspy. He grimaced at the sour taste lingering on his tongue, but knew there was nothing for it until he returned home. “Oh, I suppose,” he drawled, draping an arm over Morgan’s shoulders. Partially in camaraderie, and partially to continue staying upright.

Thankfully, it seemed Morgan wasn’t feeling too talkative, because for the first half of their journey, Doc honestly felt if he opened his mouth at all he’d be throwing up blood immediately. Which wasn’t really a good look for… anyone.

They were passing the porch of a trapper’s shop when pitiful whining caught both his and Morgan’s attention. Their heads snapped in the direction of the noise, and for a moment Doc thought he’d find a kid being beat on, or an even more awful drunk than Doc. What surprised him, however, was the sight of a basset hound laying under the porch where clearly some other critter had broken a hole through. The hound’s head was the only thing laying out, head sadly pressed to the ground as each time a person walked by it would just whine. Doc felt something churn in his chest uncomfortably at the realization that the dog wasn’t even lifting its head anymore. He had a feeling it was too tired.

Slowly, he looked over at Morgan, already knowing he’d find a similar look of hardened resolve he often saw on his brother gracing his features. Doc sighed. He just hoped he’d sobered enough to stand on his own.

His idle thoughts were soon put to the test when without a word, Morgan wheeled around and jogged toward the general store Doc had just puked in the alley of. He sighed again.

Carefully, he made his way toward the dog, glad the dog was on the side facing another building beside it, not by the entrance. Doc could barely get by on his own two feet, let alone if someone bumped into him. With a strained grunt, he dropped to one knee and held out a hand to the dog. He wasn’t a fan of them, not much, but he’d been raised on an estate that boasted about their fine hunting dogs. When he’d been forced to go hunting with the men of the family, he’d had to make the dog’s acquaintance as well, and even with his inherent dislike for the loud, slobbering beasts, he found he enjoyed their company more than the men he had to hunt with. At least the dogs couldn’t brag about their material wealth incessantly. But despite all the years between then and now, he remembered enough about his youth to know to let a dog catch your scent before you try anything.

Despite his attempts, however, the dog was too weak to even lean forward to sniff Doc’s outstretched hand. With a grimace, he shuffled forward and pressed his hand right against the dog’s nose, distantly pleased when he felt some soft snuffling on his knuckles.

He glanced behind him to see if Morgan was returning yet, and resolved himself to an even longer wait before he could fall into bed when he saw the man wasn’t. Gently, he began to pet the dog’s large head, marveling at its large, drooping ears and similarly drooping jowls. Interesting look for a dog, he mused.

A breeze that normally wouldn’t have been strong enough to irritate his lungs caught some sand that managed to catch in his throat. Goddamn this dog for putting him this close to the godforsaken sand. He turned to hack and splutter into his elbow for a few moments, pulling away to squint into the sun and gasp in a harsh breath. Quickly, he reached up to adjust his hat and looked behind him again, this time relieved to see Morgan walking back at a brisk pace.

Doc grabbed the porch above the dog’s hideout and used it as leverage to haul himself up with a groan more befitting a man twenty years his senior. He stepped back just as Morgan skidded to a stop, proudly brandishing a bag of jerky he’d clearly acquired from the store.

“For the dog, I assume? Because, sorry, I’m not feeling all that hungry right now,” Doc commented dryly as Morgan took up the position Doc had just been in, rifling through the bag for a small piece to get the poor hound started on.

“Of course,” Morgan replied, as if it were obvious, which, Doc should’ve guessed something like this would happen. He knew of Wyatt’s inclination toward horses, he shouldn’t be surprised there was another animal lover among the Earps. Watching the dog tiredly eat the jerky, too tired to even snap it up, Doc was left wondering what animal Virgil would like. Briefly he considered cats, but found the idea too absurd to seriously consider.

“Good boy,” Morgan praised, petting the dog’s head like Doc had been.

“You see a collar on him under there?” Doc asked, watching as Morgan fed the poor thing another scrap of jerky, this piece a little larger.

He heard Morgan hum as he reached under the porch and felt around the dog's floppy neck. He shook his head and glanced back at Doc. “Nope.”

Doc shut his eyes and tipped his head all the way back, feeling the sun on his face and seeing the inside of his eyelids from its shine. His morning was just getting longer and longer, and he couldn’t even say it wasn’t his own fault. Because he’d been the one passed out in the saloon, he’d been the one to worry Kate enough to seek out Wyatt’s help, who’d roped poor Morgan in to wrangle Doc. So it was his own fault for ending up here, but he’d still be bitter about it.

“You’re taking him home with you,” Doc said, no question in his voice. He didn’t see Morgan’s reaction, as his eyes were still firmly closed, but he heard the other man’s sigh.

“Yeah,” he muttered, seemingly already deep in thought. “Shoot, what am I s’posed to tell Lou?”

Doc looked back down and squinted at Morgan. “You folks have your own house, right?”

Morgan frowned up at him, handing another slice of jerky to the dog without seeming to think about it. “...Yes.”

Doc nodded. “Well then, there ya go. Tell her your nice, big, new house was just so dreadfully empty, and just look at this poor little creature, we have the room and money, don’t we? It’ll work like a charm,” Doc advised.

Morgan seemed to be ignoring Doc’s words, too lost in his own head. He tried not to let it offend him; Morgan wasn’t the first to do so.

“We have been talking about getting a dog to keep away coyotes…” he said thoughtfully, turning a critical eye onto the basset hound. “You could bark loud enough to scare off some mangy coyotes, eh boy?” Morgan mused, rubbing the dog’s head. Doc thought he could hear the thing’s tail whacking against the wood paneling.

“How do you know it’s a boy?” Doc asked, curious.

Morgan looked sheepish. “Ah, I don’t. But I imagine we’ll find out once we get him out,” he replied, standing up and dusting the sand off his jeans.

Doc continued to watch as Morgan took a few steps back and crouched in front of the dog, patting his knees imploringly. “C’mere, boy. Come one!” He encouraged, hastily grabbing another piece of jerky and waving it in the air enticingly.

Doc didn’t have high hopes on the dog’s success, but was quickly proven wrong when the thing started wriggling through the hole its head had been sticking out of. Doc supposed that the little bit of food Morgan had fed it had managed to rejuvenate it a little.

Morgan seemed emboldened and continued to pat his knees. “Good boy! Come on, nearly there,” he said. Doc could see the dog’s nose furiously sniffing the air as it hauled itself out from under the porch, shaking out its far too skinny body with a snort.

Seemingly satisfied that it’d shaken off all the sand, it happily trotted up to Morgan and devoured the piece of jerky. Doc watched, morbidly fascinated at the weird sounds the dog was making. It didn’t take long for it to build up confidence to start whining for more, nudging at Morgan’s hand with its nose. Morgan happily gave some more over with a pleased laugh.

“Definitely a boy,” Morgan called, and Doc rolled his eyes. He could see the dog too, he wasn’t blind.

“What now?” Doc huffed, fighting the urge to cross his arms. Instead, he just rested them on the handles of his guns, caressing the ivory idly.

Morgan hummed and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, considerin’ he could barely lift his head a few minutes ago, I thought I’d carry him on home,” he said, scratching behind the dog’s ear with a smile.

“You live way across town,” Doc pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

Morgan waved off his concerns. “Oh, I know. But I left my horse over at your place. Figured I’d drop you off then ride home with him, get him fed up and some water in him,” he explained.

Secretly, Doc was glad Morgan was committing to finishing his task of delivering Doc home. He’d been doing mighty fine at standing up, but had a feeling that walking more than a few steps at a time might be beyond his abilities, at the moment.

Morgan patted the dog’s head one more time before dropping another piece of jerky on the ground and standing up with a faint groan. “I’ll be right back, boy, you don’t gotta follow me,” Morgan told the dog, pointing at him.

Doc turned and hid his smile in his shoulder, feigning a cough.

The other man nodded, satisfied, and turned back around and allowed Doc to loop an arm around his shoulders as they set off.

It didn’t take either of them long to realize they had a slow, lumbering companion on their heels. Doc glanced behind them and saw the poor hound making a valiant effort at keeping up, its paws dragging in the sand.

“You and Wyatt inspire such loyalty in any of God’s creatures,” Doc mused, shaking his head.

“What?” Morgan asked, confused.

Doc patted Morgan’s shoulder with the arm he had around him. “Oh, don’t worry about it, my friend. We’re nearly there anyhow,” Doc said cheerfully.

He was oh so ready to lay down with a pillow over his head and the drapes pulled shut. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d get Kate laying beside him and combing lithe fingers through his hair. Though, with how long he’d been gone, he imagined she’d be too upset with him to do it. He couldn’t blame her, it was his own idiocy that had gotten him there, as it usually was.

Finally, after what seemed like an age and a half, they made it to the little building at the edge of the road that dissipated into the desert that made up his home. And just as Morgan had said, his horse was tied to the hitching post out front. Doc thought that he oughta go check on he and Kate’s horses. He’d had them stabled, since they were mostly traveling around town and it was never far enough to warrant a horse.

“Here we are,” Morgan said, leaning Doc against a support beam on the porch. “Home sweet home.”

“So it is,” Doc agreed, closing his eyes and exhaling loudly. He was a little surprised when Morgan didn’t immediately scoop up the panting dog and leave, but instead was kicking at the ground with his boot nervously.

Before Doc could even ask what was wrong, Morgan looked up and frowned. “You’re friends with Wyatt, right?” He asked, eyebrows pinched together in worry.

Doc could’ve laughed at how inane of a question that was considering the frankly bizarre answers it could garner, should Doc say them. Fortunately, he did have a little self preservation, and even more respect for Wyatt, so he refrained.

“Of course, why?”

Morgan bit his lip, looking at the sky for a moment before sighing, shoulders slumping. “Now don’t go tellin’ him I said all this to you, alright?” He warned, eyes hardening a bit. Surprised at Morgan’s seriousness, he only nodded.

Feeling a bit out of his depth he promised, “I won’t.”

Morgan glanced in either direction before nodding once more to himself. “I’m… worried about Wyatt. More specifically; him and Mattie,” he admitted, uncomfortable.

Doc would be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed. Every time he asked after Mattie, he’d see the lines around Wyatt’s eyes tighten, and if it were a particularly bad day, his hands would clench into involuntary fists. He’d always been curious, but a bit too hesitant to ask. It seemed he was finally getting his answer for why such a loyal man’s gaze had been straying more and more.

Morgan didn’t wait for a response from Doc before continuing. “Mattie’s laudanum problem has just been gettin’ out of hand. I told Lou not to give her any more, but she’s still finding it from somewhere,” Morgan explained, pulling off his hat and running his hand through his hair.

Doc felt his brain halt, and suddenly start back up again working double time. Everything made a whole lot more sense now in both Wyatt and Mattie’s behaviors.

“Hold on, Mattie is hooked on laudanum?” Doc questioned, wanting to confirm what he’d just heard.

Morgan’s eyes widened. “Shit, you didn’t know?”

Doc sneered. “Would I be asking otherwise?”

Morgan looked apologetic. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But, yeah. She’s hardly sober nowadays, never see her leave their house, ‘cept to get more laudanum. She don’t even talk to the other girls no more,” Morgan said, looking sad. “Wyatt’s been trying to get her to lay off, but she won’t. He’s such a loyal man, but I’m just afraid that Mattie’s gonna break his heart,” he finished.

Doc sighed and leaned his head against the beam he was propped against. “A conundrum, indeed,” he stated inelegantly.

“I just don’t know what to do,” Morgan admitted.

Doc took pity on the man and settled a hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do, friend. Wyatt’s gonna have to decide for himself, or Mattie’s gonna have to decide on quittin’. It’s not your problem to intercede in, and I’m sure Wyatt wouldn’t be too fond if you tried,” he advised.

Morgan blew out a breath between his teeth, whistling slightly. “I know.” He grimaced. “I know,” he repeated to himself.

“Just be there for Wyatt for whatever happens. You’re his brother and I’m sure he’ll always appreciate your presence,” Doc said comfortingly. The words felt odd on his tongue, and yet again he found himself acting far kinder than he thought possible just at the thought of Wyatt. Damn that man.

Suddenly, Morgan’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “I’m sure he’d appreciate your company too, y’know,” Morgan pointed out.

Doc froze. Surely Morgan didn’t suspect anything, unless Wyatt had told him?

“I dunno about that. Feels like he can barely stand my presence some days,” Doc said, metaphorically side-stepping the observation.

“Surely you know Wyatt doesn’t tolerate just anyone. If he don’t like someone, he won’t put up with them,” Morgan mused, eyes shining a bit in good humor.

Doc thought back to when Behan had tried introducing the Mayor to Wyatt, who’d very succinctly backed out of that conversation. Thought of how he’d responded to Ike Clanton and his repetitiveness. He found he couldn’t disagree with Morgan.

“I suppose,” he admitted, grudgingly.

“So he’s got us, and Virgil, and now Jim,” Morgan stated, grinning and patting Doc on the back. Thankfully, not hard enough to startle a coughing fit out of him.

“Jim?” Doc muttered, confused. Was that another brother he didn’t know about?

Morgan laughed and pointed to the dog. “Jim!” He repeated, leaning over to laugh into his knees at Doc’s disgruntled expression.

Doc watched as Morgan hauled the dog up into the saddle with him and rode off. Still, he squinted after them with his eyebrows drawn together.

“What kinda name is Jim?” He wondered aloud, incredulous. Shaking his head, he headed inside to face Kate’s concerned wrath.

Chapter Text

Another few weeks rolled by, somehow already almost through October, and Doc was once again wishing for peace. Nothing had truly even happened yet, but the tension around Tombstone was ratcheting up so high that he felt even an errant sneeze could snap it.

His cough had continued to plague him more and more, leaving him to spend more evenings in, hacking and spitting into his blood-stained handkerchiefs while Kate worriedly kept an eye on him. He knew he was beginning to worry the Earps, as Morgan and his dog had stopped by a few times, as had Wyatt. Virgil hadn’t, but Doc wasn’t all that surprised about that; they weren’t close, and doubted they ever would be.

Still, when he heard the stampede of riders storming through town, causing all the people roaming the streets to scream, he hauled himself to his feet and peered through the window. They raced past his place and into the desert to wherever they called home, firing into the air and hooting with joy, red sashes whipping in the wind on each rider. Idly, he smoothed down his mustache, deep in thought. He wasn’t sure just what, but he was sure something was about to shift.

He swallowed and turned to Kate, who was still sitting on their bed and looking concerned. “I think it might be better if you headed out of town for a few days,” he suggested, voice halting.

Kate’s expression turned thunderous in an instant, though she remained sitting. Doc was a little too frightened to sit back down beside her.

“I knew what I was getting into when we moved to a frontier town, and I knew especially the first night we were here. You aren’t getting rid of me, Holliday,” she growled, pointing at him aggressively. Cowed, he looked away. “I know how to handle myself just fine, but who’s gonna take care of you when you push yourself too much?” She demanded. At his lack of response, she huffed. “Because it sure as hell won’t be Wyatt. I don’t know what’s gotten into that man…”

Those final words made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach. “Now, darlin’, don’t disparage dear Wyatt like that. I’m sure he’d be far more willing to spend time with me if he didn’t already know you’re takin’ care of me,” he said.

Kate groaned in annoyance and tipped her head back until it thunked against the wall. Sensing the hostility in the room had finally evaporated, Doc sat back on the bed and coughed distractedly into his cuff. He scooted a little closer to Kate and pulled her into his side, resting his cheek on top of her head.

“You must know I am ever so confident in your abilities, dear,” he murmured, running his hand up and down her arm slowly. “I just worry.”

Kate leaned into him and rested her hand on his thigh, a warm weight that grounded him. “I know,” she replied, voice soft. He pulled away just far enough to place a lingering kiss on her cheek before returning to his previous position. They spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening there, her reading another novel Doc had snagged for her, and him trying to catch up on all the sleep he’d missed while coughing intermittently all night.

Unfortunately, his dozing was cut off just after the sun went down by the crying of many, many angry men. For a moment, Doc was left only a little surprised that it wasn’t directed at him for once. Then, his blasted sense of duty kicked in, because God knew how he could tell, but he had a feeling the Earps were right in the center of all the ruckus.

With a rasping groan, he tugged his boots on and buttoned a waistcoat haphazardly over his shirt. He turned back to the bedpost where his holsters hung and began securing them in their usual places while Kate watched him in silence.

He stood up straight, finished, and grabbed his hat but hesitated in putting it on. “I know you’re capable, I do, but I ask that you stay here for now, just in case. There’s no need to place yourself unnecessarily in danger,” he requested, half pleading.

Kate tilted her head with narrowed eyes. “You know it isn’t your responsibility to go out there, either,” she stated, not even trying to phrase it like a question.

For a moment, Doc was in a rare place where he wasn’t quite sure what to say, a more common occurrence with Kate and Wyatt both, something that both captivated and annoyed him.

“It is my responsibility to protect Wyatt,” he finally decided on, shrugging lamely.

Kate slumped forward, pulling her knees up so she could rest her face on them as she let out a long sigh. “Go on, then, lover boy,” she called, forcing humor into her tone.

Doc stalled, holding his hat in numb fingers. Finally, he gripped it more confidently and strided toward Kate, gently holding her face with his free hand and pulling her into a long kiss. When he pulled away, she was smiling faintly. He kissed her once more on the forehead before stepping back, setting his hat on his head.

Before leaving the bedroom he paused and turned back to her. “I’ll always be there for you, too,” he said firmly. He resolutely didn’t want her to think he would only do all these things for Wyatt, because it wasn’t true. He may be in love with Wyatt, but he’d loved Kate in a lot closer quarters for far longer. He may kill or be killed for Wyatt, but that sentiment went likewise for Kate. Wyatt just seemed to be more in need of his help than Kate ever was.

Kate looked at him fondly, her cheek resting on her knee as she watched him. “Go on, then,” she huffed, shooing him.

He tipped his hat at her with a grin before turning on his heel and leaving the house, spurs jangling loudly on the wood flooring.

It didn’t take long for him to find the commotion; he just followed behind some angry men until he heard even more angry men up ahead yelling. Once he drew close to the sheriff’s office, he realized, he was glad he came, because there stood Virgil trying to placate the crowd.

Not ten seconds after he arrived did he see Wyatt tear into view on his horse looking royally pissed off. Doc quickly wished he had a coat to cover his holsters once he managed to parse out what the crowd was even angry about.

An ordinance. He wasn’t surprised something had been done about the rampant crime in Tombstone, but he was a little surprised by the form it had taken, and that it had been Virgil to take the first step and not Wyatt. But, looking at Wyatt’s face as he climbed off his horse and stormed toward Virgil, he recollected all the other instances he’d been set up to help and brushed aside every suggestion. Doc had a feeling Wyatt had become disillusioned, borne from remaining stationary and stagnant in Kansas for far too long. Realized it was likely the biggest reason for his desire to move in the first place.

His whole perspective of Wyatt shifted on its axis in just a scant few moments, and a whole lot of things made sense. With this realization, and the information Morgan had offered him a few weeks ago, the puzzle pieces on just why Wyatt was the way he was after he and Doc’s time apart were starting to fall into place.

The crowd shifted a little and Doc saw Morgan grinning at Virgil, clearly pleased at following in his older brother’s footsteps. It made Doc frown, worried about how far Morgan would follow Virgil, and began to skirt the crowd and make for the front of the marshal's office.

He made it to the front steps just as the brothers had stepped inside and heard Wyatt’s growling, “Now just hold on a minute, Virg!”

“Hold on nothing!” Virgil snapped, turning around to glare at Wyatt, one of the few people actually more intimidating than him. “I walk around this town and look these people in the eye. It’s just like someone’s slapping me in the face. These people are afraid to walk down the street. And I’m tryin’ to make money off them like some goddamned vulture!” He paused to take a breath. “If we’re gonna have a future in this town, it’s gotta have some law and order.”

It was then Doc stepped in, a floorboard creaking beneath his foot. The brothers all whipped around at the sound before relaxing marginally once they saw who it was, though not completely as they were all clearly still mad.

Doc just tilted his head and stood beside Morgan, motioning for them to carry on. Wyatt needed no further encouragement, so incensed that Doc’s interruption didn’t even halt his war path.

“Please, Virg, don’t do this to me!” Wyatt pleaded. Doc noticed rather suddenly that Wyatt had clearly been about to go to bed, dressed in his sleep shirt.

“It’s got nothing to do with you, Wyatt!” Virgil snarled, stepping closer to Wyatt and poking him in the chest. Doc knew that if it were anyone other than Wyatt’s brother, that finger would be broken.

“Nothing to do with me? I’m your brother for Christ's sake!” He exhaled in frustration and turned away. “God, I can’t believe this!”

After a few moments, he turned toward Morgan and Doc, but was looking insistently at Morgan. “Talk to him, will ya? Or hit him?” He begged.

Morgan didn’t answer, but he pulled aside his coat to show the shiny new marshal's badge pinned to his shirt with a sheepish expression.

Wyatt’s face darkened in shock and anger.

“Ah God, don’t tell me…”

“Like you said, Wyatt. We’re brothers. Gotta back your brother’s play” Morgan said nervously, glancing over at Virgil. “Just did like I figured you would.”

Wyatt’s gaze soon landed on Doc, and his eyes narrowed dangerously, locking onto his prominently displayed holsters.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone and joined the law too,” Wyatt growled.

Doc narrowed his eyes right back, refusing to be afraid of Wyatt. He tilted his head with a dangerous smile, teeth glinting in the lantern light. “Now, Wyatt, I don’t much like your tone,” he warned. “But, no. I’ve only just arrived and learned what you have.”

Seemingly reassured, he glanced back at Virgil before storming over to the door and slamming it shut.

“Alright now, you listen to me,” he walked back over to them and paused, glancing at Doc again, “All three of you. For the first time in our lives, we’ve got a chance to stop wandering and finally be a family,” he said harshly.

Doc found it peculiar that he’d been included in this talk, his stomach turning at what it might mean. Still, he continued to listen, curious as to how far Wyatt’s ire would take him.

“Now this is trouble we don’t need,” he reminded, gesturing toward the closed door. “You saw what happened to Fred White.”

Morgan stepped forward, back straight. “We know what we’re doing, Wyatt,” he stated.

Wyatt looked at him for a moment. “Fine. Say you’re right. Say you don’t get yourself killed. There’s somethin’ else.” He stopped, taking a deep breath and seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Doc had the visceral urge to step forward and just rest a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder in comfort, but it was quickly stymied for a multitude of reasons; two of them standing beside him.

“All those years I worked those cow towns, I was only ever mixed up in one shooting. Just one. But a man lost his life and I took it,” he said lowly, face grim. “You don’t know how that feels, Morgan. Believe me, boy. You don’t ever wanna know. Not ever,”

The room was plunged into a loud silence, the angry shouting from outside muffled. While understanding the other two brothers’ insistence on law and order, Doc couldn’t help but agree with Wyatt on this one thing; he did not want Morgan to know what it was like to kill a man. He still remembered the first time he had to shoot someone who’d tried robbing him back when he’d first started the gambling life; back before he’d been known as Doc; before he’d even gotten his signature six-shooters. He’d been touting an unwieldy and beat up old Colt he’d picked up for cheap. A veritable relic from the war. He hardly even knew how to shoot a revolver having been raised on rifles.

But the feeling of the blood that’d splattered on his face, his hands. The way it’d been warm and wet. How the man he’d shot had let out a loud, wet gasp before crumpling to the ground in the alleyway outside the saloon where Doc had just been trying to piss out all the whiskey he’d spent all night drinking.

There was this one, still and silent moment where everything had seemed to freeze around Doc as the man lay dead at his feet. He knew he wouldn’t be persecuted, which was admittedly his last worry. He’d known going into this life that killing would be a likely possibility, but the reality of it wasn’t what he’d expected. His aching chest had seemed unbearably cold, and for days after his hands wouldn’t stop shaking no matter how much whiskey he drank and threw up.

Fortunately, it’d gotten easier after then, he’d become dispassionate to the snuffing out of human souls, feeling only a whisper of regret, before thinking it was him or me.

He never wanted Morgan to feel the ice cold dread and realization of that first kill. Never wanted him to begin rationalizing all the ones after.

“Didn’t even make a dent, did I?” Wyatt asked, resigned. Doc couldn’t say he was surprised; he knew how stubborn Wyatt and even Virgil were, it only made sense for Morgan to be the same. The man glanced down and undid his gunbelt, the gun jingling faintly in its holster.

“Alright,” he said, shoving it into Virgil’s arms. “You’re all making a big mistake,” he warned, turning and stalking out. Doc didn’t have the energy to claim neutrality.

The last two brothers watched him leave before Morgan turned to Doc, an apology written on his face. For a moment, Doc thought the man would make him relinquish his own weapons. But instead, he just said, “He gets like that sometimes. Don’t worry, he’ll calm down soon.”

Doc wasn’t sure why Morgan felt the need to comfort him of all people, but he didn’t question it. Instead, he just tipped his hat and said, “Good evening, gentlemen. Best of luck,” before turning and leaving. Neither of them tried to stop him.

Briefly he wondered if their lack of action toward his own firearms came out of pity, thinking him unable to protect himself without a gun. The thought tasted bitter on his tongue, acrid and all encompassing. He knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, however, and resigned himself to wearing a coat whenever he left with his guns.

He wasn’t too upset about needing to wear a coat, though. He was almost always too cold, and the desert nights did not help.

Returning home to Kate, he began to line up all his thoughts. He had a story to tell.

Another few weeks passed by, and soon it was nearly November, and the town of Tombstone was holding its breath. Doc had taken to spending all his time at the Oriental, refusing to be shut in his apartment with only poor Kate as company. He couldn’t stand the idea of being out of the loop during an obviously approaching turning point.

Kate had taken to keeping him company at the saloon most of the time, though she did leave him to go and sleep, not so subtly pleading for him to come with. But something held him back each time. Just one more hand, darlin’ he’d say, and it’d be another six hours before he stumbled home, either alone or with Morgan’s help at Wyatt’s request.

It was the evening of October 24th, and he’d been there since nine in the morning of the 23rd. He hadn’t slept; couldn’t manage to make himself tired even with all the whiskey he’d downed. His mind was racing, no matter what he did, and his chest ached so badly he knew if he laid down he’d be up half the night hacking and spitting anyway. So he gambled. And he drank. And he coughed.

The day was coming up on ten in the evening, and Morgan had arrived a short while ago and spoke with Kate in a low tone while she’d been refilling Doc’s glass at the bar. The McLaury’s had shown up not too long ago, though when specifically slipped him by.

He wasn’t sure how much whiskey he’d imbibed; lost track while the sun was still high in the sky at some point. His vision was swimming and his fingers felt numb, yet still he couldn’t hold back the occasional barking cough, muffled only with his already-damp handkerchief. Kate had forgotten to bring him a new one when she’d arrived in the afternoon, and so he was using the same soiled one since he’d gotten there.

Kate soon returned to his table, and following behind her was Morgan who pulled a chair up to the table. Doc expected him to join in, but instead the man just nervously sipped his own drink while occasionally shooting looks toward the entrance. Virgil had already been there a while, keeping a post at the bar once the sun went down and kept a lazy eye on Doc’s game as players came and went.

At some point, Morgan had halfheartedly tried to convince Doc to head home, and Doc had definitely noticed Kate’s pleading gaze, but he just couldn’t, not yet. Couldn’t stomach the thought of what the rest of his night would look like once he left.

After winning another hand, Doc lazily turned his head to Kate and raised his eyebrows imploringly at her, pleased when she sighed and poured him another shot of whiskey. She’d revoked whole-glass privileges when she’d returned, so he had to accept only a shot glass’ amount of the liquid at a time. He wasn’t too upset, he knew she was only humoring him because she’d noticed how his cough had been acting up and how frequently he’d been rubbing absently at his chest when the pain spiked.

He hadn’t noticed her arrival, but Josephine had come in and began singing with the piano player being her accompanist. When Kate thought he was distracted, he’d see her turn and watch Josephine, hearts practically forming in her eyes. Doc had to hold back a laugh, out of a desire to spare her the embarrassment and because he was a little worried it’d trigger the coughing fit he’d felt lurking all evening.

When given a chance, he peered over his shoulder and saw Josephine watching Kate back as she sang, making Doc roll his eyes and return to his game. What surprised him, though he figured maybe it shouldn’t have with how often Morgan was looking at the door, was Wyatt’s entrance.

With how late it already was, Doc had figured Wyatt had decided to stay in with Mattie. He couldn’t say he wasn’t pleased to see Wyatt come in, though he couldn’t hold back a brief frown at how rattled the man looked. Clearly Morgan had known something Doc didn’t, with his earlier behavior.

Speaking of Morgan… He side eyed the other man as he hurriedly pushed his chair back and tracked him as he walked up to Wyatt, clearly wishing to air his concern over Doc’s habits.

Doc wasn’t that worried. Wyatt knew of Doc’s stubbornness. He’d likely give a token effort before folding, and Doc would stay just long enough to make his leaving not look like it was because of Wyatt’s words. Wyatt would be none the wiser, but he knew he had a night full of Kate’s unamused looks to look forward to once they were home.

His guess on the subject matter of their conversation seemed to be accurate, given away by how often they both glanced over at him. He wasn’t stupid, he just didn’t care and continued to ignore them.

Another cough forced its way up his throat just as Morgan and Wyatt were returning, and Doc tried his best to play it off, though he already knew its effect would be greatly diminished by how truly awful he looked. He’d gone to the bathroom for a piss a few hours back and saw himself in the mirror. He’d looked like a still-warm corpse.

“Wyatt, just in time,” he drawled, tilting his head back a little to look at Wyatt’s blurry form. “Pull up a chair,” he invited, gesturing loosely with the hand not holding his cards.

“Doc,” Wyatt greeted shortly. Straight to business, then, Doc mused. “Been hittin’ it awful hard, haven’t you?”

“Nonsense,” Doc slurred in disagreement, head rolling against the chair almost against his will. “I have not yet begun to defile myself,” he said with a slow grin.

Wyatt frowned and leaned closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder that Kate’s sharp eyes noticed immediately. Doc found the position a little too similar to another scenario they’d found themselves in forever ago, up in Kansas City.

“I was wonderin’ if maybe you wouldn’t want to go-” Doc didn’t let him finish.

“I will not be pawed at, thank you very much,” Doc warned, locking eyes with Wyatt pointedly.

The other man seemed to be recalling the last instance in which Doc had uttered those words, and took the hint, quickly removing his hand and holding both up in a placating gesture with a murmured, “Sorry.”

Kate, bless her evil soul, decided to double down with him, though he knew she was only doing it because of the presence of the McLaurys, knowing Doc wouldn’t want them to see him as weak.

“That’s right,” she said, voice smug. “Doc can go on day and night and then some,” she finished, smiling sharply. Doc could’ve laughed, but knew it’d ruin the effect she was going for.

What did surprise him was her decision to be affectionate in front of both Wyatt and Josephine. She leaned into him with a half-lidded gaze purring, “That’s my loving man.”

She looked down and saw his cup empty, grabbing the bottle and filling it. “Have another one, my loving man.”

So distracted by Kate’s little show, he’d completely missed being called.

“Hey,” Ike said when Doc didn’t respond to the call. “Loving man. You’ve been called,” he goaded.

Doc, trying to play off the fact that he’d completely missed it, picked up his cup and downed it, clumsily setting it back down with a little clink. It was only then did he blink and suddenly realize Wyatt had finally taken up his slurred offer and had pulled up a chair. He was counting money, which led Doc to think he was considering joining on the next hand.

It took only a quick glance at his cards to see he’d won yet again. He couldn’t help but poke the bear, never one to miss a good opportunity.

“Oops,” he said, feigning surprise. He couldn’t help the laugh, turning to Kate and ducking his head. He leaned forward to start raking in his winnings, but a clammy hand slapping over his halted his movements. Immediately, his temper flared a little. Had the man not just seen him getting upset with Wyatt for the same treatment? He swallowed and held back his ire, knowing he didn’t have the energy for a true fight.

“What is that now?” Ike asked, clearly rhetorically. “Twelve hands in a row, Holliday? Son of a bitch, no one’s that lucky,” he growled.

Despite Doc’s desire not to start a fight, the presence of Wyatt, Morgan and Virgil bolstered his confidence enough to continue jabbing that stick.

“Why Ike, whatever do you mean?” Doc drawled, tilting his head slowly, the room spinning with the movement. Perhaps he’d finally had too much to drink.

“Take it easy, boys,” Virgil warned, taking a drink. His posture wasn’t all that bothered, so Doc wasn’t all that worried about consequences stemming from him just yet.

Ike had finally relinquished his hold on Doc, so he finally managed to drag his money back toward him with Kate bagging it with the rest he’d collected.

“Maybe poker’s just not your game, Ike,” he said, frowning dramatically as he pretended to think. Then, he grinned, canines on full display. “I know. Let’s have a spelling contest!” His own words set him off again, laughing down at the table before a cough made him stop preemptively.

It seemed Ike had finally had enough, standing with enough force his chair bumped into Virgil’s knees. “How ‘bout if I just wring your scrawny neck,” he threatened, looming over both him and Wyatt.

Doc could only continue laughing, even as Ike grabbed at his shirt before being dragged away by Virgil, which did surprise Doc a little. Of all the Earp’s, Virgil coming to his defense seemed like the least likely option.

“Enough, Ike,” gruffed Virgil, clearly already fed up with the man. Doc wouldn’t be surprised if he was annoyed with Doc as well.

He did notice Wyatt lean a little closer to him, eyes narrowed as he watched the confrontation between his brother and Ike.

The laughing seemed to jar something loose in his chest, and he knew it was only a matter of time until he’d be coughing up a percentage of the blood in his battered body. Silently, he hoped the scene in front of him would finish fast enough for him to make a hasty escape before he publicly embarrassed himself.

Ike wrenched himself away from Virgil’s hold after being dragged off Doc, stepping right into Virgil’s space.

“Are you takin’ his part?” He demanded. “Huh? I’m the one got cheated! You goddamn pimps!” He snarled, turning toward Doc’s table.

Doc didn’t even look up, he just started grabbing the rest of his money and sliding it over to Kate in preparation of beating a hasty retreat. That didn’t stop Ike’s tirade, though.

“You’re all in it together,” he claimed, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe it. Doc found that amusing. The man was surprised the brothers were all in it together? What a shocking proposition.

“Nobody’s in anything, Ike. You’re drunk,” Virgil said tiredly. “Go on home and sleep it off.” He placed a hand on Ike’s shoulder, meaning to turn him toward the exit, but Ike shoved his hand off and took a step back, sneering.

“Get your goddamn hands off me!” He snarled.

Wyatt leaned forward over the table, and Doc couldn’t help but notice how it put the other man in Ike’s line of sight before Doc. How curious.

“Don’t you ever put your hands on me, see?” Ike warned. Then he chuckled, as if finding their ‘ignorance’ funny. “Don’t you ever try to manhandle a cowboy, ‘cause we’ll cut your goddamn pimp’s heart out. You understand me, you pimp?” Ike finished, shoving at Virgil.

“Don’t you threaten me, you son of a bitch,” Virgil growled, pushing Ike back just by leaning toward him.

Doc wasn’t surprised when both Wyatt and Morgan decided that was the time to intervene, getting to their feet.

“Alright, alright,” Wyatt called, hurrying up to Virgil and getting in-between him and Ike. “Come on, easy, Virg, easy,” he tried to placate.

He turned back to Ike, expression dark. “You just go on home and forget about it, Ike,” Wyatt ordered.

“I ain’t gonna forget nothin’,” Ike said, sauntering a few steps away.

It was then that Doc’s grace period had seemingly ended. He barely had time to grab the kerchief he’d left on the table as he began coughing into it, pressing it right against his mouth to try and muffle it, for once not wanting to draw attention to himself.

“Well that was certainly a bust,” he muttered to Kate once he was able to breathe for a moment. She was looking at him with concern, but he just motioned at her to finish bagging their money. It was their rent for the foreseeable future, after all.

“Come, darlin’,” he rasped. “Let us seek our entertainment elsewhere.”

Morgan sat back down, the situation handled, and Kate had finally finished scooping up the money and rounded his chair, waiting for Doc.

However, another coughing fit struck him, and he realized he’d lost his kerchief in the last minute or so of confusion. Still, he tried to push himself to his feet, but it seemed like all his strength had deserted him. He wasn’t sure if it was all the whiskey or his sickness, but the result was all the same.

He barely managed to get upright, Kate gripping his shoulder tightly as she held up some of his weight. He tried to stand all the way, but he just couldn’t stop coughing, bringing up a wavering arm to hack into his sleeve. Soon, the grip he had on the table was the only thing keeping him up as his coughs continued to worsen. It didn’t take long before he was tasting blood on his tongue.

Kate grabbed both his shoulders, leaning over them to look at his face with concern. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see even Morgan looking worried.

“What’s wrong, Doc?” Kate asked, voice slightly frantic. It was only then did Doc notice the blood he’d been tasting had made its way to his lips. The realization was a dim one, barely registered over the force of his coughs and the sudden wave of dizziness he felt at the lack of air.

“Nothin’. Not a thing,” he gasped, catching a glimpse of his kerchief and grabbed it to try and wipe the blood off his mouth. With how weak his hold was though, he felt he only smeared it.

“I’m right as the mail,” he slurred, feeling anything but. Finally, it seemed his body had had enough. Everything faded to static and turned to gray, and he felt himself hitting the ground before he was even able to register falling. He thought he hit someone’s leg, but he wasn’t sure.

“Doc? Doc!” He heard Wyatt call, but it sounded faint, like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel. He couldn’t open his eyes; could barely twitch his fingers. Breathing felt like more of a chore than usual, the air escaping his lungs in great laborious gasps.

“Alright, get him up…” he heard, but the words didn’t register until suddenly the ground was no longer under him. For a moment, he was almost shocked enough to open his eyes, but another wave of dizziness and overwhelming exhaustion hit him and quickly curved the impulse.

“Let’s get him home.”

He felt his body swing slightly as he was carried out. Felt the cool night air hit his sweaty body and immediately made him start to shiver. He could only groan weakly, unable to voice his discontent.

There was a warm hand on his forehead, shaking slightly from the effort of keeping up with whoever was carrying him. He assumed Wyatt and someone else.

“You’ll be alright, love. Nearly home,” Kate soothed, patting his bristly cheek. He was due another shave. Knew already he’d have to either enlist Kate’s help or a barber’s.

“We’ve gotcha, Doc, relax,” came Wyatt’s voice, more comforting than Doc expected it to be. He let out a ragged cough, feeling more blood come up.

“Nearly there, Doc,” said Morgan, which did make Doc relax. He was glad, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it wasn’t a stranger helping carry him. Or God forbid, one of the McLaurys.

“Just rest, Doc. I’ll be there when you wake up,” Kate murmured, voice even more distant than before. Everything was spinning more and more around him. His fingers and toes felt numb and all he could taste was blood. It was trailing down his face, down his chin and congealing in his mustache.

“Fuck me,” he garbled, going limp.

Chapter Text

When Doc finally woke, the morning sun was still soft enough that the candle lit on the other side of the bed still cast a faint glow. He blinked slowly, eyes dry and gritty, before squinting at the figure laying beside him. It only took but a moment for him to discern Kate’s familiar features, and he relaxed back into the bed with a soft groan at all his aching muscles.

Christ did everything hurt. All that coughing, and he assumed even more while he was asleep, did nothing but strain and irritate his body. He always woke sore and exhausted after a particularly bad fit, and it was no surprise to see the pattern holding true in this instance.

It seemed his shuffling had caught Kate’s attention, and she woke with a start, turning toward him hurriedly with a worried frown. She sat up, leaning over him and placing a hand on his cheek, then his forehead. Blearily, he tracked her movements with hazy eyes.

Only the quiet sound of Kate’s breathing brought to attention just how terribly loud his own was.

“What time is it?” He rasped, weakly reaching up to grab her wrist which was still limply pressed to his forehead. She silently allowed him to fold her hand into his, the warmth from her soaking into his icy fingers.

“Hopefully late enough that the doctor will be up,” Kate answered, unintentionally vague.

“Doctor?” Doc asked, incredulous. Immediately after, he was left turning to the side and coughing harshly into his shoulder, soon falling back against the bed with loud wheezes. He hadn’t even realized he’d let go of Kate’s hand until she took it again and pressed his knuckles to her lips.

“Yes, you stupid man. Maybe he’ll be able to give you something to help,” she retorted, though her hold was still gentle. Doc smiled, tired and lopsided, at her concern.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, pushing his head further back into his pillow with a hoarse sigh. It was then he realized his state of undress and he frowned, eyeing his sleep shirt and shifting his legs a little to confirm he was only in his underwear.

“I do hope you were the one to undress me, dear,” he muttered, just slightly sour.

Kate rolled her eyes and let go of Doc’s hand, letting it drop. “You’re feeling well enough to be left alone while I get the doctor. Don’t try and escape, it won’t be very hard to find you,” Kate ordered, climbing out of bed and throwing on one of her simpler dresses and putting as little effort into doing her hair he’d seen her make in ages.

Before she left the room, she wordlessly pointed at him with narrowed eyes. He tried to look as wide eyed and innocent as possible, and she sighed and left. A few seconds later, he heard the front door open and close, and he was left with only his ragged breaths for company.

Hell, he’d even be happy to see Morgan’s mutt if it meant any distraction from his own mortality. His fits had been getting progressively worse and more common, despite his hopes that Tombstone would help. With all the evidence in front of him, staining his mustache and handkerchiefs, it seemed to only be worsening his condition. He had a feeling it had more to do with the underlying stress and overlying smoking and drinking he’d been indulging in.

Already, he could hear the doctor’s advice. He’d heard it when he was first diagnosed, and he’d even heard it during his brief stay with Mussing, back when he’d been briefly reported dead. His only hope for the encounter would be perhaps some morphine. He hated the stuff, hated how it put an impenetrable fog over his thoughts. Hated how it made him mean, how it pushed all but the most furious emotions back. But he couldn’t say no to any sort of reprieve, not with the agony pulsing through his racing chest. Not when Kate hadn’t managed to dig up any menthol liqueur since they’d made it to Tombstone; not a lot of supply for it this far south.

Without realizing it, he’d pressed his right hand below his sternum and had been idly rubbing it, pressing down with enough force to hurt a little. Annoyed, he dug his fingernails into his shirt, feeling them press slightly into his skin underneath.

Thankfully, it was then that the doctor and Kate arrived; Kate looking slightly harried and the doctor’s face creased in professional concern.

The doctor stood beside his bed and let out a whistle. “Boy howdy, your woman wasn’t lying. You look rough, friend,” he observed, unwinding his stethoscope from around his neck and plugging the ends into his ears.

Kate cast one more worried glance to Doc before leaving the room, snatching Doc’s cigarette case from the nightstand before she left.

“That your professional diagnosis?” Doc mused, voice cracking a little.

The doctor huffed a laugh and placed the stethoscope onto Doc’s chest, listening. Doc took the hint and stayed silent and continued to breathe his crackling, rasping breaths. The doctor was left frowning again, peering at Doc over the rim of his spectacles for a moment before refocusing on his chest and moving the device around a little.

It was another couple moments of tense silence before the doctor pulled away with a heavy sigh, rewinding the stethoscope. “Your condition’s quite advanced,” he started, as if Doc didn’t already know that. He’d been living with this condition for eight years, a good three already over the average. He was quite aware of just how awful he felt at any given moment and what it meant.

“I’d say you lost sixty percent of your lung tissue, maybe more,” he continued, not making eye contact. Doc figured the man didn’t want to look at a dead man walking. He couldn’t quite blame the man, though he sure as hell wasn’t dying yet. He had a while left, if he had anything to say on it. Glancing at the ceiling, he sneered. And I do.

“What’s the verdict?” Doc cut in, tired of hearing things he already mostly knew.

“Two years, two days. It’s hard to say,” the man shrugged. “If you stop now.”

Doc, not wanting to look at the doctor’s face as he delivered advice he most certainly wouldn’t listen to, glanced toward the side table and saw a ceramic cup of something. Shakily, he picked it up and brought it toward himself, only a little surprised to find it was water. Still, he sipped it happily.

“Your smokin’, your drinkin’, your gamblin’. Your nightlife,” he listed, eliminating quite literally everything Doc spent his time partaking in. “You need complete rest,” he stated, stashing the stethoscope into the bag he’d brought with him and standing.

He paused and glanced in the direction Kate had gone, and Doc had a sudden inkling of what the man was about to say to him.

“What I mean to say is, you must attempt to deny your uh, marital impulse,” he delivered, slightly awkwardly, as if he knew how well received those words would be. Doc felt annoyance flare high behind his eyes, but he bit his tongue. It was something he’d mostly come to terms with, obvious in how little time he and Kate spent doing anything remotely sexual these past few months, even if lately the inaction could be written off as being a result of their own different interests. Despite knowing his own limitations, or perhaps in spite of, Doc refused to completely eliminate the possibility of sex while he still lived. If he could ride a horse, surely other activities weren’t completely hopeless yet.

“Are you able to do anything for the pain,” Doc said coolly, completely ignoring the man’s other words.

The doctor sighed, but nodded and dug through his bag for a moment before pulling out a full vial and a syringe.

“I assume you’re familiar with morphine?” He asked, readying the syringe with steady hands, well accustomed to his occupation.

Doc grit his teeth and nodded. “Go light on the dose, if you would,” Doc requested in a mutter, shutting his eyes tight.

“Are you sure?” The doctor sounded surprised. He likely wasn’t used to his patients denying the full siren’s call of morphine, but Doc wanted at least some of his wits about him.

“Very,” he said shortly, cracking his eyes open to stare back at the doctor.

“Alright then,” the doctor agreed, plunging the syringe just enough to eliminate any air bubbles. Doc held his arm out silently, and the doctor wasted no time in administering the dose.

Almost immediately, the burn in his chest faded to a distant chilling throb, and he let out a long, slow exhale. He was relieved when it didn’t even end in a cough, and he slowly melted back against the bed, eyes open to just slits.

The doctor patted his knee through the blanket and stowed his supplies. “Best of luck, feller. You’re young and tough, so I have hope you’ll make it a while yet. I’ll let your lady know I’m done and then be on my way.” He paused at the threshold of the door, seemingly remembering something. “And before I forget, your tab’s already been settled, man named Wyatt Earp left the money on my front desk before I’d even woken with a note,” he relayed. When Doc didn’t say anything, he nodded to himself and left.

Doc watched him go, only half paying attention. Wyatt? Curiouser and curiouser, he mused tiredly.

It was only a minute before Kate came back in, a cloud of cigarette smoke following her. Doc ached for a smoke, but knew it would only worsen his fragile state.

She slowly made her way to him, settling on the side of the bed by his legs. She rested a hand on his knee and rubbed it gently.

“How are you feeling, John?” She murmured. Doc swallowed, feeling as if he’d been plunged in ice, the feeling not helped by the chill the morphine had given him. Her using his Christian name meant she’d been worried. Meant it’d been bad. He couldn’t remember anything after Virgil and Ike’s confrontation, nothing outside of delirious pain and freezing cold.

He reached down and rested his hand over hers, stilling her movements. He rubbed his thumb in circles, trying to soothe her. Now that he looked, he could see her poorly concealed nerves in the jitteriness of her free hand, obviously itching for another cigarette.

“Feelin’ better, my dear,” he replied, smiling slightly.

“That’s good,” was all she managed to say, looking out their window instead of at him.

Doc was left to think for a moment, trying to come up with something to ease her a little. The doctor’s words from earlier sprung to mind, and he let out a huff of laughter, drawing Kate’s attention back to him.

“We must talk, darlin’,” he said seriously, frowning a touch dramatically. “It appears uh, we must redefine the nature of our association,” he finished, solemn.

Kate’s mouth quirked up into a reluctant smile, and she leaned over him, careful not to put any weight on his chest. She cupped his cheek and tilted her head, both eyebrows raised.

“Oh really?” She asked, scratching at his stubble.

He nodded, looking suitably sad. “Terribly afraid so, my dear. Doctor’s orders.”

Kate snorted and ducked her head against Doc’s shoulder. “Since when have you listened to a single doctor?” She asked, voice muffled.

Doc grinned into her hair. “Since it gives you the perfect opening line to try and woo Josephine,” he said casually.

Kate jerked her head off Doc’s shoulder and glared at him, before her resolve crumbled and she laughed quietly.

“Really?”

“I just thought you might like some help, dear,” he mused.

Kate shook her head, a faint blush on her cheeks. “I’ll have you know, she invited me to her house before you had to go and steal the spotlight,” she stated, smug.

Doc’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “And when is this little party supposed to go down?”

Kate’s good mood faded, blown away by Doc’s question. She sighed and sat back up, shoulders slumped. “Figured I’d cancel, stay here with you.”

Doc frowned. “Don’t go to all this trouble on my account. The doctor gave me some morphine, I’ll probably be peacefully safe and asleep before long. You can leave me be and enjoy yourself, dear,” he said, half pleading on her own damn behalf.

She still looked unsure, and Doc shuffled up a little to grab her hand sitting closest to him. He brought it up to his lips and kissed her knuckles, a mirror to her own actions an hour prior. “I will be fine,” he promised, enunciating each word carefully.

Kate eyed him for several long minutes before finally nodding in agreement. “Fine. But if you die while I’m gone I’m never letting your spirit rest,” she threatened, standing up.

Doc rolled his eyes. “Yes ma’am,” he agreed, watching as she nodded in satisfaction and began doing her hair more like how she usually did.

Ten minutes of idle chatter and a few brief coughs stalling the conversation and Kate was ready to leave. She walked back up to Doc and leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I’ve left a book on the nightstand if you get bored, and there’s another cup of water just in case. If I come back and find you’ve been drinking whiskey or smoking, you’re not getting out of that bed for a week,” she warned, glaring at him.

He only nodded amiably. Satisfied, she hummed and turned on her heel and left, the front door shutting with a faint click.

The muffled sounds of Tombstone waking up reached him in the ensuing silence, and the white noise was enough to lull his drug-addled mind to sleep in no time at all, quietly grateful for the lower dosage.

Wyatt’s worry for Doc had been chewing at him since he’d turned to see the man collapsing right against his leg.

Anyone who knew Doc at all knew it was bad when Doc was no longer able to put on a show. It was what he was best at; fooling people into falling for his act. Wyatt had too, briefly, that first night he’d met the man. But once they’d gotten away from the crowd and into a quiet, private room, he’d seen more and more of the real Doc unfurl with every laugh and sip of whiskey.

The man hated showing weakness in front of people he trusted; in front of people he didn’t, it had to be downright lethal. So seeing such a figure as Doc crumbling to the ground right in front of both McLaury brothers as well as all the other patrons in the saloon, well. Consider Wyatt worried.

His heart had practically been in his throat while he and Morgan carried him home, Kate worriedly keeping pace beside them and comforting the pale man when he murmured some annoyance or another. And Christ, the man truly looked God awful. Wyatt had noticed it as soon as he’d walked in, didn’t even need Morgan’s warning to see how bad off Doc was.

But between him and Morgan as they made their way down the deserted street, if Wyatt didn’t know better it’d look like he was carrying a corpse. The blood across Doc’s normally pristinely groomed face didn’t help much with disputing the thought.

When they’d laid the man in his and Kate’s bed, Wyatt felt awkward as he stood there, even as Morgan left. He knew he had no right to stay. He lost that right when he continued to pursue Mattie. But the worry left him in a place of indecision. It took Kate a few moments of settling Doc before she noticed he hadn’t left yet.

By then, Doc had finally fallen asleep, not in that half-lucid state he’d been in for most the journey there. Kate looked up and startled a little bit, clearly not expecting him to still be there. She’d glanced behind him to confirm Morgan was gone before continuing to peer at him keenly.

Wyatt could only swallow, helpless under her gaze. She knew of him and Doc. She’d know why he was there, and why he was so uncomfortable.

Kate glanced down at Doc to make sure he was still asleep before she sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

“You need to figure out what you want with Doc,” she said, breaking the silence and distracting him from the horrible rasping of Doc’s breathing.

Wyatt couldn’t tear his gaze from the rise and fall of Doc’s chest, but Kate wasn’t looking at him neither so he weren’t too concerned that she’d take it as a sign of disrespect. She was smarter than that, he knew. Else Doc wouldn’t be with her.

“You know I’m with Mattie…” he hedged, and anyone could hear the bitterness in his tone.

Kate huffed out a laugh, but it sounded anything but amused. “You know you’re just lying to yourself. We’ve all seen you making eyes at Josie,” Kate snapped.

Something pinged in Wyatt’s mind and he couldn’t help but tilt his head in curiosity, conversation temporarily derailed. “Josie?”

Kate froze for a second before scoffing and turning around to shut the curtains she’d clearly left open when the sun was still up. “Slip of the tongue,” she said tightly.

Wyatt combed through all he knew of Kate from what Doc had told him, and what he’d seen himself. Thought of Josephine, a theater woman. A lot of things were suddenly making more sense. The hot and cold of Josephine’s approaches to him, the cold ones always seeming to coincide when Kate was around.

“You’re interested in her,” he stated, still a little surprised by the revelation.

Kate whipped around toward him with a glare and stomped over to the table in the corner of the room where a pitcher of water sat. She filled a teacup full of it, and Wyatt already knew why it wasn’t a full glass. It’d be too heavy for Doc when he woke. That realization made his stomach churn.

He pushed that thought aside, wanting to keep on track with the little revelation he’d just made about Kate. A lot of things about her relationship with Doc made more sense, too, now that he thought about it.

“You know I won’t mind if you are,” Wyatt cautioned, unsure of what was causing Kate’s angry silence.

Kate set the teacup down a little harder than she needed to on the nightstand on Doc’s side of the bed, stepping past him easily. Once it was set down, she just sighed and dropped her head forward with her eyes shut.

“You know, Wyatt,” she started, voice flat, “I’m never quite sure with you. Especially since we’re both apparently chasing the same woman and abandoning the same man.”

Wyatt’s eyes helplessly slid back toward Doc’s unconscious form, and felt immeasurable guilt burning hot in his chest and behind his eyes. When he’d first started courting Mattie, his decision to leave Doc had been a relatively easy one. Doc was a man, a flighty one at that, and Wyatt had it in his head to have a perfect, calm and steady life. That didn’t include a mouthy gambler who bit when threatened.

However, his relationship with Mattie was crumbling, and he should’ve known from the beginning that the foundations were never strong to begin with. He hadn’t ever wanted Mattie for her; he’d simply chased the dream she embodied. It was his own damn fault for letting it get this far. Found it hard not to blame himself for the laudanum addiction, too, even if his brothers both told him that weren’t his fault. He was always one to place the world on his shoulders. It’s why he’d made such a good marshal back in Kansas, and also why he’d retired from it in the first place.

Looking at Doc’s motionless body, he found himself regretting his decision. Found his feelings for the bastard weren’t as easy to brush off as he’d thought they would be. The man had a way of worming his way into your good graces, easily missed until something like this happened, something that made you realize how important he was only when he’d gotten too close to losing it. He’d gotten a flash of that fond feeling, back in Dodge City when Doc had shot that man trying to sneak up on Wyatt. He’d defended Wyatt with no question. He’d only been in the man’s presence less than twenty four hours before that.

Now that damned fondness was coming at him full tilt, leaving him uncomfortably aware of Doc’s fragile mortality. Of just how much the thin man relied on his guns and his whiskey and his wit. It was a bitter truth to swallow, the fact that Doc was going to die. Likely long before he was meant to, which meant not too long from Wyatt’s present.

Abruptly, Wyatt’s mindless pining for the prettiest face around felt hollow. Josephine was a nice woman. Beautiful and charming and funny. Unfortunately these were all traits she shared with Doc. It was not a comparison that was lost on Wyatt.

Wyatt blinked and remembered he’d been in the middle of a conversation with Kate. He felt bad for leaving the room in an uneasy silence for so long. “I don’t think he sees it as you abandoning him,” he finally said. “I’m assuming you’ve told him, that is. I can’t see myself knowing something about you that he doesn’t.”

Kate sighed again and sat on the edge of the bed, the side furthest from Wyatt. “I noticed you didn’t mention yourself in that little comfort,” she replied, not answering Wyatt’s other question, but he figured he’d been correct in assuming Doc already knew.

Wyatt twisted his mouth wryly. “Well, you didn’t abandon him. I did.”

Kate looked up from where she’d been staring mindlessly at Doc. “I’m not sure I like your tone of voice. Just what are you planning?”

Wyatt’s face was creased in a frown, but it was a thoughtful look, not one of anger. “I just think I’ve realized something, is all,” he said.

It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Kate to catch on to Wyatt’s hidden meaning, and she looked both angry and relieved. “If you plan on chasing after Doc,” she started, voice halting as she gathered her thoughts, “you’re going to have to chase him. He’d die for you, no questions asked if you let him, but getting him to trust your word again is going to be a more difficult matter.” She paused, seemingly unsure of if she wanted to continue. A weak cough springing from Doc’s sleeping form seemed to seal it, and she turned back toward Wyatt, resolved.

“He loves you, God only knows why. He’d do anything you asked of him. He might whine and gripe, but he’d do it, and that’s what makes you different. So if I find out you lead him on again, I will take his shotgun and put you to pasture,” threatened Kate, deadly serious. Wyatt had heard some of her more vicious stories from Doc, and he was intimately aware she wasn’t lying.

“I give you my word that I’ll do my best by him, until either one of us dies,” he promised, grimacing. In their line of work, it was just as likely he or Doc would be shot before the consumption took Doc, but they both seemed to have an awful lucky streak when it came to bullets. He still imagined that with his own piss-poor luck, he’d finally commit to Doc just to see him waste away over a matter of weeks.

Wyatt wasn’t sure how long Doc had had this disease. He’d had it as long as both he and Kate had known him, and he’d never disclosed a time frame, at least not to him. Way he spoke, though, he started gambling and roaming once he was diagnosed, so that put him somewhere around five years at least, best Wyatt figured. He’d already lived past the average patient, how long could he continue beating the odds? The way he treated his body would’ve been an obvious indicator on any other man, but Doc was stubborn as a mule and just as hardy as one. Wyatt should know better than to compare Doc to the average man when he was anything but.

Kate was eyeing him thoughtfully, clearly thinking hard on Wyatt’s words. Finally, her shoulders slumped and she stood up. “I’ll leave you with him for a few minutes. His case isn’t serious enough to bother waking the doctor for this late, but I’ll send for one in the morning. Don’t try and wake him, he needs his rest,” she said, a bit of warning in her tone as she slipped out of the room.

He watched her go for a moment before taking her place on the bed next to Doc. He took the other man’s cold hand and pressed it between both of his own, placing them all against his chest, by his heart.

The room was silent, and Wyatt just listened to Doc’s strained breathing. When Kate returned a few minutes later, he left without an issue. He already knew he’d be back the next day, when Doc was awake. He had some things to say to the man, things to say that he’d prefer a man who was awake would listen to.

On his way back to the saloon to collect his horse and head home, he made his way into the first floor of the doctor’s office, door unlocked, and left a wad of bills and a brief note on the counter before leaving.

If he rode his horse home slower than usual, he blamed it on being tired, purposefully ignoring the thoughts that had him shying away at the thought of Mattie’s touch.

Chapter Text

The sun was directly above the town of Tombstone and Wyatt was pacing. Mattie was still sleeping off the laudanum she’d taken before bed the night prior. Wyatt felt like he’d barely slept at all.

His worry over Doc kept him tossing and turning halfway through the night. Every time he’d closed his eyes, all he could see was the pale and drawn face of Doc; the deathly beauty hidden within the visage of such an ailing man.

Honestly, he’d meant to leave to check on Doc hours ago, but he was struck with a sudden fear that the man wouldn’t want to see him. He was like an injured cat, hissing and spitting at anyone that got close, even if they were trying to help. In the wake of Wyatt’s recent revelations, he wasn’t sure he could handle a violent dismissal.

Then as the sun started climbing the cloudless sky, his worry shifted to what if he interrupted Doc’s rest? It didn’t take all that long to throw that concern aside, Doc hardly ever truly rested, and even when he had to he resented it. It’s how they’d even gotten into this situation in the first place.

So, around noon, Wyatt stole one last glance at Mattie, and felt cold when none of the soft fondness he’d begun to feel around Doc sparked in his chest at the sight of her, not anymore. He swallowed, turned, and left without another thought.

It didn’t take him all that long to secure all of Beauty’s tack on her properly, and within ten minutes he was trotting into Tombstone proper. He had to dodge a few wagons, nearly colliding a few times in his distracted leading, but Beauty had been with him long enough to take the initiative and danced out of the way each time, managing to startle Wyatt back to paying attention for a few seconds before he inevitably slipped back into thought.

What was he even supposed to say to Doc? Kate had been right about having to work for it, he was prepared for that. But how did one take the first step into cold water, even while knowing at the bottom of the lake was a sun-warmed sand bar? Doc was not an easy man to please, and once scorned it was like trying to get a whipped horse to listen to you. He’d snap and bite and do anything but what you asked and he’d do it all with an infuriating smile and a hand on one of his six-guns and it made Wyatt’s heart race all the faster.

He thought back to their first meeting in Texas, before Doc had even met Kate. Thought of how his first impression of the sickly pale man he was led to in the back of the room was Christ ain’t he handsome.

His second impression had come when Doc flashed that sharp grin of his and opened his mouth: He’s as dangerous as he is pretty.

He remembered the indecision he’d felt on whether or not to track the man down for an evening, standing on the precipice. The memory of the man’s hands as he shuffled a deck of cards idly, thin and long and calloused like his, was the tipping point.

He remembered the shock he’d felt at this beautiful, dangerous man letting him inside him. How vulnerable a position he’d put himself in, to a known lawman no less. Thinking back on it, and what he now knew about Doc, it surprised him even more.

He tried not to remember most of their dalliances in Dodge. How each time he and Doc laid together, Doc always had a sense of panic about him, showing in the whites of his eyes when Wyatt got too close. Wyatt knew it was his own fault, inspiring such frantic actions from a normally smooth talking man. That sort of power both made his heart race and his stomach turn.

As much as the memories of their times together in Kansas were tinged in bittersweet fractures, the soft moments in-between when they both just forgot, are what made Wyatt’s chest feel warm. Holding Doc to his chest while the other man read aloud a book he’d just picked up, uncaring of whether Wyatt listened or not. The slow kisses they’d exchanged while allowing their breaths to settle and their hearts to slow, when Doc’s lungs allowed such pleasures.

Wyatt remembered the one time he’d slept in and caught Doc shaving, foam covering his face and giving him a white mustache while he glared at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t stop himself from watching Doc slowly drag the sharp edge along his cheek with a faint scratching sound. All Wyatt could think was I want to do that.

I want to be trusted to hold a sharp blade to this man’s neck. I want his unequivocal trust and I want him to desire the same things as me.

He’d never said anything, of course. That was the morning Doc was leaving town, and by then Wyatt’s choice had already been cemented. No going back now. He had Mattie waiting for him.

Unfortunately, despite Wyatt’s best attempts to slow Beauty’s progress, they eventually made it to Doc’s apartment, and even after being so deeply lost in his thoughts, he found he’d made no progress in coming up with something to say to the other man.

He slid off Beauty and hitched her before simply standing beside her, staring sightlessly against her dark neck. She snorted and nosed at his pockets impatiently, which distracted him enough to make him laugh quietly, pulling half a carrot he’d tucked away earlier out into the air.

“Here you go, girl,” he mused, feeding it to her as she eagerly crunched on it.

Wyatt sighed and dropped his head, chin digging into his chest while he gathered his courage. Finally, he lifted it again and watched as Beauty finished off the carrot. “Suppose I better head in there,” he decided, patting her neck absently. A moment later he stepped onto the porch and knocked.

Surprisingly, there was no answer. After trying again and waiting thirty seconds, he frowned and just opened the door, stepping inside directly onto a squeaky floorboard. Grimacing, he continued walking in the direction he knew Doc’s room to be in.

When he stepped inside, he found himself staring down the barrel of one of Doc’s revolvers. Though it wavered slightly in the air, Wyatt knew it’d find its target should Doc really fire.

Fortunately, Doc blinked slowly in recognition. “Wyatt?” He rasped, incredulous. Thankfully though, he did set the gun on the nightstand beside him with a loud clatter in the ensuing moments of silence.

Wyatt snorted and held his hands up in playful surrender even as he stepped closer to Doc. “Easy, cowboy,” he grinned.

Doc groaned lowly and rolled his eyes, dropping his head back into his pillows. “Do not liken me to those animals,” he muttered.

Wyatt shook his head even as he sat beside Doc on the bed, both legs hanging off the side while he was angled toward Doc’s head. “They don’t own the term,” Wyatt reminded, only a little chiding.

“Still, little on the nose, is it not?”

Wyatt shrugged. He couldn’t really dispute that. It’d been intentional.

Doc, sensing that Wyatt wasn’t going to answer, rolled his eyes again and stretched out with a long groan. When he resettled against the bed, he only let out one short cough before relaxing.

“What brings you to my death bed, my friend?” Doc asked, barely able to keep back the twitch of a smile from appearing on his face.

It was then that Wyatt became very certain of what to do. Despite Doc being a man of many words, always ready to spin a yarn at the drop of a hat, it was actions from him that left you knowing where you stood. Wyatt learned that early in their relationship, and rather suddenly it made a lot of sense. For a man who dealt in lies, it wasn’t hard to believe that he didn’t subscribe to other people’s words.

Wyatt pretended to think about his answer with a thoughtful hum. “Oh, I’m not sure. Just thought I oughta make sure you’d died before I summon the coroner.” Doc let out a startled laugh that made Wyatt smile smugly.

Then he remembered the fact that the door had gone unanswered, and he tilted his head with a raised eyebrow. “Where’s Kate, then?”

Doc’s grin widened. “Oh, I believe she’s over with Josephine, somewhere,” he said mildly, despite the contrasting facial expression.

Wyatt couldn’t help his own smile. “Made her move then did she?”

Doc’s face dropped into one of hesitant curiosity. “How did you figure that out, then?”

“Well, I stayed behind and had a rather enlightening conversation with her last night, after we deposited your corpse onto the bed. She accidentally called her Josie and I figured it out,” Wyatt explained.

Doc huffed. “Figures it’d be her little nickname that’d give her away.” Then, his eyes glinted. “And just what else did you talk about?”

Wyatt stared at Doc, unabashed. “You,” he said simply.

Frowning, Doc stared back. “What about me?” He asked warily.

Mind made up, Wyatt grinned. “How I might win you back.”

Doc’s expression went from confused to startled so fast, it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash.

He started to get out a strangled “What?” but was soon distracted by Wyatt leaning down and kissing Doc soundly on the mouth, a hand placed delicately on his cheek.

For a moment, there was no response, and dread started creeping up Wyatt’s spine, before desperate hands snapped up and grasped the back of Wyatt’s shirt tightly as Doc began kissing back in earnest.

It was odd, Wyatt thought fuzzily, to be able to feel Doc’s heartbreak against his mouth.

After several long moments of frantic kissing, Doc had to pull away to gasp for breath, staring at Wyatt with wide eyes. “What about Mattie?” He panted.

Wyatt swallowed and felt his face harden. “I think we’ve been through since before we even moved out here,” he said evenly.

It was startling to realize that the expression half hidden on Doc’s face was fear. Kate’s words seemed even more important now. Doc was searching Wyatt’s gaze intensely, eyes flitting over each part of Wyatt’s face.

“What…” Doc swallowed. “What uh, does this mean?”

Wyatt squinted down at the bedspread, trying to get his thoughts in order. “When I spoke with Kate, last night, it made me realize how much I… missed you. How far apart me and Mattie had gotten, and how my attraction to Josephine was a way to distract myself from you,” he paused, gnawing on his bottom lip and glanced up to Doc’s face, who was listening intently. “Seeing you collapse, and seeing you lying here, well, it made me realize time is short and that I… I regretted ever abandoning you to chase pointless dreams,” Wyatt murmured, resettling his hand on Doc’s cheek and smoothing his thumb over Doc’s cheekbone.

Doc swallowed thickly, and Wyatt knew he’d deny it, but there were even tears in his eyes. “Hellavua time to profess your undying love for me, Wyatt. I can’t even get out of this damned bed,” he croaked.

Wyatt leaned down and rested his forehead against Doc’s. “Only time I could get you like this,” he pointed out quietly, and Doc could only sigh in agreement.

“God, Wyatt. I’m so scared,” Doc whispered, eyes firmly shut. “I’m so scared I’m dreaming, or that you’ll change your mind and by then Kate will be off with Josephine and I’ll be by myself.”

Wyatt’s throat felt tight, and he had to exhale carefully. “You know, Kate warned me of that,” he said, forcing his tone to remain light.

Doc snorted and opened his eyes to peer up at Wyatt. “Really?”

Wyatt smiled a little. “Told me I had to woo you back,” he admitted.

Doc had to twist his head to the side to let out a bark of laughter. “Sometimes I fear she knows me too well,” he mused.

Pulling back, Wyatt cocked an eyebrow. “Well, will ya let me woo you?”

Doc turned to look at him again and let loose a dramatic sigh. “Oh, I suppose, rough rider,” he acquiesced.

Wyatt surreptitiously glanced side to side before grinning down at Doc. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he posited.

“Tomorrow?”

Wyatt nodded sagely. “Yeah, I’d like to make up on some lost time first,” he stated.

Doc raised an eyebrow. “I’m in no state for your lascivious ideas.”

The bed squeaked under them as Wyatt once again leaned forward. “I suppose I can live with that,” he sighed, smiling against Doc’s mouth as they started kissing each other stupid all over again.

It was perhaps two hours before Wyatt had to beg off, promising to return the next day. Doc watched him go with a strange feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with the consumption.

After the door shut behind Wyatt, he managed to hear the thunk of his steps on the front porch until he stepped off, presumably getting on his horse and leaving.

At least, that’s what Doc thought until he heard the door click open again. He rolled his eyes and sat up on his elbows, trying to ignore the faint tremble.

“What’d you go and forget now?” He drawled, words halting in his mouth at the sight of the one person he probably least expected to come in. Well, least expected of those he was friendly with.

“Virgil,” he greeted hesitantly, forcing himself to sit up against the headboard. He refused to be lying down during an interaction with the eldest Earp.

“Doc,” he returned, voice gruff as usual. Thankfully, he didn’t step in fully, just leaned up against the door frame and watched Doc.

“Can’t say I expected you to come express your condolences and best wishes,” he hedged, trying to figure out what Virgil was doing there. His entrance so soon after Wyatt’s exit felt a little too intentional.

Virgil looked at him in silence for a few more moments, head cocked and eyes narrowed. Then suddenly, his face twisted, just slightly, as if he were uncomfortable with what he was about to mention. It made Doc nervous and wishing he had his revolvers closer and in a more inconspicuous place.

Finally, Virgil broke the strained silence. “I know about… you and Wyatt,” he forced out.

Doc’s blood immediately turned to ice, and he found himself missing the delirious effects of the morphine and how he could pretend to be too out of it for this conversation. Or at least forget it later.

He swallowed, his own eyes narrowing slightly. “What about me and Wyatt?” He asked lightly, refusing to give anything away. Virgil was real law, and if he wanted, Doc didn’t doubt he’d string Doc up even against Wyatt’s wishes just to take a bad influence away from his brother.

Virgil crossed his arms and shuffled on his feet. “He told me what you did for him, in Texas and in Dodge. Spoke a lot about you when we met up, even wrote about you to me once or twice. Now, normally that wouldn’t be anything, but it was the way he wrote about you that flagged something for me,” he paused, eyeing Doc’s even paler face. “I’ve known he was an invert since long before we left home. Saw him one night with a stablehand we had. Later found out Wyatt had been drunk out of his mind and it pissed me right off, scared the stablehand off our ranch.”

Doc’s heart was racing incredibly fast, and it surely wasn’t helping with the ache in his lungs, but he realized something. “Wyatt never told me you knew about that,” he said slowly, completely stopping trying to pretend he didn’t know what Virgil was talking about.

Virgil flashed a humorless smile. “I never told him. Made me uncomfortable, still does, but he’s my brother. I love him, God rest my soul,” here, his eyes turned dangerous again and Doc’s hackles were raised. “Which is why I came to speak to you about… whatever is going on ‘tween you two.”

Doc barked out a startled laugh. “You’re giving me the shovel talk,” he realized.

Virgil’s mustache twitched a little, but he didn’t otherwise respond. “I love my brother, and after what he’s gone through with Mattie, I just wanted to be sure we was square.”

Shaking his head, Doc couldn’t help another disbelieving huff of laughter. “Virgil, my friend, your timing is incredible. We’d split apart before he started goin’ after Mattie,” he started, which caused Virgil’s frown to deepen in confusion, but Doc continued before he could get a question in edgewise. “Until about… two hours ago, that is, our relationship had been strictly professional during our tenure here,” Doc mused.

Virgil’s arms uncrossed and he let them hang by his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I will admit, I wasn’t quite sure what was goin’ on with you fellers. You’d have to be blind to not notice how he’d been eyeing Josephine.” He looked at Doc out of the side of his eye. “What happened there, then?”

For a minute, Doc tried to wrangle the entire story together in a way that didn’t out Kate’s intentions while also explaining the situation basically enough that Virgil didn’t rescind his apparent decision to leave Doc alive and unwell.

“He realized I am not so immortal as I like to appear,” he decided on, absently reaching up to rub at his chest.

Virgil intentionally looked Doc’s bedridden form up and down with a raised eyebrow.

Rolling his eyes, Doc waved an uncaring hand. “Oh, they weren’t deathbed confessions. You aren’t quite rid of me yet, my friend. How unfortunate,” he drawled. “I’ll be fine and dandy as soon as dear Kate allows me access to my whiskey again,” he said, mouth twisting wryly.

It was clear Virgil was curious about that dynamic as well, but bit his tongue. Doc was glad, he had no interest in disclosing he and Kate’s relationship. It was what it was, and they loved each other.

“That still don’t explain much,” Virgil muttered, clearly unhappy with Doc’s vague answer.

Doc huffed a laugh that turned into a short cough before slumping back against the headboard, breathing heavily. Between Wyatt’s lengthy visit and now Virgil’s, Doc was being worn thin.

“I am not your brother, Virgil,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you should ask yours about his own affairs.”

Virgil’s eyes were narrowed, but Doc was relatively certain Virgil wouldn’t try anything. If Wyatt had told Virgil about him, Doc was sure the older man knew of Doc’s unfortunately undying loyalties to his brother.

“Alright then,” Virgil answered easily, pushing off the door frame. His gaze slid over to the revolver hanging from its holster on the bedpost beside Doc’s head, and onto the one dropped haphazardly on the table. He let out a short laugh and shook his head. “Christ, I don’t know how you get away with all you do.”

Doc grinned dangerously wide. “Well, it must just be my sparkling and altruistic personality,” he replied, finding great humor in the long-suffering sigh he received.

“And I most certainly do not understand Wyatt’s type. Both Mattie and you are crazier than a pair of geese,” Virgil complained, tiredly rubbing at his face.

With a sneer, Doc couldn’t just let Virgil make such an unflattering comparison such as that without some form of rebuttal. “Do not compare me to her,” he snapped, deeply disliking the idea on every level.

Virgil dropped his hand and appraised Doc with a look he wasn’t able to decipher. “No. No I suppose I shouldn’t.” Once again he looked to Doc’s guns. “Because I have a feeling the only time those are gonna be fired in this town are on Wyatt’s behalf. I do not see Mattie coming to his defense in any form,” he said.

Doc tilted his head and said nothing.

Straightening up, clearly ready to leave, he leveled one final glare on Doc. “If I hear you actin’ a coward in any way, shape or form when Wyatt has need of you, you better hope your lungs kill you before I do,” he said quietly, eyes flashing before he turned and unceremoniously left, the door shutting with only a slight slam.

Doc let out one large exhale, unsurprised when it spurred on a full bout, spitting blood and mucus up into his handkerchief with a disgusted grimace. He’d been holding it back the whole conversation, refusing to let Virgil see Doc even more weakened in his already fragile state.

Still, he wasn’t all too concerned over Virgil’s threats. He certainly had no plans on leaving Wyatt’s side while he was still able to guard it. He’s been called many names: lunger; cheat; mouthy. One accusation he’d never let stand were those calling him a coward. Whenever someone tried, he’d always whip out one of his six-guns before the word was completely out of their mouth, daring them to finish it. Ultimately, they never did.

Virgil being able to get the word out was a sign of respect from Doc, whether the older man knew it or not. And with or without Virgil’s warning, Doc didn’t see a future in which he wasn’t just in as much heat as the bastard he’d gone and fallen in love with.

With a groan half of pain and half of annoyance, Doc slipped back down the bed with a few silent curses for still being bedridden. Closing his eyes to nap before Kate returned, Doc was completely unaware of the dust being kicked up all over town.

Something both Wyatt and Virgil had neglected to mention.

Chapter Text

When Doc woke the morning of the 26th, he was expecting his day to be fairly similar to the one before, perhaps with him getting out of bed a little more.

What he didn’t expect was Joyce knocking on his door before the sun had risen far enough to burn out the shadows on the main street. Once Kate let him in, slightly frazzled as neither of them had had any sort of time to make themselves presentable, Doc had been told something real funny.

The Cowboys were none too pleased by the actions of the Earps in Tombstone, and a few had branched out and decided to enact their revenge on the brothers that day. Doc had listened to Joyce with narrowed eyes, eyes that mindlessly followed the man’s exit once he’d relayed the information.

It seemed he was getting out of bed a bit sooner than expected.

“Darlin’,” he rasped, voice still scratchy from sleep. “Fetch me my cane, will you?”

Ten minutes later and Doc was staggering his way down the street toward the Marshal's office. He’d had just enough wherewithal to shakily button up a shirt and slip into the pants closest to him. He hadn’t had it in him to put on his usual waistcoat, so he simply secured his holsters and slipped his black duster on. He’d had to have Kate help him with his boots, and before he’d stepped out, she wordlessly held out his flask for him to take. Relieved, he kissed her cheek and left.

Lo and behold, all three Earps were at the Marshal’s office, with Morgan catching sight of Doc’s pathetic form first.

“What’re you doin’ out of bed, Doc?” he questioned, stepping toward Doc worriedly. His words attracted both Wyatt’s and Virgil’s attention, and he had to hold back a frustrated sneer at his own visible weakness. What they must think of him.

Doc didn’t have to wonder; both of them had neglected to inform him of this altercation. Seen him unable to help. Virgil should’ve known better, he’d clocked Doc’s loyalty all too fast. And Wyatt should’ve known Doc would never leave him to a fight without himself at the man’s side.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Doc demanded, leaning just a bit too heavily on his cane. He hated even having to use it, but he knew if he didn’t he’d be hitting the dirt long before the main event, and he needed to conserve energy for the looming shootout.

“Had Milt Joyce come to my place, tellin’ me the Clantons and the McLaurys are gunnin’ for us,” he complained, annoyance plain in his tone as he neared Virgil and Wyatt, who both seemed shocked to see he was already out and about. Considering they’d seen how bad off he’d looked the day before, he couldn’t quite blame their reactions. He was certain he didn’t look all that great, barely had the strength to wax his mustache. He hadn’t even bothered with his hair.

Morgan, uncharacteristically ignoring Doc, turned to Virgil and asked, “Are we goin’ down there or not? What’re we gonna do?”

Doc felt a slight surge of annoyance stemming from Morgan’s brush-off, before he exhaled shakily, trying to ignore how heavy he was breathing from just that short walk. He didn’t have time to get butthurt over Morgan’s short temperedness.

With slight shock, Doc saw Wyatt grimace and turn away from his brothers. “Wait’ll the liquor wears off,” he responded, voice gruff. “Soon as they start getting headaches, they’ll lose interest,” he predicted lamely.

Virgil growled under his breath in frustration and turned completely from Doc to face his stubborn brother. “Lose interest, hell! They’re threatenin’ our lives,” he argued.

“You’ll never make that stick,” Wyatt scoffed, glancing back at his brothers.

“They’re carrying guns, Wyatt,” Virgil reminded, face deadly serious. If it were perhaps any other man, Doc would not take the situation as seriously as he was, but Virgil had a way about him of claiming respect for even the silliest of notions, though the word silly ever having to be applied to Virgil made Doc’s head spin.

“For Christ’s sake, Virg, that’s a misdemeanor!” Wyatt bemoaned, pacing back and forth on the shaded porch. “You go down there and arrest ‘em, something goes wrong, maybe this time somebody really gets his head broke.”

Doc felt a cough climbing his throat and tried to keep it at bay with a quick swig of whiskey as Wyatt stomped his feet around. He found himself wondering how he’d allowed himself to fall for such a disaster of a man. He felt he’d be better off with maybe Morgan, if the man hadn’t already been taken. Though, that still didn’t stop him with Wyatt, now that he thought about it.

“You’ll have cowboys comin’ around lookin’ for trouble from here to Christmas. You really wanna risk that on a misdemeanor?” Wyatt demanded.

Virgil took a commanding step closer to Wyatt, not backing down. Morgan just stood back with Doc, watching the show.

“You’re damn right I’ll risk it!” Virgil retorted. “They’re breakin’ the law.”

The two stared at each other for a tense moment before a short cough from Doc snagged Wyatt’s attention. Abruptly, Doc imagined this was how Kate felt when he tried to keep her away from something dangerous, because he knew by the look on Wyatt’s face just what he was going to ask.

“It’s not your problem, Doc, you don’t have to mix up in this,” Wyatt said, sounding apologetic. Even expecting it, Doc couldn’t help the flare of betrayal and anger. He’d do anything for Wyatt. Riding into a gunfight while half dead was nothing on the lengths he’d go for that irritating man. And for Wyatt to pretend like he didn’t know that, yeah, that stoked Doc’s ire nice and high.

Slowly, Doc took halting steps toward Wyatt while he stared at the man unflinchingly. “That is a hell of a thing for you to say to me,” he said, hurt plain in his voice, barely hidden behind the forced calm he’d pulled forth.

Wyatt opened his mouth, seemingly with a rebuke on the tip of his tongue, but he appeared to think better of it and snapped his mouth shut with a frown. Satisfied, Doc meandered his way back over to Virgil and Morgan, showing where he stood on the matter. He knew Wyatt would cave no matter what Doc did, but at least this way his devotion was certainly undoubtable.

For several long moments, Wyatt observed all three of them critically, trying to figure out what to do next. Finally his shoulders dropped and he met Doc’s eyes.

“Alright, Virg. Your call,” he stated, tilting his head. “Give Doc the shotgun.”

The barest of smiles appeared on Wyatt’s face as he glanced in his direction for a scant second before looking back at Virgil. “He’ll be less apt to get nervy if he’s on the street howitzer,” he explained mildly.

Fighting back a smug grin, Doc handed Virgil his cane for safekeeping and took the proffered shotgun. Normally, he’d take the cane with him, but at the moment he knew he was going to need both hands.

Pointedly ignoring Virgil’s half-annoyed gaze, he popped open the chamber to double check it was loaded before snapping it shut.

“What’re we waitin’ for, a written invitation?” Doc complained, stepping forward while using the shotgun as a crutch. He turned and found all three brothers staring at him. He gestured tightly down the road with both eyebrows raised. “Well? After you, gentlemen.”

The walk down the streets leading to the alley behind the OK Corral felt like a death march. For who, Doc wasn’t yet sure, but he could taste the smell of death in the air already and knew someone would end the day in a pine box. He could only hope it wasn’t he or his compatriots. He had few loyalties, but nearly all of them were walking alongside him, with the other one tucked away and waiting.

Doc knew it wasn’t a good idea with his lungs in the state they were currently in, but he couldn’t help but try and relieve some of the tension from the air by whistling. It wasn’t to any particular tune, just something idle and drawn out.

As they continued on their march, Doc knew by the citizen’s reactions that their group was an intimidating one. Dressed all in black, he feared they were more akin to undertakers than law enforcers. He felt the sweat sticking his shirt to his chest and grimaced.

They passed a building someone had lit up, likely a bored and drunk cowboy, and even from across the street Doc could feel its flames licking at his back. He felt like it was a warning for his future, but chose not to dwell on it. He wasn’t a religious man, but if he was, he’d known which direction he’d be going the moment he’d left Georgia for good.

A young boy pretending to shoot his toy gun startled them all, Morgan most of all. Doc wasn’t surprised; the man had seen the least action and was more likely to be jumpy. Doc, Wyatt and Virgil had hardly flinched.

“Go on, get home!” Morgan ordered, dropping his hand from his holster. Morgan glanced at Doc with a hard frown, pretending to be less affected than Doc knew him to be. The grab for his gun was all too telling in that regard.

“Goddamn kid,” Morgan muttered. Doc couldn’t help but agree.

After another few minutes, they came across a more familiar crowd of onlookers. Spotting Milt Joyce, Doc couldn’t help a wry grin from overtaking his features and a rather sarcastic tip of his hat. It was his way of thanking the man for telling Doc what was happening, and he had a feeling the bartender would be able to figure it out.

“How the hell did we get ourselves into this?” Wyatt growled, gaze fixed stubbornly forward. Doc could recognize the set of his jaw to mean he was upset, but he found it just slightly amusing that he even knew the man well enough to tell something like that from so little.

Just as they were approaching the alley, Sheriff Behan ran up to them, already sweaty and out of breath. Doc mused that the man looked a little too similar to himself in that moment.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing,” Behan assured, approaching them with his hands up. “I just went over there and disarmed them,” he claimed, pointing down the alley. None of them stopped walking, hardly even sparing a glance in his direction. Behan’s alliances were plenty clear, and Doc trusted him about as much as he trusted a tread on rattlesnake.

“You did?” Virgil asked, disbelief obvious. “Come on, let’s go arrest them.”

“Gentlemen, I’m not gonna allow any trouble!” Behan called, his warning clear. None of the men cared. Despite Doc trusting him as much as a rattlesnake, he was about as dangerous as a newborn calf.

Doc wasn’t surprised when the coward scarpered into the photo parlor as they passed it. Man knew he’d just lied and didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire. Already, Doc’s heart was pumping faster in anticipation. He had a feeling the come-down after this interaction would be hell, but with the adrenaline finally kicking in, he felt almost healthy.

When they rounded the corner to see the clearly visible group of cowboys doing a piss-poor job of appearing casual, Doc raised the shotgun. The brothers hadn’t made a move to their guns yet, but Doc wasn’t risking one of them going down if one of the cowboys tried to pull a fast one on them.

Doc saw Ike Clanton pulling his head from a barrel of water, looking at the approaching group like a hunted rabbit. The water dripping from his hair and face made him look all the more pitiful, and with a quick glance to the man’s hip, Doc found himself mourning the fact the man wasn’t armed. It’d be too easy to be rid of such a cockroach of a man too soon.

“We’re here to disarm you. Throw up your hands,” Virgil called out as they neared. Doc made sure to keep his head on a small swivel, refusing to let any of them out of his sight.

Almost immediately, the ones who were armed all placed a threatening hand onto their holsters. In response, the Earps mirrored the action almost simultaneously.

“Hold!” Virgil shouted, trying fruitlessly to defuse the situation. Doc had no such hopes. “That’s not what I want!”

He felt a little bad going against Virgil’s wishes, but he still didn’t hesitate to shrug off his duster, striding forward confidently with the shotgun held high. If anyone were to get shot first, it’d be him, just as he intended.

A couple of the cowboys were so cowed by Doc’s confidence that they plum scattered, barreling through an exit out the back of the alley and scurrying off like rats.

Ike, seemingly beginning to realize he was unarmed, looked around him frantically. Doc paid him no attention. Instead, his sights were set on the man who’d threatened him with a knife the night Curly Bill got put in the clink.

The staring match seemed to last forever. Doc couldn’t stand it. Known to be a firestarter, he felt no remorse at locking eyes with Billy and winking.

In no time, the man’s face dropped into anger, clearly fuming.

Vaguely, he heard Wyatt mutter, “Oh my God,” as he’d most assuredly noticed what Doc had done.

As expected, Billy was the first to draw, causing everyone else in the clearing to hurriedly try and match him. To little of Doc’s surprise, Wyatt managed to be the first one to fire a round, but after that Doc was too distracted to pay Wyatt any attention for the moment.

Billy managed to get hit by one of the brothers, so Doc’s gaze quickly snapped over to another man taking refuge behind a horse. If he was toting his revolvers, the shot would’ve been an easy one, but he didn’t trust his accuracy on a shotgun well enough to ensure the horse’s safety. Instead, he pointed the barrel skyward and pulled the trigger, satisfied when the horse reared at the loud bark of the gun, closer and louder than the other guns being fired nearby.

Once the horse was clear, Doc wasted no time in firing straight into the man’s chest, hearing him fall to the ground with a loud cry. Somehow, the man managed one lucky shot. A bullet ripped through Doc’s holster and grazed his hip, causing him to suck in a pained breath and briefly settle a hand over the wound. It took only a second to gauge it was just a graze and thus set it aside to worry about later.

Feeling only a twinge of remorse for such a needless death, he quickly turned his attention to the rest of the clearing, making sure Wyatt or Morgan hadn’t managed to get themselves killed.

He saw Ike Clanton practically crawling to Wyatt, begging the man not to shoot him. Doc found the sight amusing. Wished the man had come to grovel with him, instead.

When he caught sight of Ike falling into the same photo parlor Behan had disappeared into earlier, he felt a small pit of worry form in his stomach, but chose to ignore it for the moment.

Suddenly, after the fight seemed to be tipping in the Earps’ favor, Virgil fell to the ground with a shout, clutching his leg. Not a moment later did Billy Clanton climb to his feet and shoot a hole through Morgan’s shoulder.

Virgil going down was one thing. But at the sight of Morgan reeling back and holding his shoulder with agony visible across his face, Doc felt something ice cold slither up his spine before reemerging as a burning hot passion in his movements, his expression hard and unforgiving as he immediately turned his fire onto Billy. All his earlier sympathy for taking these lives had all but vanished.

It seemed Wyatt felt the same, firing a shot that hit Billy in the hip and making him stumble back. Doc dropped the shotgun, not having the time or ammo to reload, and pulled out one of his revolvers, firing and hitting the man in the chest. With a sneer of pure anger, he fanned the hammer until the gun was empty. Hurriedly, he worked to reload his gun in the brief lull.

Glass breaking from Doc’s left alerted him to the return of Ike to the fight, and this time he was armed.

“Behind us!” Wyatt cried, distracted with firing at someone else.

Unable to lock onto his position from all the breaking glass and how fast he was moving, Doc loosed as many shots as he dared and still he missed. It was frustrating to a man praised for his aim as much as he was. It made him hate Ike even more. As necessary as keeping his head down was on his approach, it still infuriated him with how impossible it made it to aim with any accuracy.

Barely five seconds after Ike had seemingly shot all his rounds did he come running out of the parlor and into the street, stumbling in his hurry to escape the shootout.

Doc saw a lone man standing and walked up to him, intending on finishing him off. However, when he raised his gun and fired, it only let out a sad click. Empty. The realization that he was about to die was a fast one, and with it everything else faded around him. He’d protected Wyatt and even Morgan. His job here was done.

“I got you now, you son of a bitch,” the man across from him crowed, slowly heaving his gun up.

Spreading his arms out wide in surrender, Doc bared his teeth in a feral grin. “You’re a daisy if y’do.”

It was then he remembered his second revolver might still have a round left. Just as the man looked about to fire, he decided to test his theory and pulled the trigger.

What surprised him was the bullet hole that appeared in the man’s forehead. He frowned, sure he hadn’t aimed that high, before he turned around to see Morgan painfully holding his gun up.

Doc felt his stomach swoop at the gesture. Morgan had felt the need to protect him. Had killed a man for Doc. Had fought through a shot shoulder to save Doc. He could only swallow, somehow surprised by the revelation.

It was then that the shot from earlier decided to make itself known once more, and he holstered both revolvers and pressed his hand firmly to his hip. It wasn’t deep, but Christ it hurt like hell. Likely would only need some whiskey splashed on it and a bandage. Something he could enlist Kate’s help in.

He kept an idle look on Morgan and the other brothers, Virgil still forced to stay on the ground while Wyatt kept an eye out from over them both.

The agony on Morgan’s face made Doc’s stomach twist, but seeing as it was a shoulder shot, he had high hopes the man would recover. He was young and far healthier than Doc, and Doc at least had suffered far more grievous wounds and emerged victorious.

“Morgan,” murmured Wyatt, placing a comforting hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Hold quiet now.” He just received a pained nod.

He was still standing above the man Morgan had killed when the mayor arrived, slowing to look at the body as he passed. Doc just looked at him, emotionless.

A few seconds later, Behan emerged from the photo parlor, eyes scanning the clearing and seeing all the bodies on the ground.

“Easy, I got you,” Wyatt muttered, carefully helping Morgan to his feet. Doc got the impression this was the first time the man had been shot, and his reaction made all the more sense for it. Being shot never hurt less, but it got easier to push through the more it happened.

“Alright!” Behan shouted. He pointed his cane at them all accusingly. “All of you are under arrest,” he stated. Doc had to hold back a snort.

He could only watch as Wyatt silently walked up to Behan, into his personal space. Wyatt just stared for several long seconds before tilting his head.

“I don’t think I’ll let you arrest us today, Behan,” said Wyatt.

Doc wasn’t surprised when Behan didn’t try to dispute him, just merely watched as Wyatt turned away.

Josephine burst out of the parlor as well a moment later, and Wyatt’s eyes snapped from her to Doc in short fashion. With a small smile, Doc looked at Josephine and tipped his hat to her, seeing Wyatt do the same.

He was far less amused when right after, Mattie showed up. She saw Josephine and immediately connected the wrong dots. It’d amuse Doc if he didn’t dislike the woman so much for how she treated Wyatt.

Virgil’s wife arrived a moment later, worriedly calling out his name with Morgan’s wife following her. They’d likely heard the commotion and known it was their wayward husbands. He was only a little surprised Kate decided not to show. He figured she knew he’d show his face once it was all said and done.

It was a little amusing to see Virgil limp off using Doc’s cane, and he reminded himself to tell Virgil later to just keep it. He’d find another one at some point, most likely. He looked behind him to see Wyatt speaking with the mayor as Morgan was led off to the Doctor’s office by Louisa.

He watched as the mayor walked away, upset, before Wyatt turned to face Doc. Their eyes met and held for several long seconds. In that moment, they were both very aware of what they’d just done, and what would inevitably be started due to their actions. He saw Wyatt close his eyes and take a deep breath before opening them again.

Wyatt walked up to Doc, silent, and began to make his way down the street. Doc, despite not knowing the destination, was helpless to do anything but follow.

They were about halfway to Doc’s place before both of them made a realization. Doc’s being that he was being escorted home, and Wyatt’s being that he’d finally seen Doc holding his hip and limping.

A hand on his shoulder halted Doc, and he turned to Wyatt with a frown, but was met with Wyatt looking pointedly at the hand pressed to his hip. With a slightly sheepish grin, Doc could only shrug.

Wyatt sighed and dropped his hand to Doc’s elbow, grasp gentle as he led Doc home.

“C’mon then. Let’s get you home and fixed up,” he said quietly. Doc followed.

The next evening saw Doc and Wyatt at Morgan’s place, just on the edge of town off main street heading relentlessly into the desert. Kate had opted to spend her evening with Josephine, who was currently upset with Behan, and Doc had simply wished her well.

The three of them were sitting on the back porch and drinking various beverages of choice. Doc wasn’t sure if Wyatt was sipping on coffee or bourbon, but he didn’t care enough to ask. Doc, still feeling the effects from his latest flare up, was seated in the second seat beside Morgan. Louisa was inside taking a nap, having stayed up all night in an anxious fit to be sure Morgan wasn’t going to die on her overnight.

Wyatt, restless bastard he was, was standing pressed up against the wooden railing, eyeing the setting sun silently. Doc alternated between talking idly with Morgan to take his mind off what happened the day before and staring at Wyatt.

Just as the shadows were lengthening almost fully into night did the cowboys begin their march down the street, full of reckless ire. They’d even managed to get fireworks, which impressed Doc a little.

The procession soon reached where they were, slowly making its way to the cemetery.

Doc looked at the banner they had risen. MURDERED on the streets of Tombstone. It was a bit gauche for Doc, if he were to be honest, but he supposed it got the message across.

As those at the front of the line passed them, Doc was certain Wyatt nor Morgan missed the rage-filled look Ike Clanton shot in their direction. Doc felt no pity for the man. He’d been unarmed, and even when he did get a gun, he fucked it up so incredibly badly that he almost doomed himself. A man as incompetent as him shouldn’t be in this walk of life, let alone grieving those who walked it proper.

The procession reached the cemetery with no hassle, and Doc saw Wyatt heave a heavy sigh, lowering himself down into the single seater next to the double Morgan and Doc were occupying.

He felt Morgan shift beside him, and when he looked, found Morgan’s gaze blankly staring in the direction of the cemetery.

“You were right,” he said suddenly, voice quiet. Doc frowned, shifting to face him a little better, but by then Morgan’s attention had turned to Wyatt. The older man looked worn down, and Doc knew he was regretting ever letting things go this far. He just had a feeling that with or without one Wyatt Earp, something was bound to have happened anyway, and maybe somehow they could’ve gone worse. “It’s nothing like I thought.”

Wyatt briefly met Doc’s eyes from over Morgan’s still form before he looked away.

“I almost wish-” Morgan choked out before being interrupted by Wyatt.

“I know, Morg,” he replied, quiet.

Doc swallowed and decided to hell with it. Carefully, he wrapped an arm around Morgan’s shoulders and gently tugged him against his side. He felt Morgan’s breath hitch, clearly trying not to cry. Doc sighed and patted Morgan’s shoulder.

“Me too,” Doc agreed quietly. Morgan just let out a sad sniffle and stayed silent. “You’ll be just fine. The memory’ll blow away like sand, leaving only a dusty residue for you to sift through. It’ll pass,” he comforted, seeing Morgan nod slowly.

When he looked up, he found Wyatt now staring sightlessly at the cemetery. Doc’s hip itched under the bandage.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. It left Doc feeling disconcerted, unsure of just what might come next, and if they’d be prepared.

All three of them watched the funeral in silence, all thinking grim thoughts.

Chapter Text

The following winter was as cold and biting as all the ones that preceded it. As he did most winters, Doc spent almost all of it inside under several layers of blankets with the woodstove always burning. Being raised a Georgia man made him sensitive to colder weather already, but add on the fact that he had almost no body fat left to warm him equalled a very cold Doc. Annoyingly, it didn’t even get all that cold, comparatively. The days would be downright enjoyable, almost. But then the sun would go down and all the heat would be leached into the sand and frost would form on the windows.

One positive that seemed to come with the colder season was that Doc wasn’t the only one hidden away. The cowboys’ presence in town had diminished to just an occasional sighting at the saloon or the general store. Doc wished that it would be a permanent change, but he knew better.

Nonetheless, the town seemed to settle a little without the rowdy bunch of miscreants always off firing guns and breaking bottles. The clink was only ever full of drunks these days, or so Wyatt said.

Speaking of Wyatt…

Doc opened his eyes, which had been closed while he was deep in thought, and looked over at Wyatt beside him on the bed, deep asleep. His mouth was even open slightly, which Doc found annoyingly charming. Like hell would he ever mention that, though. Getting Wyatt to stay the night had been an ordeal in and of itself. Mattie almost refused to let Wyatt out of her sight if he wasn’t at the marshal’s office or at the Oriental, so afraid he’d go running to Josephine.

Kate and him had schemed up a little plot, both wanting to spend a night with their respective beaus, despite Kate still only mooning helplessly for Josephine. Kate asked Josephine if she could spend a night with her, saying her and Doc had gotten into a fight. Then, when Doc and Wyatt inevitably ran into Mattie, he made sure to loudly complain about Kate’s leaving him for Josephine that evening. At that point, Wyatt had started to get clued in to just what Doc was planning, but he was a good sport and followed along.

The last part of the plan was rather simple. He played up the scorned lover and asked if Wyatt could stay over at his place that evening while he drank so he’d have company in case he fell asleep on his back. Mattie, very obviously paying attention, had frowned a little but couldn’t find a thing to truly get upset over. So when Wyatt agreed, Mattie voiced no complaint.

Thankfully, he and Kate didn’t really get into a tiff, because it would have been a true waste to get completely smashed and miss all of Wyatt’s company. They had so few moments alone together, and whenever they managed to slip away for a few minutes, Virgil somehow always seemed to know. It unnerved Doc, but not enough to have him stop. It’d take more than a lingering look to dissuade him from Wyatt’s affections.

A quick glance out the open window through squinted eyes confirmed to Doc that it was still long before dawn. He stretched out, long and languid with a quiet groan, rolled over, and stuck his frozen toes right against Wyatt’s calves.

Immediately, Wyatt jerked awake and peered at him blearily, frowning. “The hell?” He growled. “Doc?”

Snickering quietly, Doc scooted closer in silent demand for Wyatt to hold him. Even half asleep, though, Wyatt was a wise man and followed Doc’s wordless instructions without complaint.

“Just missed you, rough rider, do not fret,” muttered Doc in reply, burying his nose into Wyatt’s side.

There was an unintelligible grumble that vibrated against Doc’s ear, but Wyatt soon settled. Doc thought he was back asleep, but was knocked out of his musings by a calloused hand running clumsily through his hair.

“Go to bed, you ass,” Wyatt mumbled, clearly half asleep.

“But Wyatt, I already appear to be in bed,” Doc replied, grinning into Wyatt’s ribs at the responding growl of frustration.

“Don’ have the brain fer this right now,” Wyatt complained, accent thickening to something almost similar to Doc’s own.

Doc couldn’t withhold a small huff, reaching up and laying his hand on Wyatt’s chest, right over his heart. “Do not worry about me, darlin’. I’ll be fast asleep like a little lamb in no time,” he murmured, feeling the heartbeat beneath his palm.

Wyatt hummed, and Doc couldn’t tell if it was in disbelief or agreement, but it seemed Wyatt could no longer fight back sleep and drifted off again. His hand sat more heavily against Doc’s head, but he didn’t mind.

Closing his eyes again, Doc couldn’t help but worry about what might come once the spring thaw hit, though this far south there wouldn’t be much to thaw. He feared that a season’s worth of stewing contempt could only mean bad things in store.

Wyatt began to quietly snore, and Doc forcefully pushed his dire thoughts aside. They would not intrude on this peaceful interlude, he would not allow it.

With a final shifting to get a little more comfortable, Doc settled more firmly against Wyatt’s side and soon fell asleep.

It was finally March, the beginning of spring, and with the warming of the air did the cowboys emerge from their dens like hibernating bears. Soon, the saloons were once more flocked with the dirty men, and Doc found himself staying inside still just to stay away from them. He only hoped that soon they’d disperse once again and fall to a more manageable number.

Doc was sitting in the barber chair on the porch outside and getting his hair trimmed when he caught sight of all three Earps making their way down the street. Virgil’s limp was barely noticeable, but Morgan’s shoulder was being finicky and he was forced to continue wearing the sling.

He watched as Billy, the studious one, not the dead one, shouted at the Earps before storming off in a righteous fury. Due to the subject of his ire, Doc found the man just a little amusing. The ones he was getting all up in arms about would do no such thing for him, not in any capacity. He was too soft-bellied for them, Doc knew.

So distracted was he with watching Wyatt did he fail to notice Ringo’s usually distracting presence until he dropped a bottle, the shattering causing Doc’s eyes to snap toward the source. He saw a very, very drunk Ringo, who looked as awful as he was liquored up. It seemed neither the Earps nor Ringo had noticed him yet, so he continued to watch with narrowed eyes.

“Sister boy should’ve stuck around,” Ringo slurred, slumping over toward the Earps unsteadily.

All three turned around at just the sound of the man’s voice, with Virgil even going to rest his hand threateningly over his gun. Doc lowered his newspaper he’d been pretending to read.

“What do you want, Ringo?” Virgil gruffed.

A slow smile spread on Ringo’s face, and if Doc were a weaker man he’d be discomfited. As it was, he’d seen a similar smile in the mirror.

“I want your blood,” Ringo sing-songed. His eyes slid lazily over to Wyatt. “I want your souls. And I want ‘em both, right now.” Doc’s eyes narrowed somehow even further. He didn’t much like how Ringo was watching Wyatt.

“I don’t want any more trouble,” Wyatt tried, watching Ringo warily. Doc had a feeling his placation would not hold up against Ringo’s drunken madness.

“Well you got trouble!” He snapped, baring his teeth. He tilted his head and pointed at Wyatt accusingly. “And it starts with you.”

Doc knew Wyatt didn’t normally walk around armed, which made Doc endlessly uncomfortable, which was why he made it a point to always be in the man’s presence. So when Wyatt slowly spread his duster wide open to show his lack of weapons, Doc had a feeling he was about to be needed. The tension was so thick that many people had abandoned the nearby streets and storefronts.

“Not gonna fight you, Ringo,” Wyatt said, almost pitiably. “There’s no money in it.”

With a final once over, Wyatt began to turn away, marking the conversation over. “Sober up. Come on, boys.”

Doc could see just how unwise it was for Wyatt to turn his back on Ringo when he was in such a state, so with a beleaguered sigh he set his newspaper aside and surreptitiously drew his sidearm.

“Wretched slugs,” Ringo mocked, tailing the Earps slowly as they tried to walk away. Doc hauled himself up from the chair with a distracted hand wave to the barber and leaned against the beam.

“Don’t you have the guts to play for blood?” Challenged Ringo.

With his gun poorly hidden behind his back, he answered Ringo’s challenge with, “I’m your huckleberry.”

Immediately, all four men’s gazes turned toward him, Wyatt’s usual frown was in place at the sight of Doc once again placing himself in danger. Just a Tuesday for Doc at this point.

“That’s just my game.” Doc grinned as he stepped into the street, weapon still hidden. Despite that, he left his right hand just close enough to his other six-gun to show Ringo exactly what his intentions were if this conversation were to turn sour.

“Alright, lunger,” Ringo replied, watching Doc intently. “You go to hell,” he growled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Curly Bill and some of his lackeys slowly creep onto the scene.

“I’ll put you out of your misery,” Ringo cajoled, grinning.

Annoyed, Doc felt his trigger finger twitch. “Say when!” he snapped.

However, it seemed that the cowboys and the Earps were in agreement this once, with the Earps swarming Doc protectively and the cowboys grabbing Ringo and restraining him forcefully.

Doc did find it just a little sweet that Wyatt had put himself directly between Doc and Ringo, body turned just enough to keep an eye on both sides.

“Johnny, don’t!” Curly Bill shouted, straight into Ringo’s ear.

Movement from Virgil caught his eye, and he found himself incredibly surprised to see even Virgil stepping forward aggressively to come to Doc’s defense. He wasn’t sure what to feel on that matter.

“Get off!” Ringo snarled, wrenching out of their grip and stumbling.

As they flocked off, Curly Bill turned around to walk backwards. “Don’t mind him,” he called, raising his arms in exasperation. “He’s just drunk, that’s all,” he said, grinning.

Ringo, having been temporarily wrangled, managed to squirm free just enough to run into Curly Bill while he yelled in the Earps’ direction.

“I want them spittin’ blood!” He shouted, fighting against Curly Bill’s grip.

Doc couldn’t quite catch what he told Ringo, but by the way it made the man calm down so quickly, it had him obliquely worried.

Amusingly, Ringo went from Curly Bill’s hold straight to tumbling into some fresh pine coffins. Doc thought there might be some irony in that, but he wasn’t sure how, yet. He figured he’d find out one day.

With a short cough, Doc tipped his hat to the brothers. “Gentlemen,” he said in parting, satisfied the tension had successfully been waylaid. Then, he turned and went back to the barber’s chair, sitting down with a quiet groan and grabbing his paper again.

“Barber?” Doc called.

“Yes, sir?”

“Proceed, sir,” Doc said, stretching out comfortably.

Before his slitted eyes, he watched as the Earps continued on to what they were planning to do before Ringo’s drunken rampage. Doc just relaxed and enjoyed his cut and shave.

Later in the evening Doc was home alone, sitting in a chair in the kitchen, legs propped up comfortably on the table as he read some penny-dreadful he’d picked up from some place or other. It was a rare night indeed when Kate went to indulge in the Oriental’s vices on her lonesome, but Doc didn’t want to risk a run in with Ringo so soon, and he knew Kate was only going because Josephine was going to sing again.

The start of Arizona’s spring storm season had begun earlier in the week, and Doc could hear rain pattering against the windows as well as distant peals of thunder. An occasional flash of lightning would slip through the shut curtains and draw Doc’s attention for a moment before it invariably returned to his book.

Just as he was turning a page, there was a knock on his door. He knew it wasn’t Kate, but before he could even begin to ascertain the identity of the one knocking, the door clicked open. Doc was reaching for the revolver he’d left sitting on the table beside his knee before the door had been shut once more, but his grip quickly relaxed once he heard a familiar cadence attached to a very particular set of spurs. He made sure to drop the gun with a loud clunk, just to let Wyatt know how close he ended up to getting a new window for sightseers.

Doc dropped his book in his lap, thumb lazily left on the page he’d been on even as he shut the cover around it. He tipped his head over the back of the chair and watched as Wyatt jangled his way in upside down.

“Howdy, cowboy,” Doc greeted dryly.

Wyatt rolled his eyes and just made his way to the seat opposite Doc, Kate’s usual spot. To be considerate, Doc shifted his legs a little so his boots weren’t blocking Wyatt’s face. Though he had no plans on going anywhere, he kept his boots on just in case, minus just his spurs for comfort.

“Howdy, outlaw,” Wyatt returned, just as dry. Doc let out a short huff of laughter before deciding the book was a temporary loss and just flipped it to rest wide open on the table. It was pretty awful, anyway, so he could care less about the spine cracking.

Wyatt peered at it curiously for a moment before looking back at Doc. Doc quite suddenly did not like the way Wyatt’s face turned serious rather quickly as he crossed his arms over his chest with a raised eyebrow.

“Now just what is that look for?” Doc asked, wary.

“What you did today, with Ringo,” Wyatt stated, and Doc had to hold back a long-suffering groan.

“What I did today, with Ringo, was save you and your brothers’ sorry hides. Wyatt, I may sometimes be enamored with your pretty blue eyes, but I am not stupid. Anyone could see where that confrontation was headin’,” he paused to let Wyatt stew in his words for a moment before continuing. “I stalled just long enough for Curly Bill and his ilk to come and collect their lost little puppy before anything truly dire happened, and you know it,” Doc said, voice coming out clipped in his frustration.

Wyatt closed his eyes and sighed, blindly reaching up to take off his hat before dropping it onto the table with a muffled thump. Once accomplished, he began to run his fingers through his hair liberally. Doc couldn’t help but notice, distracted as he usually was, that it appeared Wyatt had recently washed his hair, and that it looked all the softer for it.

“I know,” agreed Wyatt, grudgingly.

Doc felt for a moment that perhaps he should contain his smug smile, but he was not known for having restraint, and Wyatt would surely be expecting his response, and who was he to disappoint.

As expected, Wyatt did not look surprised by Doc’s expression, merely resigned to his fate. Deciding to take pity on the man, he uncrossed his legs and shifted one over to nudge at Wyatt’s arm on the table. When Wyatt looked back up, Doc tilted his head.

“You know you don’t need to protect me, Wyatt,” he said.

Wyatt didn’t answer for a few seconds, chewing over his words like a particularly fatty cut of beef. “I know that,” he said slowly, like the words were being pulled out with a hand crank. “But I feel this… urge to try and do so anyway. I failed in protecting Mattie from herself, and I can’t help but see some of the same vices in you. So I feel… compelled to try and protect you from the one thing I can: everyone else,” he explained, voice pained.

Doc’s face softened. “Wyatt, darlin’, while I may enjoy drinkin’ and gamblin’ far more than your usual specimen, know that it will never cause me to stray from my path with you. Unlike Mattie, I do sometimes know when to stop,” he paused, thinking about what he just said. “I know when to stop with material devices,” he amended, causing Wyatt to snort.

“Runnin’ your mouth don’t count as a material device?” Wyatt questioned, amused.

Doc placed a hand over his chest and feigned disbelief. “Why, Wyatt. I cannot believe you.”

Leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand on the table, Wyatt tried to stifle a fond grin. “With how often you run that mouth of yours, we could probably patent it for those who can’t seem to find the right words,” mused Wyatt, grin stretching at Doc’s genuinely affronted expression.

Silence fell between them. Both their smiles slowly faded and in their place sat a slightly uneasy quiet. Doc looked Wyatt straight in the eyes, wanting the man to know he was serious, for once.

“We protect each other,” he stated, tapping the side of his boot to Wyatt’s arm again. “And we do all that we can for each other. But we are both individually capable, my friend. So if anything were to befall either of us, it would not be either of our fault.”

Wyatt looked at him. “If I got gunned down in front of you in the street tomorrow morning, would you not feel guilty?”

Unencumbered dread curled in Doc’s gut in a flash just at the image that sentence inspired. Because as much as he wanted to say no, it would be a lie, and he did not lie to Wyatt. He knew if he asked Wyatt the same question, their answers would be the same.

He would rather live in denial than admit these things to each other.

“Let’s play poker,” said Doc instead, leaning over and finding a loose deck of cards on the countertop beside him.

He pretended he didn’t see Wyatt’s discerning gaze as he shuffled the deck.

“Play you for cigarettes,” Wyatt muttered, pulling his case from his pocket and dropping it onto the table.

Glancing up, Doc swallowed. “You’re on, law man.”

Chapter Text

It was about a week after their impromptu poker game, and it seemed all four of them were suffering from insomnia. The Earps had suffered through a long day of chasing cattle rustlers around the surrounding desert of Tombstone, the perpetrators surprisingly not associated with the cowboys.

Doc had been playing poker, as usual, when all three Earps had come rolling into the Oriental covered in dust, with Virgil complaining of aching joints. Doc figured it meant rain.

Joyce decided to shut down early, as after midnight, only the Earps and Doc were left. He handed the keys over to Wyatt before heading off to bed.

About an hour later, and the storm outside had reached Tombstone in all its roaring, thrashing fury. It felt almost as if the foundations of the saloon were quaking while Doc ate bites of noodles in between poker games with Morgan. Virgil refused to play Doc after seeing him trounce others, and Wyatt was still licking his wounds from their last game earlier in the night.

Morgan’s hound was even there, sitting at the head of the table and eating his own plate of noodles, which Doc found inordinately funny but refused to admit it.

Chewing on a bite, Doc laid down the last card to reveal another winning hand. With a grin, he took the pitiful pile of matchsticks Morgan still had as the other man sighed. Morgan had played one hand with real money and subsequently made them trade for matchsticks, as he refused to lose all his cigarettes.

“Another?” Doc asked, picking up one of his winnings and using it to light a cigarette, sucking in a quick drag before blowing out the smoke through his grin. He wished Kate were here to help him goad, but she hadn’t been feeling well and bailed out pretty early in the evening to sleep.

“You’d be better off quittin’ while you’re ahead, Morg,” Wyatt mused, who’d been watching their game as he ate his own meal. Virgil was off brooding at the window and watching the rain come down in sheets. “He’ll take your boots if you let ‘im.”

Morgan scratched at the bristle on his cheek with a frown, patting his pockets with his free hand and coming up empty. Sheepishly, he looked back up at Doc. “‘Fraid I’m out for the evenin’.”

Doc, who had a feeling the other Earps weren’t ready to leave quite yet and didn’t want to sit there in silence, decided to show a little benevolence. With a put-upon sigh, he carefully sectioned off half of his pile and slid it over to Morgan, who eagerly took the offering in silence, not daring to test his luck.

Normally, Doc would not give away earnings no matter the currency or how much he was itching for a game, but it was Morgan, and the only other people in the room were friends, so he figured he could give it up this once.

With the game started again, the room once again fell quiet with only the sound of the rain and ever closer booming of thunder.

After a particularly loud one, Virgil sighed and walked back over to the table. “Be one of those nights,” he muttered, pulling off his hat to tiredly rub at his hair.

He stopped next to the table, behind Doc. “It’s gettin’ late, boys. I’m gonna go to bed,” he said, blinking groggily. Seemed finally that the days’ events were catching up to the old man.

“Night, Virg,” Morgan answered, glancing up briefly to look at his brother before refocusing on his cards.

“Good night, boys,” Virgil called back as he stepped away.

Swallowing his last bite, Wyatt picked up his drink as he looked over at Virgil. “Bundle up, Virg,” he advised, “it’s gettin’ cold out there.”

“Yep,” he responded distractedly, shuffling out into the storm. Doc did not envy him, but he figured he’d be in the same position himself when he had to leave. He didn’t answer the man’s goodnight like his brothers did, but he doubted the man would feel any hurt over the notion.

Losing another hand to Doc, Morgan turned back to his food to see that Jim had eaten all of his own plate. With a faint smile, he pinched a few noodles between his fingers and fed them to the dog, who eagerly lapped it up.

Doc shared a brief, fond smile with Wyatt before trying to finish his own food. His appetite lately had been lacking, and he knew it was beginning to concern Wyatt, but Doc knew eventually his hunger would return. It ebbed and flowed, and recently it’d been ebbing a bit more. Doc could tell, because what little body fat he had, had diminished just a little more, leaving his face more gaunt than usual and his alcohol tolerance lower than it should be.

He got about halfway through the plate when his stomach roiled, nausea climbing up his throat. He swallowed thickly and set down the chopsticks with a grimace. It seemed he was done, if he wanted to keep anything down. Taking another drag of his half-forgotten cigarette, he ashed it in the tray while blowing the smoke down.

“Wyatt, would you like to join us, give poor Morgan a chance?” Asked Doc, trying to distract himself.

Wyatt had definitely noticed Doc’s shift in mood, but chose not to comment on it. Instead, he let out a short huff of laughter and shook his head, pointedly holding up his chopsticks that were holding a good number of noodles.

“Afraid I’ll have to pass on this one, you hustler,” Wyatt mused, taking another bite.

Rolling his eyes, he turned to ask if Morgan wanted to play another round when the saloon doors opened once more and in came Virgil, walking as slow as when he’d left but this time significantly more sodden than before.

Wyatt had gotten up to refill his mug from the spout, not looking in Virgil’s direction. Doc frowned and peered closer at Virgil, sensing something off but unable to tell what, as the man was in the unlit part of the saloon. Morgan was too preoccupied with his hound to notice Doc’s apprehension.

“Hey, Virg,” Wyatt called, watching his glass fill. “What’d you forget?” He asked absentmindedly.

The alarm bells in Doc’s head only rang louder when Virgil didn’t reply. Slowly, he set down his cards and began to stand even as Wyatt sat back down.

When Virgil came finally into the light, half hanging onto the bartop, Doc fully stood from his seat, worried. He didn’t think Virgil had had that much to drink. He shouldn’t be stumbling like he was.

It was then Virgil slowed and leaned back against the bar, eyes shut. “Wyatt…” said Virgil, voice wavering as he finally lost his legs and fell to the ground.

Fortunately, Doc was already halfway to him and was able to grab onto his good arm, grunting at the weight as he fell to his knees to try and accommodate the other man. Virgil was no small man. Thankfully, Morgan and Wyatt made it to him just then and took over. In the background, Morgan’s dog was barking at the action.

It didn’t take long for them to see that the bullet was lodged in his arm, bleeding sluggishly through the fabric of his clothes. Sitting back and watching Wyatt and Morgan frantically talking to him, he immediately noticed when Wyatt’s gaze snapped to him.

“Go get a doctor,” he ordered lowly. Normally, Doc didn’t listen to orders just out of a desire to be difficult, but even he’d be hard-pressed to ignore this one. He just nodded quickly and used the bartop behind him to haul himself up.

“Meet us at Virgil’s place,” called Wyatt as Doc was throwing on his coat and walking out into the downpour. He hardly felt the chill of the rain, the heat of adrenaline was still racing through his veins. The tacky feeling of Virgil’s blood on his hands began to lessen as the rain hit them. He didn’t even remember touching Virgil’s wounded arm.

A couple minutes of blindly searching for the doctor’s office in the downpour, he finally managed to locate it. With a grimace, he started banging on the door, as aggressively as he could manage. It was doubtful the poor man was awake this late, so it was his duty to make sure he was going to wake up.

After about thirty seconds of incessant banging, the door was finally wrenched open by the same man who’d treated him a few months prior, looking a mite more irritable than when Doc last saw him.

Clearly, the doctor recognized him as well. “Mr. Holliday? Is your condition acting up? Certainly this could have held until the morning,” he pressed, eyes squinting with the look of one freshly pulled from bed.

A small shiver wracked his form, eliciting a small cough that he stifled in his elbow even as he shook his head and cleared his throat. “No, no. Virgil Earp has been shot, we need your assistance in treating him,” he explained hurriedly, glancing down the street to make sure no one was coming after him. Because surely, if Virgil was shot, he, too, was a possible target.

The doctor, once hearing it was something quite a bit more serious than a chronic cough, simply nodded and hurried back inside. Doc assumed it was to get his supplies.

Thirty seconds later and he was proved correct by the sight of the doctor shutting the door behind him while holding a bag.

“Lead the way,” he said shortly, shouldering it.

Quickly, Doc led the other man to where he remembered Virgil living. He’d only stopped by once or twice while being with Wyatt when the man had to run a quick errand to his brother’s. Still, even with the rain and blinding lightning, he was confident he knew where to go.

Five minutes of strained silence and they arrived. The second they stepped inside, Doc noticed all of the wives, plus Josephine and Kate looking on, frazzled, from the corner while Virgil was laying on the couch in the center of the room. Wyatt was standing by his feet, and Allie was holding Virgil’s hand tightly with a tearstained face.

The doctor wasted no time in hurrying over to Virgil, quickly setting out everything he needed. Doc walked over to Wyatt and frowned at the man’s furious expression. Deciding not to mess with that, he switched directions to head toward Kate, who was holding a frightened but still irate Josephine.

Stopping in front of them, he tilted his head. “What happened to you, then, my dear?” He asked, knowing this had more to do than with Virgil’s state.

Kate grimaced, eyes turning dangerous. “One of the cowboys broke in and tried to shoot us up,” she said, voice low in the barest effort to control her anger. “Coward ran off before I could even get my own gun,” she said, huffing.

Doc found he now understood why Wyatt was looking so mad, and why Morgan looked decidedly lost.

“Do you need an escort anywhere?” He offered, glancing to Josephine to signify he was asking her as well.

Kate paused, looking at Josephine for a moment and receiving a nod. “Could you take us to hers? I don’t think… I don’t think either of us should be alone tonight,” she admitted.

Nodding, Doc began to straighten his sodden coat for another journey out. It was far too windy to even entertain the idea of an umbrella. He briefly took off his hat and shook it to allow any of the accumulated water to drip off before replacing it atop his head.

“Let us take our leave then, ladies. Follow me closely, if you would, please,” he suggested as they made their way to the door. Figuring he should let Wyatt know where he was going, he caught sight of Allie crying even harder when he looked over.

“Wyatt,” he called, causing the man to turn sharply in his direction, startled, if the expression on his face meant anything. “I’m escorting these two home, I’ll return shortly,” he said, nodding toward Kate and Josephine, who stood by the front door. He received only a distracted nod before Wyatt turned toward Virgil again. Glancing at Morgan, Doc found he looked akin to a spooked deer. Louisa was pressed against his side, and he had an arm wrapped around her, but he looked as if he barely felt her presence. Deciding this was a problem to be dealt with when he returned, he stepped once more out into the certifiable ocean that was being dropped from the heavens.

It didn’t take them long to reach Josephine’s, she didn’t live all that far. Still, Doc made sure to keep them both directly in front of him, as he felt he was more likely to be shot from behind, and one hand always on one revolver. He only relaxed a little once both women were safely inside and he heard the faint slide of the lock being put in place. With a satisfied nod, he turned on his heel and stalked back down the street to Virgil’s house, eyes peeled for any suspicious red sashes.

Thankfully, he made it back unscathed, just even wetter than when he’d departed. Surprisingly, however, Morgan was no longer in the room, and Louisa was standing over with Mattie looking inconsolable.

Frowning, he walked back over to Wyatt who was watching the doctor silently stitch Virgil’s arm.

“He won’t be able to use his arm again,” Wyatt murmured. Doc couldn’t help but notice that he was standing further away than he had been earlier.

Awkwardly, Doc placed a comforting hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said honestly. But Morgan’s absence was beginning to grate on him, and he didn’t like the thought of the man being out alone.

Turning Wyatt to look at him more fully by his shoulder, he asked, “Wyatt, where is Morgan?”

Wyatt sneered and looked to the side, away from Doc. “He was not pleased with my idea of leaving while we still had the sense to go, and ran off. I assume back to the Oriental to collect his dog,” he muttered.

Doc did not much cherish the idea of heading outside once more, but Virgil had Wyatt, so Doc assumed it was his turn to have Morgan.

“I’ll take care of him,” Doc murmured, patting Wyatt’s shoulder a last time and leaving without another word.

Yet again he found himself with one hand on his gun and his eyes carefully scanning the streets. It seemed that for now his luck was holding. He made it to the Oriental with spots dancing in his eyes from the last flash of lightning. It seemed the storm was right overhead, the thunder loud enough to leave his ears ringing.

It appeared with all the fuss that Joyce had come back, tiredly cleaning glasses behind the bar. Doc heard a loud clack and found Morgan playing billiards with his lonesome, hound laying on a nearby bench. Relieved, Doc made his way over to him, snagging his forgotten glass of whiskey off their previous table as he went.

Morgan’s back was to him as Doc approached, and he saw Morgan’s shoulders tighten at the sound of Doc’s spurs.

“Don’t you go yellin’ at me now, Wyatt,” Morgan growled, not turning around. Instead, he just lined up another shot, seemingly going for the solids first since he was alone.

“Wrong cowboy,” Doc drawled, coming up beside the table, lips twitching in amusement at the way Morgan whipped around to look at him in surprise. His surprise soon morphed into annoyance.

“Sent you after me, did he?” He muttered, peeved. Not waiting for Doc’s answer, he rounded the table to find a good angle for the cue ball.

Doc leaned his hip against the table and watched Morgan line up the shot. He flashed the stick forward and the corresponding clacking of balls was loud in the empty saloon.

“Actually, no. He’s busy watchin’ over Virgil. Figured someone had to watch you to make sure nothin’ happened,” he paused for a moment, deciding, before shrugging and grabbing a stick and joining the game. Morgan just stepped aside while Doc lined up on one of the stripes.

After he hit one ball into a corner pocket, he stood back up and frowned at the stick. He never was much of a pool player, but perhaps he could get into it more so that Morgan had a more fair opponent than when they played poker.

Looking over, he found the other man stretching out his shoulder with a faint grimace. In the lull, he picked up the conversation once more. “If Virgil was a target, as well as the wives, then that means you might be as well,” stated Doc, glancing over to see Joyce dozing off against the bar.

Morgan raised an eyebrow and peered at Doc out of the corner of his eye. “With that logic, doesn’t that make you a target, too?” He questioned, breaking eye contact to round the table to line up another shot.

A bemused grin stretched across Doc’s pale face. For once, the water dripping down his face wasn’t from sweat, but from the rain outside. He felt a little bad for the puddle appearing beneath him, but he had a feeling that Joyce had seen worse than a little water on these bar floors. Virgil’s blood was still smeared against the bar, after all.

“I did not only come here to keep you safe, my stalwart friend,” Doc mused, watching as Morgan sunk another ball into a side pocket. Morgan had a bit of a headstart on Doc, but it wasn’t a real game so he didn’t much care.

Morgan snorted, shaking his head, but a small smile had formed on his face in response. It faded a little once a thought came to him. Doc paused in his movements, seeing the look on Morgan’s face.

“Is Virg… is he gonna be alright?” He asked weakly.

Doc frowned; sighed. “He’ll live, but the doctor says he won’t be able to use his arm anymore,” he said carefully.

Morgan let out a shuddery breath and looked to the side, eyes narrowed in a valiant attempt not to let any tears show. Doc, in an effort to afford the man a moment of privacy, leaned forward to line up another shot. He cursed when he overshot the pocket and the cue sunk in instead.

“Seems your poker skills don’t translate much,” Morgan mused, walking over to the pocket Doc lost the cue ball in and fished around for it. Once retrieved, he looked over at his remaining solids and set it close to one near another corner pocket. Doc grimaced, knowing he was outmatched but refusing to admit it.

“Poker is far more sophisticated than billiards anyway,” Doc sniffed.

He watched as Morgan lined up the shot just when a flash of lightning came through the windows and a clap of thunder sounded overhead. Doc’s eyes automatically looked toward the window, but the sound of Morgan crying out in pain immediately made him look back.

The glass behind them had shattered, and Morgan was hanging onto the edge of the table with bloody fingers. It took about two seconds for everything in his brain to redirect to what he needed before he was turning toward a stunned Joyce.

“Go get the doctor!” Doc snarled, running over to Morgan and quickly hoisting him onto the table, uncaring of the stains he’d leave on the green. “He should still be at Virgil’s house. You know where that is?” He demanded.

Joyce nodded, looking a bit green around the gills as he fled the saloon, another clap of thunder filling the room. Morgan’s dog jumped from the bench he’d been laying on and slunk under the billiard table, whining pitifully.

Quickly, Doc turned his attention back to Morgan who was attempting to unholster his pistol. Doc stilled Morgan’s hand and ripped out his handkerchief in the same breath, pressing the laughably small piece of fabric to the weeping wound on Morgan’s back. It took but a moment to realize Morgan had been shot in the back.

A sneer of anger came over his face even as he just pressed harder, one hand held firmly on Morgan’s chest to keep him from rolling over all the way.

“No need for that, Morgan,” he muttered, trying to ignore the pained gasps coming from between Morgan’s clenched teeth. “I’ve got two perfectly good hands to hold my own six-guns. I’ve got you covered my friend, just breathe,” he coaxed, knuckles white from how hard he was gripping the handkerchief that was quickly becoming oversaturated. Looking around frantically, he spotted the rag Joyce had been cleaning the glasses with. Grimacing at the fact that it was undeniably dirty, it wouldn’t help Morgan out none if he bled out before the doctor could even attempt to dig that bullet out.

Harshly, he grabbed Morgan’s limp hand and brought it around to press against the sodden handkerchief pressed to his back. “Hold that there,” he snapped. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Once he was sure Morgan had listened and was feebly holding the kerchief to his wound, Doc spun on his heel and practically launched himself onto the bar, snatching the rag before hurrying back to Morgan, whose grip was getting slacker on the cloth and further from his back, practically just hanging in midair.

“Goddamnit,” he growled, ripping the blood-soaked kerchief from Morgan’s hand and instantly replacing it with the bar rag, pressing it hard to Morgan’s back.

It roused the man just enough to cry out and try to arch away, but Doc quickly stretched his arm around Morgan’s chest and held him in place, forcing himself to pretend he didn’t hear the labored gasps spilling from Morgan.

“I’ve got you, Morgan,” he murmured, glancing up to see if the doctor was coming. He looked back down when one of Morgan’s hands reached up to grab the one Doc had placed on his chest.

“I know,” Morgan whispered, clutching Doc’s hand desperately. “I’m scared,” he confessed, the tears in his eyes he was afraid to show earlier spilling out with none of his earlier hesitance as he locked eyes with Doc.

“You’ll be just fine, Morgan,” Doc promised. Before Morgan could attempt to reply, though, the door slammed open and in came Wyatt with the doctor trailing him in a rush. There was still blood on his arms from seeing to Virgil. He caught a glimpse of blonde hair and saw Louisa in the doorway, hand over her mouth and tears flowing down her face.

Once Wyatt caught sight of the blood soaked greens, he froze, eyes wide and glazed over, even as the doctor stopped beside Doc with no hesitance.

“What happened?” He demanded, digging through his kit.

“Shot in the back, bullet’s stuck,” Doc answered, glancing down at the once again sodden fabric pressed to Morgan’s back. “Stopped the bleeding best I could.”

The doctor pulled forth from his bag a pair of tweezers and some gauze. “Someone’s gotta hold him down,” the doctor warned, pouring some of the already-opened alcohol onto the instrument.

Looking up to see Wyatt still frozen, he snapped, “Wyatt!” When the man’s blank attention was on him he continued. “Get the fuck over here before your brother bleeds out!” He snarled.

Thankfully, that seemed to wake Wyatt enough to put him back into motion. He blinked once before hurrying over to Doc.

“You hold him by his shoulders from behind, I’ve got his legs,” Doc ordered, finally relinquishing his hold on the sodden rag and rounding the billiard table to grab a firm hold of Morgan’s ankles.

Wyatt just nodded and got behind Morgan, leaning down to grab him by the shoulders and holding him tight to his chest.

Morgan’s hound had started barking under the table, the emotions so thick in the air likely causing the dog more stress. The blood of his owner surely didn’t help. Doc just ignored him and watched as the doctor bent over Morgan and began fishing around in the wound.

Immediately, Morgan was screaming, arching away from the doctor and barely held in place by both Doc and Wyatt. Out of the corner of his eye, Doc caught sight of Joyce digging around under the bar before coming up with another rag. The man walked back up to them and handed Morgan the rag. “Bite down on this, son,” he suggested. Morgan wasted no time in shoving a balled up piece into his mouth, his cries turning muffled, yet still no less loud to Doc’s ears.

“I’ve nearly got it, fellas. Can feel the bullet,” the doctor relayed, a look of extreme concentration on his face. Doc was holding Morgan’s legs down with all his might, and had a feeling this would have been far more difficult had he not been there.

The sound of Louisa’s crying drifted through the room, and Wyatt looked up from Morgan with a crazed look in his eye.

“No, get her out of here! Jesus!” Wyatt cried, redoubling his efforts to keep Morgan still.

“Hold him still!” The doctor snapped, continuing to fish around.

For a long ten seconds, a myriad of sounds filled the previously broken silence of the room. The pouring rain; the thunder; Louisa’s crying; Morgan’s hound barking; Morgan’s muffled cries; the wet squelching of the doctor digging around in Morgan’s gut. Despite all the noise, there still felt an ominous silence. Like this was a breaking point. Like they were on the precipice of something so precarious without their own knowledge.

Then, finally, finally, the doctor got a firm grip on the bullet and tugged it out with another wet sound, shouting in triumph. “Got it!” He spun it around and eyed it carefully. “And it’s whole,” he announced, and the whole room breathed a sigh of relief.

Morgan was still panting into the rag, slumped into both Doc and Wyatt’s holds. His face looked ashen, but he was still awake.

“Just hold him still a little longer, fellas. Need to stitch him up. After that, it’s up to God,” he stated, pulling a needle and surgical thread from his bag. Without any warning, he dumped the remainder of the bottle of alcohol straight onto Morgan’s wound, causing him to scream so hard his voice cracked in the middle of it.

After, he just slumped back down, drawing in desperate gasps as he shivered. Doc did not enjoy the comparison between themselves he drew in his head. He did not like seeing Morgan look in any way shape or form similar to himself. The man did not deserve such a curse.

Thankfully, Morgan’s hound seemed to sense the tentative relief in the room and had settled back into quiet whimpers. The doctor was methodical in stitching Morgan back up, having the wound shut and covered in gauze and a bandage in less than five minutes.

With a nod, both Doc and Wyatt released their tight holds, and Louisa took that as her sign to rush forward and grab Morgan’s bloody hand, uncaring of the gore smearing her smaller hands.

“Morgan,” she sobbed, running a shaking hand through his sweaty hair, hat lost somewhere in the commotion.

“I’ll be just fine, Lou,” he whispered, weakly holding her hand back. Doc swallowed, watching them. Looking at the doctor, he saw how exhausted the man was. Looking at Wyatt, he saw red hot fury building in his eyes. Doc let out a shaky breath, feeling as if everything was about to change yet again.

Morgan made a small, pained noise that captured Doc’s attention briefly, and when he looked back up, Wyatt had slipped away. He caught no sign of Mattie, either, which made him frown.

The doctor placed a hand on Doc’s shoulder, grabbing his attention then. “Get him home, get him comfortable. Pray, if you can. The next twenty-four hours will be very telling. If he develops a fever, fetch me immediately,” the doctor instructed, to which Doc only nodded silently. Satisfied, the doctor grabbed his bag and left.

Once the doctor was out of the room, he scanned the room again, but found no Wyatt hiding in any dark corners and brooding. A clap of thunder sounded and Doc sighed. He had a feeling he knew where the man had gone off to.

Steeling his resolve, he stepped outside while holding his hat tight to his head. He figured Louisa would watch over Morgan until he and Wyatt could return to take her home. Doc knew she could fire Morgan’s revolver, something the man had admitted one of the times he’d escorted Doc home from the saloon. With how vulnerable Morgan was, he had no doubt no one would get past her whom she didn’t allow.

The wind whipped at his clothes and froze him to the bone, half-dried clothes quickly dripping once again and contributing to the chill. But, as he peered out into the storm, he thought he caught a glimpse of Wyatt standing alone in the middle of the street.

As he approached, he noticed how Wyatt wasn’t moving. Just standing there and letting the rain pelt his still form.

Foot slipping on a wet rock that’d been uncovered by the wind and rain, the sound was loud enough to catch Wyatt’s attention, his blank face returning to the fury Doc caught a glimpse of inside.

“Get the fuck away from me!” He snarled, backing away from Doc without even looking behind him. The man looked like a spooked horse with how wide his eyes were. It didn’t surprise Doc to see Wyatt spiraling. Both of his brothers had been shot in one night; one possibly fatal, and one debilitating. He couldn’t imagine the guilt Wyatt was experiencing, but he had a feeling Wyatt wasn’t allowing it to happen to him with how full of righteous anger he appeared. The lightning flashing overhead lent dark and foreboding shadows over Wyatt’s face.

“I think not, you idiot!” Doc snapped back, stomping toward Wyatt as his feet kept getting half-sucked back into the sodden sand. “You’ll catch your death out here, and where would that leave your brothers?” He demanded, shoving Wyatt’s shoulder pointedly. He was aware of the fact that if Wyatt didn’t want to be moved, he wouldn’t have allowed Doc’s shove to actually move him.

“I…”

“Your brothers need you, dammit! Ever think of that?” Doc shouted, coughing abruptly to the side before recomposing himself. “What was it Virgil said all those months ago? ‘It ain’t about you, Wyatt!’”

Wyatt’s spooked look was quickly morphing into the guilt Doc was expecting, his shoulders dropping and his eyes watering. Imperceptible to most in the downpour, but Doc could spot the telltale shine in Wyatt’s eyes. He was rewarded for his guess with a sniff.

“This is all my fault!” Wyatt shouted, snapping one arm up to dig his hand into his hair under his hat.

Doc growled and stalked the short distance between them, snatching the man’s hat off his head and tucking it under his arm. “Maybe it is!” He retorted, briefly chancing his own hat to fling his other arm out wide. “But it isn’t up to you, Wyatt! What is up to you, is your happy ass headin’ back inside and helping me get Morgan back to his home. Now, you can either stew in your thoughts in the rain, catch winter fever, and allow Morgan’s injured self to sleep on a billiard table all night, because you know there ain’t no way in hell I can pick him up myself,” Doc began with a sneer, reaching forward to grab the front of Wyatt’s shirt and pulling him closer.

“Or,” he continued, tightening his grip. “Or you could get over yourself just enough to help me get your brother home, then I can take you home with me, and you can do whatever you need to behind closed doors once everything has been seen to for the evenin’.” He paused, staring right into Wyatt’s eyes. “I fear there is only one correct answer, so choose wisely,” he warned, letting go of the shirt and stepping back.

Doc wasn’t sure if it was a tear or a raindrop sliding down Wyatt’s face, but the man nodded, looking up from his boots. His face had hardened into its usual resolve, effect slightly diminished by his drooping mustache, but the point still came across.

Nodding back, Doc patted Wyatt’s shoulder and returned his hat before turning around and heading inside once more. He tried not to relish in the lack of wind or rain too much, knowing he’d be going out into it yet again. The retribution his lungs were going to feed him was not something he looked forward to, but needs must, as they say. His advice for Wyatt went twofold. He had a few fingers left in the bottom of a bottle of some good menthol liqueur, which would hopefully be a balm for his aching lungs, later.

The saloon doors swung silently behind them both as they stepped in, boots squeaking on the hardwood floor as they both hurried toward Louisa. Idly, Doc reminded himself to polish his spurs later so they wouldn’t rust.

Louisa still had Morgan’s bloody hand tightly clasped between both of hers, and while Morgan hardly looked awake, his eyes were open just enough for him to see his wife, and then Doc and Wyatt once they got near enough.

“Doc,” Morgan whispered, blinking slowly up at him.

Reaching down, Doc carefully put a hand on his shoulder. “Hello, Morgan,” he greeted warmly, squeezing. “Me an’ Wyatt are about to get you home, alright? You’re gonna have to grit and bear it some more, but soon you’ll be in a nice bed, right Wyatt?”

Startled, Wyatt quickly nodded.

Morgan let out a shaky sigh, his eyes slipping half-shut for a moment before he blinked them back open and looked over at Louisa. “Would you be so kind as to meet us there, dear?” He requested, voice scratchy.

For a moment, she looked indecisive, clearly not wanting to leave Morgan’s side. “Are you sure…?”

Morgan smiled faintly. “Gotta get the house prepared for my clumsy self. Turn the blankets over, fluff the pillows,” he said, grip tightening on Louisa’s briefly.

She sighed, but slowly let go of Morgan’s hand. Leaning forward, she kissed his forehead and caressed his cheek in farewell.

“If you aren’t back home in fifteen minutes, I’m sending out a search party,” she warned, voice stern. Her eyes snapped up to pin both Wyatt and Doc under her gaze for a few moments each until they both nodded. Satisfied, she sent one more look toward Morgan before lifting her skirts and hurrying home. Doc had a feeling the shooting was done for that evening.

The silence again was loud, even if it was only the three of them. Joyce had gone off somewhere or other, Doc didn’t much care. What he did care about was getting poor Morgan home in as little pain as possible, which seemed near impossible.

“How’s your shoulder?” Doc asked, breaking the silence.

Morgan blinked slowly at him before frowning contemplatively and rolling his shoulder. “S’fine,” he reported with a slur.

Doc sighed and turned to the eerily silent Wyatt. “You get his shoulders, I get his legs, and both of us pray we don’t tear his stitches,” he decided, walking closer to the stained red billiard table and gently resting his hands on Morgan’s ankles.

“Right,” Wyatt agreed, sounding distracted. Nonetheless, he still listened and rounded the table, sliding his arms under Morgan’s armpits.

Tightening his grip, Doc looked up at Wyatt. “On three,” he instructed, waiting for Wyatt’s acknowledgement. After a moment, he started counting. “One, two, three.” And on three, he and Wyatt simultaneously lifted Morgan’s deadweight.

Immediately, the man began to groan in pain, muscles tight beneath Doc’s hands. In an attempt to spare him as much as possible, he began to walk backwards quickly, with Wyatt following suit easily.

Thankfully, since it was still hours before dawn, the roads were completely empty, though Doc figured the storm didn’t help much either. They managed to get Morgan home in a little under ten minutes with the man spitting curses and biting his lip bloody the whole while.

They hadn’t even needed to knock on the door before Louisa was opening it, ushering them in worriedly. In no time they had him set on his bed, with Louisa having plans to strip him of his bloodstained and rain soaked clothing once they left.

“Are you sure you don’t want either of us to stay?” Wyatt questioned quietly, Louisa nodding a firm yes.

“They either believe him dead, or believe he soon will be. We’re safe for tonight,” she argued, glaring up at Wyatt. Doc stayed silent.

Suddenly, her eyes shot over to Doc. “And Doc lives just down the street, I’m sure if he hears anything, he’ll come runnin’,” she said, pointing at Doc with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, nervously.

Even Wyatt managed to look a little amused, before his face turned serious again. “I should go let Virgil know of all that’s happened,” he said, sighing.

Doc looked over at him out of the corner of his eye, but bit his tongue, for now.

“I’m sure you’ll be seeing us again later, Louisa,” Doc announced, tipping the soaked brim of his hat to her, seeing Wyatt hastily do the same. “Have a good night.” He paused. “And tell Morgan I said so.”

He turned and left before she could answer, relieved to find Wyatt following him, if a bit sedately. Once they were outside, yet still under the overhang on the porch, he stopped and looked over at Wyatt.

“Are you comin’ back to mine after your visit with Virgil?”

Wyatt paused, eyes skittering around nervously, which caused Doc’s to narrow dangerously.

“You will not be seeking any revenge on this Godforsaken night, not if you still wanna be able to leave town,” Doc warned, stepping closer. “Leave it be, at the very least for tonight. For Christ’s sake Wyatt, Morgan’s blood hasn’t even dried yet. You need to rest!”

Wyatt’s mouth downturned unhappily, but he wasn’t disagreeing. “I’m going to Virgil to let him know about Morgan,” he started slowly. Doc tilted his head pointedly, waiting. With a tired roll of his eyes, Wyatt sighed and kept going. “And after I’ll meet you back at yours and we’re going to sleep,” he finished, weary.

Doc’s face softened, abruptly wishing they weren’t outside. The urge to hold Wyatt by the cheek was strong. “Do not act as if it is a punishment I am bestowing upon you rather than a reprieve, Wyatt,” Doc reproached gently, knocking the side of his boot against Wyatt’s with a slight smile as their spurs clinked.

Wyatt’s eyes became a little less tense, and he nodded in reply. “I’ll be there soon. Don’t wait up.”

Doc flashed a sarcastic grin. “When have I not?” He drawled, tilting his body weight to stumble off into the direction of his home, knowing Wyatt would soon follow. Until then, he was going to divest his body of every single article of clothing and then rub himself dry with his nicest towel. Perhaps he’d even light a candle, make the room less dark for when Wyatt showed up.

With a sigh and a bemused shake of the head, he walked his route home in silence while trying to ignore the downpour and the subsequent raindrops dripping down the nape of his neck and under his shirt.

Chapter Text

Doc was woken at some point by the sound of the front door creaking shut. With his eyes still closed, he slowly reached under his pillow and grabbed his Colt, fingers tightening around the grip.

He didn’t let go until he heard the familiar cadence of Wyatt’s lumbering gait enter his room, alone. Relieved, he withdrew his hand from under the pillow and rolled over onto his back with a groan.

Wyatt’s steps paused. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered, toeing off his boots with a distinct clatter as they fell to the ground.

Doc squinted at Wyatt, but was unable to discern his figure in the dark. The candle had burnt itself out a while ago, and the clouds from the storm blocked any moonlight from aiding him. Annoyed, he dropped his head back against the pillow.

“You’d best strip to damn near nothin’ ‘fore you get in this bed,” Doc rasped, clearing his throat to hold back a cough. “Like hell are you getting in bed soaking wet. Set your clothes on the radiator under the window to dry.”

Wyatt didn’t reply, but Doc began to hear the sounds of Wyatt having to peel his clothes off of him. Already, he could envision the disgusted grimace on the man’s face.

Once he heard Wyatt start walking to the radiator, he said, “Should be a towel on it. If it isn’t dry, do let me know,” he drawled. He frowned to himself before leaning over to dig through the bedside drawer, humming in triumph once he found his cigarette case and a box of matches. He stuck the cigarette between his teeth and struck the match on the actual box for once, lighting the smoke with a quick inhale.

Before he shook out the match, he could catch the faintest trace of Wyatt watching him, stripped to only his underwear. The fire singing his fingertips reminded him that he had been on a bit of a time constraint, and he hastily shook it out with a grimace, flicking it away. He’d clean it up later, maybe.

After exhaling an invisible plume of smoke, Doc left it between his teeth. “Well, are you comin’ to bed or are you just gonna stay there like a bad smell?” Doc mumbled, vision full of the glowing end of his cigarette.

There was a snort from the darkness, silence, and then Doc felt the bed dip under Wyatt’s weight. Smiling to himself, he took another drag before wordlessly handing it over to Wyatt, who just as silently took it.

“My apologies, Wyatt,” Doc muttered, turning his head to look at the other man, who was looking back at him with a raised eyebrow, the tip of the cigarette glowing brighter as he inhaled.

“For what now?” Wyatt huffed, voice slightly strained as he blew smoke out with his words, passing the cigarette back over to Doc’s greedy fingers.

“For not having a cigar,” he said, solemn. “I know you’re not much one for the smaller smokestacks, but I’m afraid I’ve little regard for your own vice of choice, so we are forced to make do.”

Wyatt was silent for a long moment before he sighed, long and drawn out, and rolled over onto his stomach with his shoulder pressed against Doc’s and the line of his body spreading warmth against Doc’s side.

“Must you always speak in riddles?” Wyatt complained, voice muffled by the pillow.

Doc grinned, taking another drag. “Who would I be if I didn’t, rough rider?” He mused, placing his right hand onto Wyatt’s back, taking in the warmth of his skin.

“An easier man to conversate with,” Wyatt retorted. Doc barked out a laugh, delighted.

“And just what is the fun in that?”

“I suppose I must concede you that,” Wyatt admitted, relaxing down into the bed. Doc decided not to question whether Mattie knew of Wyatt’s whereabouts. He didn’t much care.

The room fell quiet as Doc silently finished the cigarette. Idly, he smoothed his hand up and down Wyatt’s back, letting his fingertips trace the knobs of Wyatt’s spine.

“McMasters, Creek and Jack have switched alliances,” Wyatt said, several long minutes later. Eyebrows shooting up in surprise, Doc looked over at Wyatt even though he knew the other man couldn’t see him. Peering at the stub left of his cigarette, he blew out a last trail of smoke before leaning over to put it out in the ashtray beside his bed.

“And just what did those fine fellows have to say?” Doc muttered, slipping more comfortably under the blankets and pressing himself more firmly against Wyatt.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me with your toes, Goddamn,” Wyatt hissed when Doc’s foot grazed his ankle. Doc snickered to himself but relented, curling his feet pointedly away.

Satisfied, Wyatt finally deigned to answer Doc’s question. “Came up to me after I’d run outta the Oriental. Said they weren’t happy the cowboys were targeting the women,” he paused, lifting his head from the pillow briefly to just lay on his cheek instead. Distractedly, he pressed a bristly kiss to Doc’s thin shoulder. “Said if I ever needed them for anything, they’d be there,” he muttered, voice trailing off. Doc could almost guarantee he knew where Wyatt’s thoughts were heading, and with that same knowledge came the fact that he knew he wouldn’t be able to change Wyatt’s mind. He would just be there for the ride. As always.

Doc hummed, tilting his head to press his nose into Wyatt’s hair. It smelled like pomade and sweat, but Doc was already intimately aware of what Wyatt normally smelled like and didn’t mind. He was sure he smelled no better.

“Just what are you up to, Wyatt?” Doc asked, eyes shut as he fought back sleep.

There was a brief but tense silence. “They cannot continue to get away with what they are doing to this town. To what they did to my brothers. They nearly killed Morgan. Hell, he still might die anyway,” Wyatt said harshly, wrapping an arm around Doc’s middle and holding on tightly.

“He will be just fine,” Doc assured smoothly, resting one hand on top of the one Wyatt had slung about him. Wyatt sighed quietly, the warm air cooling against the slight sheen of sweat on Doc’s arm.

“I do believe I am not much longer for the waking world, darlin’, so I’m afraid we must postpone any more of this conversation for a later date,” Doc murmured, words slurred despite being uncomfortably sober. There was a distinct crackling in his lungs each time he breathed that did not bode well for the upcoming day, but for now, they held.

For a second, Wyatt’s arm tightened. “I love you,” Wyatt said firmly, causing Doc to stiffen in surprise. They’d danced around an outright admission, so hearing it so plainly was just a little startling. “With everything goin’ on, I didn’t want to risk something happening and you not knowing that you’re… loved,” Wyatt choked out.

Momentarily overwhelmed, all he could think to do at that moment was reach up and card a gentle hand through Wyatt’s hair as the man silently weeped, as Doc suspected he would.

“I love you too, dear. It’ll all turn out just fine, I assure you. You believe I’d let some low life gunslingers get away with such atrocities and live? I’m with you until business is taken care of, and for as long after that as I can manage,” Doc said, low and passionate.

Wyatt made a small, pained noise. “I don’t know what I did to deserve a man like you’s loyalty.”

Doc smiled up at the ceiling. “You know, I’m not all that sure either, quite honestly. Believe I’ve always been a little enamored. It’s the mustache, you know. But, oh,” he breathed out, putting on an air of intense thought. “Suppose I woke up one day at some point in Dodge and realized I’d do just about anything for your sorry hide. Looked like you needed all the help you could get,” he mused, hand continuing to run through Wyatt’s hair.

There was a wet snort, and thankfully it seemed Wyatt’s tears had begun to dry. Never a good idea to fall asleep crying. You’ll wake up with sticky eyes.

“Now, if we are through being maudlin, I would so like to sleep before the inevitable illness brewing within me currently due to this evening’s excursions finds itself manifesting symptoms,” drawled Doc.

Wyatt pressed another kiss to Doc’s shoulder, this one more apologetic. “Of course. And if your dire predictions come true, I shall fetch for Kate, as I’m sure the doctor is tired of us,” Wyatt reported, voice only a little wavery.

Doc huffed a laugh. “I feel I owe the man half my savings for all he’s done, lately.”

“He’ll be compensated,” Wyatt assured, tilting his head to once again lay face down on the pillow. Doc had no idea how the man didn’t suffocate. He had to fall asleep on his back, or maybe his side on a good day. Yet somehow, he still always ended up waking on his stomach, half-unable to breathe. He felt his own body was in cahoots against him, but had decided not to tell anyone of his suspicions in case they thought him crazier than they already do.

“It’ll be alright,” Doc breathed after a few moments. Wyatt didn’t reply, but he felt the man relax more fully into the bed. Relieved, Doc finally stopped holding on so tightly to consciousness, and was fast asleep in a matter of minutes.

When Doc woke the next morning, he was unsurprised to find himself taking ragged gasps of air through strictly his mouth, as his nose was too blocked up to breathe through. His lungs would crackle threateningly every few inhales which would force a half-cough on the exhales. Wyatt was still somehow asleep, but Doc felt truly awful and needed Wyatt awake to hear him whine for but a moment or two. Or five.

“Wyatt,” he croaked, unable to even move in fear of the debilitating dizziness taking over that Doc could feel fuzzing the back of his mind.

“Mmm…” came the groaned reply from beside him, Wyatt’s face shoved purposefully into the pillow as if his sleeping self had predicted Doc’s illness and subsequent cajoling.

“Wyatt!” He insisted, voice cracking at the change in volume, which inevitably caused his whole body to tense painfully as he began to hack. The nausea that threatened to consume him as he rolled over for his handkerchief was severely distracting, but he managed to swallow it down between coughs, if barely.

At the least, the noise had woken Wyatt.

“John?” He muttered, sitting up on one elbow as he watched Doc continue to shake and retch into the handkerchief he was holding. There was an extra pressure on his sinuses and lungs that made Doc dread his next week. He’d known there was a chance of falling ill, but he’d still hoped to avoid it, if only for Wyatt’s sake.

“M’fine,” he rasped, grimacing as he dragged a chamberpot out from under the bed to spit up the blood in his mouth. It was there for that very reason, after all. He exhaled loudly through an open mouth, eyes bloodshot and face dripping sweat. “Might wanna fetch Kate, though.”

Wyatt was frowning even as he climbed out of bed with no other questions, pulling on his pants from the night before with a slight clink as the belt buckle rattled at the motions.

Dressed well enough to brave the outside, Wyatt stopped beside Doc and placed a gentle hand on the man’s forehead, then his cheek, frowning in pity. “You’ve got a fever. Need anything before I leave?”

Swallowing and being only able to taste sand and blood, Doc nodded desperately. “Water, Jesus,” he half pleaded, eyes falling shut as he attempted to hold back another coughing fit.

“I can get you the water, Doc, but I doubt my capabilities in acquiring Jesus for your damned soul. It’s so full of liquor I doubt he’d be wantin’ it anyway,” Wyatt mused, making Doc listen as the man walked around for a moment, soon returning with a full glass of lukewarm water.

“Here you go. I’ll be back with Kate to keep an eye on you today. I’ve got business to handle due to the… events of last night,” he said coldly, eyes gazing unseeing for a moment, before a raspy exhale from Doc recaptured his attention.

“Be safe,” Doc ordered sternly, exhausted eyes narrowed in warning. Wyatt merely huffed a short laugh, kissed Doc’s bristly cheek, and left.

Doc watched him go, chest aching for yet another reason, and waited for Kate to come doctor his sorry ass yet again. The thought left him bitter, because both Kate and Wyatt deserved better than to keep after him, but he knew if he said anything of the sort that he’d only gain their ire. To be loved is a strange sort of circumstance, he’s found. And to love others was just as strange, in his opinion.

He did not envy Wyatt’s position, and found himself just a little glad that he was too sick to make the rounds around town. Inside him, he did not think he would find much patience if he’d run into Ringo or Curly Bill running their mouths. He had no doubt that Wyatt would have held him back while desiring to do the exact thing he’d lunged for.

As it was, that was now Wyatt’s duty, and Doc’s condition was forcing Kate to assist him. Though, he figured, after the night before, she might’ve come to him to seek comfort in any case.

It wasn’t all that long before Kate came bustling in, a worried crease between her brows even as she held a stern look to her face while she stared Doc’s pathetic form down.

“You know better than this,” she said.

“I do,” Doc agreed.

Kate continued to stare at him before sighing. “You make sure you were dry before going to sleep?” She asked, sounding tired.

“Of course,” Doc answered, sneering a little. The idea of going to sleep while soaking wet made his skin itch.

“And you’re warm under there?”

“Yes, darlin’,” he said patiently.

She looked a little lost, and Doc realized rather abruptly that she was becoming overwhelmed by… everything that’d been happening. For a brief moment, he felt immense guilt for ever pulling her along with him, but a moment later came to the conclusion that even without him, he had no doubt she’d sniff out some sort of trouble to find herself in.

“You could get me more water, dear. Then perhaps a shot of whiskey. My throat fuckin’ hurts,” he offered, reaching up with a weak and shaky hand to rub at his sore throat. All that coughing left his lungs burning, his throat sore, and his ribs and stomach aching. In short, he felt he deserved a little whiskey for his troubles.

Thankfully, it seemed Kate agreed, for she quietly refilled the glass beside Doc and fixed him a shot of whiskey with his usual tin cup. With a glance at the water, he downed the whiskey all at once before taking a few sips from the water to appease her.

When he was done though, he looked up to see Kate just standing there, listless. Concerned, he patted the bed beside him where the indent of Wyatt was still pressed.

“Darlin’, come here,” he suggested. He was only moderately pleased when she climbed in bed beside him, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. Surprisingly, she reached a hand down to gently card through his hair, which he feared was becoming more common knowledge that it was a thing he enjoyed.

“Wyatt told me Morgan’s wound is starting to fester,” she said, suddenly. “He ran into Louisa heading to fetch the doctor before he caught me.”

The nausea he’d swallowed down earlier decided to make another appearance. He was silently glad the chamberpot was still out next to his side of the bed.

“Any news other than that?” He asked, forcing his voice to stay steady, even if it was wrecked from all his coughing.

She shook her head. “No, not yet, but Wyatt said he’d come and fetch us if anything went in the wrong direction,” she recounted, scratching lightly at Doc’s scalp as she said it. It wasn’t distracting enough for him to not hear the possibility of some great tragedy in her tone.

“Suppose we’d better wait then, shouldn’t we,” he said, good humor finally dropping from his face and leaving behind only his ashen and sweaty features.

Kate looked down at him, gaze unreadable. “Suppose we should,” she repeated absently.

Doc eventually drifted back off to sleep after finishing his glass of water and Kate had fetched a book from his collection. With some surprise, he’d noticed that she’d chosen Moby Dick. Always a fan of Melville, he had a good few of his short stories among his collection, but Kate had never expressed much of an interest in him.

Still, he hadn’t asked, and he was lulled back to sleep by the sound of Kate’s even, healthy breaths.

It was a long, boring day until Wyatt returned. Doc spent the day alternating between coughing up the small percentage left of his lungs and sleeping. All in all, an average day for him, albeit a bit rougher than usual due to the annoying cold he was suffering through.

Kate was as diligent as ever in her caretaking efforts, for which Doc was endlessly grateful. In an attempt to show his appreciation, he did his best to be a decent patient, keeping his complaints to a minimum. Though Kate didn’t say anything, he could tell that she was both relieved and amused by his efforts.

The storm from the night before hadn’t quite abated, but it wasn’t as strong as it was the night previous. Still, the door was blown right into the wall when Wyatt opened it, causing both Kate and Doc to jump at the sudden noise, with Doc mindlessly reaching for his revolver before the sodden figure of Wyatt appeared in the doorway. Relaxing, he raised a bemused eyebrow at Wyatt and dragged his gaze up and down the man.

Unamused, Wyatt did not respond to Doc’s silent taunt. “Feelin’ better?” He questioned, hanging his dripping coat on the rack in the corner of the room. Doc sneered at it, because he did not want Wyatt’s coat ruining his, but Kate interrupted him before he could bring it up.

“He’s feeling much better. Well enough to stay awake and ask for more whiskey,” she reported, to which Doc shot her a betrayed look.

“Suppose it’s a good thing that Doc already wants to return to his usual vices,” he paused, considering, and turned away from the coat rack. “Though I surely hope you’ve not let him have a cigarette.”

Kate scoffed. “Do you really think so lowly of me? Of course not, he’s already hacking up enough shit to drown a small child in, I have no desire to add a danger to the older children in the area.”

Wyatt could only bark out a surprised laugh, falling into the single chair in the corner of the room that was pressed against the small table there. “The more I speak to you, Kate, the more I understand why you and Doc get along, as well as why you don’t.”

Narrowing his eyes at the exchange, Doc tried to force himself to sit up, but it seemed his body was still too weak to cooperate, and he just sat in some hellish middle ground, unwilling to lie back down; unable to sit all the way up. Thankfully, Kate took pity on him and helped him sit up, his shoulder leaning against hers comfortably.

“I do not appreciate you two speaking of me in such a manner while I am still within earshot,” Doc said dryly, slightly breathless from the effort.

Patting his shoulder condescendingly, Kate said, “Do not worry, darling, were we to be alone the words would be the same.”

Scowling, Doc glared at Wyatt’s amused face. “I am very aware of this fact.”

Kate only hummed, eyeing Wyatt. “Any news on Morgan, then?” She asked, voice light.

Wyatt’s face softened a little, though was still just slightly stressed. “The doctor says he’ll recover. The infection spiked this morning but has since gone down over the day. He’ll be just fine,” reported Wyatt.

Doc tilted his head. “What of Virgil?”

Here, Wyatt’s face hardened again. “Virg’ll live. He’s lost the use of his arm, but he’s… he’s strong. I’m sure he can manage,” he replied, sighing.

The room settled in silence for a few moments before Wyatt suddenly standing broke it. “Kate, if you wouldn’t mind, there are a few things I’d like to speak to Doc about right quick before I head out,” he stated, glancing at Doc.

Kate hummed again, but got up without a complaint. “Let me know when you boys are done,” she requested, patting Wyatt’s cheek as she walked out.

Wyatt looked a little stunned by the gesture, but Doc could only smile knowingly. It was a relief, he thought, that Kate liked Wyatt. He wasn’t sure he could handle those two being at odds with each other.

Patting the side of the bed, Doc raised an imploring eyebrow. “Well? Surely you won’t deliver such important news so impersonally from across the room,” he mused, smiling wider at Wyatt’s long suffering eye roll.

“Suppose I won’t,” Wyatt drawled, setting himself beside Doc, elbows and shoulders brushing. Cringing a little at Wyatt’s boots on the bed, he decided to hold his tongue. Wyatt already said he wasn’t staying long. No doubt, Mattie was getting suspicious of how absent the man had been lately.

“How generous,” Doc muttered sarcastically, stretching out slightly and hearing his hips pop at the shift. “Now, what secrets are you about to share that we must keep from Kate?”

Wyatt’s amused expression dropped to a more serious one, even as he wrapped an arm around Doc’s bony shoulders and pulled him closer. “Once Virg and Morg are stable enough, I’m sending them off with the wives,” Wyatt explained quietly. “I have… plans, for the cowboys, and I cannot risk any of them being caught in the crossfire again.”

Doc tilted his head back until it bumped against the headboard. “I see. And why did Kate need to leave for this?” He asked, though he already had a suspicion.

Here, Wyatt looked a little sheepish. “Honestly? I didn’t want to be in the room when you told her she should leave,” he admitted.

Letting out a short huff of laughter, Doc found he couldn’t blame the man. “And what of your plans for the cowboys?” He inquired, nudging Wyatt’s booted foot with his socked one.

Wyatt’s face hardened and his gaze turned steely. “I’m goin’ to hunt down each of those yellow-bellied sons of bitches until there ain’t no more to shoot,” he growled.

Doc hummed. “Alone?”

Shaking his head, Wyatt said, “No. McMasters, Creek and Texas Jack both pledged themselves to me, figured I’d call in the favor.”

There was a glaring hole in Wyatt’s plan, and it was sitting beside him. “And where am I in these illustrious plans of yours?” Drawled Doc, peering up at Wyatt from where his cheek was leaning against Wyatt’s shoulder.

Wyatt hesitated. “I… didn’t want to presume. Since you’ve been so sick lately…” he muttered, not meeting Doc’s eye.

Hot rage flared beneath Doc’s skin, and he’s sure Wyatt noticed Doc’s fists clenching and his whole body tensing. “Do you not remember my reaction to similar words of yours on that fateful day in October?” Asked Doc, forcefully keeping his tone light, though Wyatt wasn’t fool enough to believe it.

Wyatt swallowed. “I do,” he said.

“Then I ask again; where am I in these illustrious plans of yours?”

With a slow exhale, Wyatt finally looked down and met Doc’s eye, meeting his ire head on.

“Wherever you wanna be, I suppose.”

With narrowed eyes, Doc said, “I think you know the answer to that.”

A week passed, as they’re wont to do, and Doc was once again his usual sickly self, but thankfully not the bedridden kind. Morgan’s fever had cleared completely, and Virgil’s arm was healed enough for him to move about without complete agony. Morgan, sadly, was still forced to lie down and keep still, but from their brief interactions, Doc didn’t think Morgan minded all that much. The stomach wound left him exhausted near constantly, and Louisa was constantly at his side.

It wasn’t much of a surprise that while being escorted home by Wyatt in the small hours of the morning, he was informed of their plan being put into play the next day. Unfortunately, this meant he finally had to talk to Kate about what was about to go down, something he was mostly dreading.

Still, he somehow managed to put it off until the morning of, when he could see the Earps loading their wagons for the trip to the station up in Tucson.

Kate, clearly seeing the wagons too, did not hesitate in following Doc to the stables. They said nothing to each other as they walked, but Doc knew her anger was brewing.

Pausing just inside the threshold, he struck a match on the underside of his boot and lit the cigarette he’d tucked behind his ear before leaving their apartment. A quick glance at Kate had him pulling another one out of its case and lighting it with the tip of his, silently handing it over to Kate. She took it, but she didn’t look happy about it.

Still, after a long inhale followed by a smoky exhale, he made his way over to where his horse’s tack hung on the wall and dragged it down with a grunt. He made quick work of saddling Keats proper, briefly forgetting about the cigarette hanging off his bottom lip as Kate watched from across the stall.

“It’s Wyatt, isn’t it,” she said finally, her voice more resigned than upset, which surprised Doc enough for him to shoot a quick glance her way before continuing to be sure everything was done up proper.

When he didn’t answer, she began to march over to him. “It’s always Wyatt!” She cried, grabbing onto Doc’s lapels tightly. “Why must you always follow him to your own detriment?”

Doc looked at her, dipping his head down. “I’ve committed myself to his cause, darlin’, whether I like it or not,” he responded, resting his hands gently on her waist.

She sniffed and looked to the side, a tear slipping down her face. “I don’t understand,” she whispered, rubbing fiercely at her face.

“You’ve followed me this long, haven’t you?” He murmured, studying her. She nodded with another sniff.

“Then take comfort in the fact that our motivations are the same, though the actions that follow aren’t,” he said, rubbing his thumb gently on her hip bone. “Spend some time with Josephine while I’m away, but away I must go, dear.”

“Josephine is taking her leave tomorrow morning,” Kate forced out, looking at the ceiling of the stable as another tear slipped out. With his left hand, he brought it to her face and gently brushed the liquid away. “She invited me along.”

“Suppose you could follow her,” he encouraged quietly.

There was a pause. “You get killed, what about me?” She asked, voice filled with a little more anger than before.

A scalding reply formed in the very back of his mind, something he might’ve said to her earlier in their relationship, but he shoved it aside.

“You’ve your own savings, correct?” She nodded. “If you do not hear word of me within six months, take my winnings and make a life of your own, alright? You know where all my money’s kept,” he explained, bringing both hands to rest firmly on her shoulders.

“What counts as word from you?” She demanded.

Tilting his head, he couldn’t help a slight smirk. “A trail of bodies to start. If that tapers off and you hear nothing more, take that as your sign. Though I do believe I shall send a letter, at some time or another.”

A small smile appeared on Kate’s face. “If I’m to follow Josephine, how shall you find me?”

He thought for a moment, quickly remembering the poster advertising her show he came across their first night in town. “Suppose I’ll keep track of where she plays her shows. This far west, shouldn’t be too hard,” he decided.

She looked at him for a long moment before grabbing his lapels again and dragging him down into a harsh kiss. It didn’t last long, but when she pulled away he was left slightly bewildered.

“For the road,” she stated, patting his cheek gently and pulling out of his grasp.

Glancing at his pocket watch, he swallowed. “I believe it is time I make my departure, darlin’. I wish you the best of luck,” said Doc, tipping his hat to her and leading Keats outside the stable and hauling himself into the saddle. Still a little teary-eyed, Kate watched him trot off toward the Earps, like he always did.

Chapter Text

The stables weren't all that far from where the Earps were finishing their preparations, so Doc’s ride was a short one. It didn’t take him long to notice which wagon had Wyatt’s horse hitched to the back, so he slid off of Keats and led him toward Beauty without hesitation.

A glance into the back saw a pale and shaky Morgan propped up on some pillows with a pile of blankets set beside him for when the sun set and left the air desert-cold. His mutt was curled up beside him. Leaning his hip onto the edge of the wagon, he made sure to catch Morgan’s attention before grinning.

“Howdy, stranger,” called Doc. “How are you doing in there, my friend?”

Morgan’s exhale was audible, which caused Doc to snort in faint amusement. “Better than I was yesterday, I guess,” grumbled Morgan. “Not lookin’ forward to a long an’ bumpy journey, though,” he admitted.

Doc hummed in agreement. “I’ll be sure to keep Wyatt in check, alright? Make your trip back home to California as smooth as butter in a saint’s mouth,” Doc assured.

Footsteps sounded behind him as the sight of Wyatt tossing something in beside Morgan came in front of Doc.

“What’re you sayin’ about me?” Wyatt muttered, dusting his hands off on his thighs idly.

“Just criticizing your driving,” Doc stated simply, lips twitching in an attempt to smile against his will.

Rolling his eyes, Wyatt shoved Doc’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Get in the wagon, outlaw. Virg is ready and we need to meet the train by tomorrow night or else we’ve gotta wait another week,” urged Wyatt, corralling Doc toward the front of the wagon.

Doc only had the time to shoot a suitably apologetic look at Morgan in the wagon before he was out of sight. Even still, Wyatt refused to let go of Doc’s shoulders until Doc flicked them irritably just before he climbed up.

Thankfully, Doc was spared the humiliation of Wyatt offering to help him up, well-intentioned as the gesture was. With his recent dip in health, he couldn’t really stomach it at the moment.

While Wyatt climbed up beside him and took the reins Doc had been holding for him, Doc took notice of Curly Bill and Ringo lounging in the shade up ahead with Ike Clanton and a buddy leaning on the hitching post. He frowned, eyes darkening, since he knew there was not a single chance in hell they were going to be able to pass without some sort of comment being made. Glancing over, Doc noticed Wyatt’s face had turned stormy as well.

“Don’t tell them of your plans of revenge, just yet,” Doc muttered, leaning toward Wyatt. “I’d rather not walk into a trap so soon.”

A sharp glance from Wyatt told Doc he’d been correct in his guess, and leaning back, he was just happy he’d managed to curve one reckless impulse of Wyatt’s. Only time would tell how many more he’d have to manage over this ride.

A whistle from behind them signaled that Virgil was ready, and Wyatt cried a sharp “Hyah!” and whipped the reins to start the horses.

Doc was immediately left to worry that perhaps he hadn’t quite succeeded in stopping Wyatt like he’d assumed when Wyatt drew them to a halt beside the relaxing men. Slightly nervous, Doc dropped his hand to the revolver off his hip, the sight of him reaching for it obscured by Wyatt’s body.

“I want you to know it’s over,” Wyatt stated, and Doc just had to be impressed. To the cowboys, they’d take Wyatt’s words as a sign of defeat, but Doc knew better. He’d just signed their death warrants, they just didn’t know it yet. Virgil’s wagon pulled alongside theirs, and Doc shot a glance toward Virgil before returning his attention to the cowboys. He didn’t quite like the way Ringo was eyeing him, eyes half-slitted like a cat’s.

“Well,” Curly Bill started, tilting his head. “Bye,” he said, tone mocking. Doc’s grip tensed on his gun, just in case Wyatt’s resolve broke, but for a few moments more at least, it held firm.

It was then that Ringo’s gaze slid from Doc back over to Curly Bill while he sniffed the air with great exaggeration. Doc already knew what he was going to say, and by that point his grip was so tight on his gun his knuckles were as white as the holster he was gripping. A quick look showed Wyatt’s in the same state holding onto the reins.

“You smell that, Bill?” Ringo questioned, tone leading. He sniffed a bit more before turning and locking eyes with Doc, as Wyatt was facing resolutely forward. “Smells like rot.”

Doc fought with all he had to not outwardly show his contempt, merely gritting his teeth so hard he heard them creak. He found himself glad he didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth, for surely he would have chewed it in half by then.

They weren’t sure who’d fired the shot at either Virgil or Morgan, but Doc wouldn’t put it past Ringo to have been the one to deliver Morgan’s penance. He knew the man was close to both Wyatt and Doc, and the man was like a hound on a raccoon hunt, where Doc was the raccoon that constantly baited his traps before skittering away, and Wyatt was the prized one every hunter desired. It didn’t leave either man in a particularly good position when it came to Ringo, and Doc was very aware of the fact. Wyatt, he wasn’t so sure realized this fact.

“Jesus, Johnny,” Curly Bill said with a laugh, shaking his head in amused disbelief.

Without another word, Wyatt snapped the reins once more and set them off, with Virgil dutifully following.

Doc looked over at Wyatt to find the man sneering at the distant horizon, expression thunderous. He peered behind their wagon and saw Ike scampering off in a trail of dust, causing Doc’s eyes to narrow.

“We’re gonna have company at some point,” Doc speculated in a mutter, turning back to Wyatt.

“Let ‘em come,” Wyatt growled. “Their time is comin’ sooner or later, and I’d rather it be sooner.”

While Doc didn’t answer, he didn’t disagree. Instead he just reached into the bag at his feet and pulled out his shotgun, newly added lanyard tied to it so he could tuck it underarm. With the risk of the cowboys, he didn’t want to risk being overpowered because they had rifles and he only had his revolvers.

He opened his overcoat and hooked the lanyard over his shoulder, circling it a few times until it was tight enough, and then tucked the shotgun away and recovered himself. Only then did he settle back and tilt his hat down a little, the morning desert sun bright in his eyes without the cover of buildings.

It was going to be a long ride to Tucson.

Unfortunately, Doc’s assessment proved correct. While quiet, the road was long and the sun hot. An already sweaty man due to his illness, Doc found he was drenched before the sun had even reached its peak. He could tell Wyatt was getting concerned by how much water he was drinking, but even Doc wasn’t so stupid as to only drink whiskey while in the sun all day.

When the sun was just starting to kiss the horizon did the faint silhouette of a small mining town finally appear. Wyatt had told him earlier that that was their evening destination, but Doc still found himself relieved that they’d made it.

The town of Vail was not a big one, nor a particularly prosperous one, but the loud hammering of rail spikes being slammed into the ground made it seem like they had dreams of being far richer than they currently were. They rode past a half built rail station, and Doc silently wished it was already in service to save him another day’s trip.

Wyatt quietly led the way to the modest hotel at the edge of town, passing the blackened faces of exhausted looking miners as they went. A man was coughing hard enough to leave even Doc wincing in sympathy.

Finally, they came to a slow stop in front of the hotel, pulling the wagons out of the main thoroughfare and as out of the way as possible. Since they were only staying the night, everyone agreed not to bother stabling the horses. They just untacked them and tethered them to the wagon.

“I’ll go speak about getting us some rooms,” Virgil gruffed, heading inside.

Wyatt took the opportunity to round the back of the wagon, beginning to help a pale and shaky Morgan down.

Seeing the poor man’s struggle, Doc quickly trotted over to assist, lending Morgan a bony shoulder to lean on, with Wyatt supporting his other side. Allie, Louisa and Mattie all followed them silently in, up until they reached their respective rooms. Thankfully, Vail wasn’t exactly a hotspot of activity, and four of their six rooms were open. Doc found himself annoyed that Mattie was still there, eyes fuzzy from the laudanum. Useless as a legless horse. Even when Doc was at his drunkest, he was able to shark a game of cards or shoot the hat off an annoying man. She just got mad.

Shaking the thoughts away with a grimace, he continued to help Morgan up the stairs and finally into his bed, Louisa trailing in behind and looking relieved.

“You just rest up, now,” Louisa ordered sternly, the wobble in her voice giving away her anxiety.

Morgan let loose a faint smile, patting the hand holding his gently. “Been restin’ all day, dear,” he murmured.

Deciding to leave them to it, both he and Wyatt quickly left, seeing Virgil receiving the same treatment a room over from Allie.

Doc sent Wyatt a knowing look, which the man refused to meet, especially after they looked in the third room over and saw Mattie plum passed out already, a half empty medicine bottle on the nightstand. Wyatt could only sigh as Doc placed a careful hand on his shoulder.

“I need a drink,” muttered Wyatt, hair looking suitably messy from under his hat after a day full of sweat and sand. Doc was sure his was no better.

“Saw a saloon across the way,” Doc offered, not questioning Wyatt’s motives. He knew better, as they were lying asleep ten feet away behind a closed pine door.

Closing his eyes, Wyatt nodded, turned around, and quickly told both brothers where he and Doc were heading. And, with a pause, told them to relay it to Mattie if she came asking. Doc could only imagine the angrily sympathetic looks he received from both brothers, as he came back to Doc by the stairwell looking more annoyed than when he’d walked off.

“Shall we?” Doc asked, offering his elbow with a raised eyebrow. Face softening in amusement, Wyatt took the proffered arm and they both descended the stairs together, walking past the front desk and outside into the cool evening air.

Doc couldn’t help but force Wyatt to a halt just outside, just to breathe. It hadn’t been a windy day, and the town wasn’t too busy, so the air wasn’t dusty, and there was no storm on the horizon. It felt like heaven on his lungs, and the deep inhale only stung half as much as it usually did. He figured this must be what Colorado felt like all the time, with how people talked about it.

Wyatt didn’t say anything, just held his grip on Doc’s arm until the man was ready to go. As they walked across to the saloon, Doc had to mutter a little “Thank you.”

Holding his silence, Wyatt just tightened his grip on Doc for a moment before letting go as they crossed the threshold inside the noisy saloon. It reminded him of when they first arrived in Tombstone, when the overlying tension they’d learned to live with the last few months hadn’t quite settled in yet.

The place was packed full of the miners they’d seen earlier as well as the railroad workers, all of them looking bone tired yet still energetic enough to drink loudly. Doc was relieved, for as annoying as the noise would be, it meant he and Wyatt wouldn’t likely be messed with. Quiet saloons always meant trouble.

After a quick stop at the bar where Wyatt collected a glass of the house beer, Doc took their mid-shelf whiskey, not particularly interested in what it was. Thus armed with their drinks of choice, they retreated to the quietest corner in the joint, which wasn’t all that quiet at all.

They sat across from each other at the table, but hooked their boots around each others’ ankles in silent agreement. The men around them were both too distracted and too drunk to pay the underside of their table any mind. And if they did, Doc thought, he’d just shoot them. He had a feeling Wyatt would pretend he wasn’t in the room if he did so.

They were silent until Doc was about halfway done with his first glass and he set it down with a purposefully louder thump. “So, what is the plan after we have them all on their merry way?” He asked casually.

Wyatt stared down into his glass, thinking. “I’ve got McMasters, Texas Jack and Creek Johnson tailing us,” he finally admitted, glancing up at Doc.

Doc was surprised, but only a little. “It’s why you weren’t worried about Ike bein’ sent after us,” he surmised. Wyatt nodded. Doc hummed thoughtfully.

“So? Surely there is more.”

Smiling faintly, Wyatt nodded once more. “Figured Ike and his buddies will confront us at the station, likely try an’ kill me or my brothers. They aren’t stupid, they can smell something comin’,” he muttered, hands clenching around the glass. “I’ll have the rest of the boys sit around hidden at the station until they see trouble, handle it as we see fit. I’ll likely send Ike back as a warning, just to rankle his cowardly little nerves.”

Taking a sip of his whiskey, Doc considered the plan. “Why warn them?” He asked, curious.

Wyatt’s eyes darkened. “I want them to run like rats knowing I’m comin’ for them,” he growled, hiding his anger behind a quick swig of his beer.

“I truly admire the mean streak in you, Wyatt,” said Doc fondly. “Makes me love you more, whatever that says about me.”

Wyatt chuckled, shaking his head. “About as bad as me for finding the same things attractive in you, I suppose,” he remarked. Doc just smiled into his whiskey before taking another sip.

“And after we send Ike?” He prompted, bringing the conversation back around.

Wyatt tapped his fingers on the table, clearly already itching for the fight he knew was just over the horizon. “Then we hunt them down like the rabid dogs they are. We’ll start with the outliers, whoever’s easiest and dumbest to catch; let them know we’re serious. Then we start tracking down the ones that go into their hidey-holes. McMasters knows a few places to sniff around, and Creek knows how to track,” he paused, looking at Doc knowingly. “And I’m confident we can ask around and find the answers we want.”

Doc nodded approvingly. “Sounds like as good an idea as any,” he said, resting his chin in his hand and yawning. A glance down told him he was nearly out of whiskey. Wordlessly, Wyatt picked his glass up and wandered back over to the bar for a refill. Doc was rather tired from the long journey, and had an inkling this would be his last drink before turning in.

Fondly, he watched Wyatt walk away through a half-lidded gaze, eyeing Wyatt’s body rather hungrily. Between the action surrounding them, Doc’s illness, and Mattie’s watchful eye, they’d hardly had the time or energy to get up to any funny business. As much as Doc’s drive had lowered from the consumption, that didn’t mean it was gone, and watching Wyatt’s confident walk had him wanting. He swallowed and forced himself to push it down. Now was certainly not the time, because even as out of it as Mattie was, the chances of her waking in the night and searching for Wyatt were a bit too high for his tastes. After she’s gone, they’ll be wandering in the wilderness for the foreseeable future in the company of three other men. Doc resigned himself to an even longer wait.

So lost in his pining, he completely missed Wyatt’s return until he heard his glass being set back down. With a grateful look, he picked it up and took a deep gulp to try and settle the fire in his veins as Wyatt sat once more.

Setting his drink down, he looked up to find Wyatt staring at him. Raising his eyebrows, he leaned back. “What? Do I have a sunburn?”

Wyatt tilted his head with a slight smile. “Just a bit, on your nose, but that’s not why I’m looking.”

“Why is it you are, then?” Doc mused.

Tapping the table again, Wyatt thought about his answer for a moment. “Regretting the fact that Mattie won’t be gone until tomorrow,” he settled on.

“Surprising to hear from you,” Doc remarked. “Never thought I’d hear you speak ill of her.”

Sighing, Wyatt shrugged. “The moment she’s on that train, we’re through, and we both know it. I already know she’s not going to stay with my parents. Have a feeling she’s moving back with hers in Kansas,” he admitted.

Doc hummed. “Though I’m sure it hasn’t been all that great these past few months, you’re allowed to feel upset about her leaving. You’ve been together a long time,” he said, forcing back his own envy at the time he’d given her over him. It was in the past, most definitely now.

Wyatt looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s strangely insightful comin’ from your wanderin’ tongue,” he observed, smiling into his half-finished beer when Doc just sniffed disdainfully.

“I have my moments,” Doc defended, gulping down most of his whiskey to avoid Wyatt’s knowing look. When he glanced back up, Wyatt was looking around surreptitiously, before, seemingly satisfied, he leaned forward and set his chin on his hand.

Doc couldn’t describe Wyatt’s expression as anything but loving, and it made his stomach churn and his heart race. So startled, a cough even forced its way out, making Doc turn to the side for a moment. But when he turned back, Wyatt still looked the same.

“What’s that look for?” Doc demanded, glancing around cautiously even though Wyatt had already deemed it safe.

“Oh, just beginning to realize how sweet you are without anyone noticing,” Wyatt said, laughing at Doc’s affronted face. “Don’t you deny it. You’re so self-sacrificing it’s a miracle you haven’t been accused of impersonatin’ Jesus.”

Scoffing, Doc swallowed the rest of his whiskey even as he felt his face warm uncontrollably. He could only hope his supposed sunburn would cover it.

“I’m not like you,” Doc snarked, setting the glass down with a thump. “I wouldn’t step in front of a bullet for just anyone off the street.”

Wyatt nodded. “Of course not, but those you care for, you’d step in front of a bullet and in the same breath put down the one that fired it.” He paused, eyeing Doc for a few seconds. “I used to think you were incredibly selfish, you know. Then I saw how you treated Kate and began to have doubts. Then I saw how you were with Morgan, and it made me realize all the stuff you did for me without sayin’ anything,” said Wyatt, not letting Doc hide from his knowing look.

“Sure, say you’re right,” Doc snapped, looking at anywhere but Wyatt. “What difference does it make, Wyatt?”

Wyatt just seemed unbearably amused, and it was driving Doc right up the wall. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d be halfway through a third glass of whiskey already.

“Means you aren’t what I expected,” stated Wyatt. “And that I’ve still got more things to learn about you, than you do about me, apparently.”

Leaning back in his chair, Doc crossed his arms. “You see gold where there is only pyrite,” he said dryly.

“No,” Wyatt said slowly, considering. “I think I see the gold for what it is.”

Deciding not to answer, Doc just sucked down the remainder of his whiskey, unhooked his ankle from Wyatt’s, and slid his chair back, though he stayed seated. Eyeing Wyatt’s beer, he asked, “Are you gonna finish that?”

Seemingly surprised to find his beer still exactly where he’d forgotten about it, Wyatt just shrugged, picked it up, and downed the semi-flat drink in a few seconds. Finished, he set it back down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m going to assume you’d like to leave,” Wyatt guessed.

Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, he replied, “Incredibly astute guess, Wyatt. Right as always.”

Wyatt just rolled his eyes. “No need to get smart with me, you ass. Come on, since you’re in such a hurry,” he cajoled standing before Doc could, just to irk him, which it did. Curse him.

Without giving into the desire to yank Wyatt’s hair like a school child, Doc calmly stood up, turned on his heel, and walked past Wyatt without another word.

The clanking of spurs behind him let Doc know that Wyatt was still following him, even despite his moodiness. Doc chose to blame his mood on the amount of sun he had to deal with that day. Far more than a man of his complexion should ever have to endure. His apparently pink nose seemed to be in agreement with him.

Once he stepped outside, he pulled out his cigarette case and shook two out of it, sticking one between his teeth to light and offering the other one to Wyatt as he came beside him. Raising a surprised eyebrow, the man stuck it between his own teeth and pressed it to the lit end of Doc’s, inhaling until it caught.

Before Wyatt could even ask, Doc exhaled an annoyed breath of smoke and said, “Didn’t have any cigars.”

Wyatt hummed, blowing the smoke out his nose with it. “Oughta get onto that,” he mused, flicking the ash off the end.

Looking at him out of the corner of his eye, Doc scoffed. “Sure, in a place like this? Or where we’ll be staying for the foreseeable future? You’ll just have to suffer through my cheap smokes.”

Sticking the cigarette back in his mouth, Wyatt began to walk across the road to the saloon. Doc just sighed and followed, idly tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette as he went.

They both stopped just in front of the porch leading inside, finishing their smokes in a comfortable silence, which did amuse Doc just a little. Once he was done, he dropped the butt to the ground and twisted the heel of his boot over it to be sure it was out, seeing Wyatt do the same.

Without another word, they both headed inside, climbing the stairs as quietly as they could to avoid waking Morgan and Virgil, who were most assuredly asleep. What surprised Doc a little was Wyatt following him to his room, pausing at the door while Doc fished out his key.

When he got the door unlocked, he turned back to Wyatt with a questioning look, opening his mouth to ask what in the world he thought he was doing, before being soundly interrupted by a very heated kiss.

Heart immediately jumping into his throat, Doc wasted no time in closing his eyes and fisting a hand in Wyatt’s shirt to keep him close, kissing back with all the aggression Wyatt claimed to love.

The next thirty seconds were deathly silent, but still undeniably heated, up until Doc’s lungs finally voiced a complaint and he had to pull away with a gasp, eyes dark.

Wyatt silently placed a gentle hand on Doc’s cheek, acting as if he wasn’t panting just as hard as Doc. “I love you,” he murmured, barely loud enough for Doc to hear over the sound of his own heart.

He swallowed, feeling rather out of his depth, which was an extremely peculiar feeling for him. “I love you too, Wyatt,” he muttered, glancing behind the other man at the thankfully empty hallway.

Humming again, Wyatt leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to Doc’s cheek, pulling away with a wry grin. “Be ready for tomorrow,” were his parting words as he turned and left, leaving Doc standing there in mild astonishment. Perhaps he still had more to figure out about Wyatt, as Wyatt had to do with him. The thought didn’t scare him as much as it would have, a few months ago.

Shaking his head in amused disbelief, he stepped into his room and locked the door behind him. Not five minutes later was he in bed and fast asleep.

Chapter Text

As expected, Doc was woken up at dawn by Wyatt pounding on his door. “Get your ass outta bed!” He called. “We’re rolling out in half an hour,” he added, before Doc blearily heard his retreating footsteps.

With an agonized groan, he rolled out of bed and shuffled around the room as he got ready, having hardly any memory of buttoning up his shirt. He chose to forego his usual waistcoat due to the heat he knew he was going to have to deal with, but kept his black duster out. He didn’t want to risk freezing to death if they were out after dark. Slinging it over his shoulders distractedly, he picked up his travel bag and hauled it over his shoulder even as he dug through his pockets for his cigarettes.

By the time he was stepping outside, he’d managed to fish one out and get it lit, inhaling the tobacco like a man depraved, as he did every morning for his first smoke. The sun was so young that it had yet to crest the squat buildings lining the main road, casting the town in long shadows.

Across the way he saw Wyatt and Virgil hooking the horses into their harnesses for their respective wagons, and the wives all sitting in Virgil’s wagon waiting. Doc assumed then that Morgan had already been placed into the back of he and Wyatt’s.

Making a quick detour on his way to the wagon, he stopped by the hitching post he’d left Keats at overnight to check on him.

“Hey, boy,” he muttered, checking to make sure that the bit or saddle straps hadn’t left any sores on him. Normally, he’d pull off the saddle on a journey such as this, but he dared not be caught unaware. As a bit of a compromise, he’d made sure he loosened everything before he left Keats. Thankfully, it seemed to have worked. His mouth didn’t look sore, and Keats didn’t seem too bothered. Idly, he stuck his cigarette between his teeth before digging around in Keats’ saddlebags, pulling out a slightly dried out carrot in triumph.

He knew better than to keep anything of value in his saddlebags, so most commonly they just held horse-related items. As a way to pacify his horse for another, hot, slow ride in full tack, he offered the carrot.

Swishing his tail, Keats leaned forward and crunched happily on the carrot, and Doc gently petted the horse’s blaze. Once Keats was done munching, Doc quickly flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette before putting it back in his mouth to untie Keats’ reins from the hitching post. As he led Keats toward the back of he and Wyatt’s wagon, where Beauty was already waiting, he saw Wyatt and Virgil talking to each other quietly, with Virgil’s eyes flicking over to Doc dubiously a few times.

Decidedly ignoring them, Doc made sure Keats was properly secured to the back of the wagon, gave his neck a fond pat, and rounded toward the front of the wagon after a quick glance confirmed that Morgan was already asleep again. As someone who’d been shot in the gut, he understood the exhaustion Morgan was facing, though he hadn’t given himself enough time to heal properly from it.

With no hesitation, he hauled himself up into the seat and slumped back, tugging his hat down over his face and leaning his head against the hard wood behind him. He felt jittery from a mix of the exhaustion of waking up so unbearably early and the adrenaline that was just beneath his skin every time he thought about what was likely to happen that evening once they arrived at the station.

The wagon jostling prompted Doc to peer out from under the shade of his hat, slowly blinking at Wyatt who’d finally clambered up. Doc assumed that meant Virgil was in his wagon as well.

“You got everything?” Asked Wyatt, grabbing the reins and checking behind him to be sure Virgil was ready.

“Yessir,” Doc muttered, closing his eyes again. The weight of his gun holsters appeared at the edge of his thoughts, and his trigger fingers itched.

“Then here we go,” Wyatt replied, snapping the reins. The horses, used to this song and dance, required no further motivation and easily started forward. Satisfied that his input was no longer needed, Doc crossed his arms over his chest and allowed himself to doze.

He managed to sleep until around noon, where after that he kept a vigilant eye on their surroundings the closer they got to Tucson. It was both out of genuine precaution and just utter boredom. He’d left Kate all his novels, so he was left with nothing to do. Wyatt was so far into his own head Doc didn’t even try to attempt any sort of conversation, and Morgan just slept the whole time.

Finally, after another long, hot, dusty day, they reached Tucson just before sunset when the shadows were beginning to lengthen again and the horizon was showing the faintest hues of red. As they rolled toward the station, Doc tried not to think about the ominous color being a bad omen for what was to come.

Upon arrival, everyone wasted no time in acquiring tickets and beginning to load everything into the compartments of their section. Doc took over the horses, leading Morgan and Virgil’s personal horses into the horse carriage before returning for the wagon horses. Doc already knew they were selling the wagons as soon as they sent their warning back to the cowboys, and whoever bought them could bring their own horses. The brothers’ parents always needed more workhorses on their farm in California, which was where everyone was headed.

Once that was finished, it was late enough that the sky was more night than day. Walking in the direction he’d last seen Wyatt, he locked eyes on the dirty forms of both Clanton and Stillwell. Eyes narrowed, he dropped a hand to his holster, but before he could draw, he heard Stillwell call to Mattie, “Hey Mattie, where’s Wyatt?”

It was then that two things happened; Creek, Texas Jack, and McMasters all appeared out of nowhere on the other side of the platform, fast approaching, and Wyatt stepped out from behind a crate he’d been using as cover, since he’d likely spotted Clanton and Stillwell before they him.

“Right behind you, Stillwell,” growled Wyatt, bringing up Doc’s shotgun and shooting Stillwell clean in the chest. While the man fell with a gurgled shout, Doc had to wonder when the man had managed to pilfer his gun.

It was almost comical watching how fast Ike surrendered. He fell to the ground fast enough it had to hurt, and was blubbering up at Wyatt. A quick glance confirmed that no one else was hiding, and that the other three boys would be enough if there were.

Satisfied he had a fairly low chance of being shot in the back, he sauntered up beside Wyatt, peering down at Ike with a put-upon expression of disgust. Well, it was probably about half put-upon; Doc held no respect for the man, which was just disgust in fancier terms.

The brief interaction between Virgil in the train window and Wyatt made Doc feel a bit better, knowing they were all alright. He did grieve the fact that he couldn’t say goodbye to at least Morgan, but figured after this ride against the cowboys, they’d go and visit the brothers.

Wyatt stalked toward Ike, posture loose but threatening as he commanded Doc’s shotgun. It didn’t help that he looked incredibly attractive when he was full of righteous fury.

Doc watched from a few feet away as Wyatt tipped Ike’s head up with his boot, slowly turning his spur in the direction of Ike’s face. Very quickly he realized just what Wyatt was about to do, and immediately after that remembered the fact that he’d never actually been around Wyatt while he was heavy in the law occupation. Thus, he also realized he’d never before seen Wyatt in this persona he’s seemed to have curated just for instances like these. He was no longer waiting for the cowboys to make their next move; he’d just planted his knight out on the first turn.

“Alright, Clanton,” Wyatt started, still aiming the shotgun clearly at Ike’s head. “You called down the thunder, well now you got it!” He snarled, grip visibly tightening on the gun in his anger. Doc found himself almost entranced by the scene.

Ike just stared in frightened silence as Wyatt pulled aside his coat, showing his marshal's badge. “You see that?” Wyatt goaded. “It says ‘United States Marshal.’”

Continuing to cower close to the ground, eyes flicking between Wyatt and Doc, he whimpered, “Wyatt, please don’t kill me.”

“Take a good look at ‘em, Ike!” Wyatt demanded, nodding his head in the direction of Stillwell’s cooling corpse. “‘Cause that’s how you’re gonna end up!”

Doc couldn’t help but feel a small measure of amazement. He’d never seen Wyatt so furious, but then again, he’d never seen the man in a fight so deeply personal before. Everything that’d happened to them the past several months suddenly felt like just a prelude to the final act; as if it was doomed by the narrative to escalate on such a drastic scale to where all roads only led to this one interaction. He swallowed, throat dry, and let out a feeble cough, trying to keep it from drawing Ike’s attention. Wouldn’t do to have his focus not on Wyatt.

With blood streaming down his face and staining his shirt, Ike was pushed to the ground by Wyatt’s boot on his chest.

“The cowboys are finished,” snarled Wyatt, towering over Ike. In that moment, with the faded light of a gas lamp directly behind Wyatt, Doc thought he looked rather like an angel of death.

“Do you understand me?” He demanded, hitting Ike’s chin with the muzzle of the shotgun. Doc hoped Wyatt wouldn’t actually fire; birdshot at that close a range straight to the head would make even the strongest man’s stomach curdle. Doc had seen it, once, not by his own doing, and sometimes it still managed to make an appearance in-between all the other pitiable moments Doc had felt true fear or disgust in his dreams.

Ike was just blubbering again, tears falling down his face and turning his beard pink instead of the red it had been. “I see a red sash, I kill the man wearin’ it!” Wyatt promised angrily, a sneer obvious upon his features.

“So run, you cur!” Shouted Wyatt, kicking Ike meanly in the side to get him moving. “Run!”

Even as Ike, in a panic, began crawling backwards, Wyatt just slowly followed him as he continued to snarl. “Tell the other curs that the law’s comin’!”

The shotgun followed Ike up as he finally managed to stand and began to stumble away. “You tell ‘im I’m comin’! And hell’s comin’ with me, you hear? Hell’s comin’ with me!”

Suddenly, a modicum of fear shot through Doc. The crazed look to Wyatt’s eye felt a little too similar to how Curly Bill or Ringo looked at the world. As attractive as Doc found Wyatt’s ruthlessness, it was his sense of honor on top of it that truly compelled Doc, dubious morals and all.

The idea of Wyatt falling to his base desires fueled only by vengeance hadn’t occurred to him before, but now it scared him.

The five of them watched as Ike scurried off to his horse, disappearing in a cloud of dust that was soon covered in the early summer evening air. Once he was certain Ike was gone, he walked up to Wyatt, steps just a little hesitant.

Wyatt was panting, the evil gleam only just beginning to dissipate when his eyes snapped to Doc’s approaching form. He set a comforting hand on Wyatt’s shoulder and locked eyes with him.

“Breathe,” he urged quietly, not wanting the boys behind them to hear. “Their time of reckonin’ is nigh, but for now you must breathe and calm down while I secure rooms for us for the night, alright?”

Slowly, Wyatt inhaled and began trying to calm down. Carefully, Doc reclaimed his shotgun from Wyatt’s lax grip before turning to the three men staring in the direction Ike had gone.

“C’mon you degenerates, let us acquire some rooms for us before we enact our vengeance come the morn!” Called Doc, already walking in the direction of the larger hotel he’d seen near the station on their ride in, grabbing Keats’ reins on the way.

McMasters, Creek and Texas Jack just followed, leading their own horses. A quick glance behind him showed Wyatt staring in the direction the train had gone in. Doc figured if Wyatt wasn’t in the hotel within the hour, he’d hunt him down. As it was, he knew the man needed time to gather his thoughts. He didn’t mind granting the man a few moments of peace, God knew he needed his own when the rattle in his lungs and the frivolousness of his own mortality became too much.

When Wyatt came to the hotel after exactly fifty four minutes and slipped into Doc’s room, even if he’d rented one in Wyatt’s name ostensibly, they didn’t speak. Doc was already in bed working on a glass of whiskey, and Wyatt silently joined him after a curt undressing.

Sitting up against the headboard and staring out at the rising moon, Doc felt when Wyatt pressed his forehead to Doc’s hip with a loud sigh. Slowly, he placed a hand in Wyatt’s hair and just carded his fingers through it gently.

With some surprise, when Doc pulled away about ten minutes later having finished his whiskey, he found Wyatt fast asleep already. Pushing aside the image of Wyatt not two hours before, he smiled fondly and leaned down to press a lingering kiss to Wyatt’s forehead.

Lying down to sleep, Doc abruptly wished he were a praying man, so that his words might hold more weight to finally tip the scales over the rest of his prayers to be answered. As it was, he hadn’t prayed in any seriousness since his diagnosis, and Doc figured there might be a statute of limitations over his old ones, with his luck.

Curling against Wyatt, in the rare position of him being the one surrounding Wyatt, he prayed anyway. If this God were a loving one, perhaps He’d be willing to give a dying fool such as he an ember of a promise that everything would turn out alright.

Swallowing, he forced himself to put those thoughts to rest and finally relented.

It really wasn’t a surprise when come morning, after selling off the wagons parked by the train station, Wyatt had already declared they were to race back to Tombstone to follow up on his promise to Ike.

This was how Doc found himself hunched over the saddle with his favorite black bandana tugged tight over his mouth and nose as sandy winds battered him and his horse. It was just past noon, and he’d had to slip his duster back on just to protect himself from the coarse wind. Wyatt and the others seemed to be in the same boat, at least.

Keats was bravely trudging forward, and Doc just had to hope either the horse or Wyatt knew where in the hell they were heading, as the sand was so thick that the sun could scarcely be seen. If Doc were a religious man, he’d take the weather as a sign against their ride. As it was, he didn’t much care for vague omens. Figured if God truly had something to say, He’d do something more overt, like empty Doc’s bottle of whiskey or rip a straight flush from his hands at the end of a good poker game. Seeing as neither had yet to happen, Doc continued to hedge his bets.

Without the two wagons to haul, Wyatt was fairly set on getting them all back near Tombstone in just one day, which Doc figured meant a long ride in the dark night and then a cold time camping out beside a too-warm fire. A glance to the three men riding behind he and Wyatt only showed placid faces. Doc was going to assume they didn’t much care where they stayed, as long as the cowboys were put down like the rabid beasts they were.

Doc’s guess proved right, with the group not bedding down for the night until they were less than an hour’s ride from Tombstone. Unfortunately for his colder disposition, they chose not to light a fire, not wanting to give any warning of their approach. Doc couldn’t fault their logic, but it still left him shivering beneath his saddle blanket as the heat was leached from the sand. He tried to ignore Wyatt’s concerned glances, but the man was persistent.

Finally, Doc rolled his eyes and called it a night, gulping down what was left of the whiskey in his flask before lying down to sleep, facing Wyatt. He felt safer knowing Wyatt was watching his back, even if the other man continued to watch Doc’s face.

“Leave off, Wyatt,” he muttered tiredly, not wanting the other three camped a short distance away to hear.

Wyatt eyed him. “I just worry about how your health will fare over this endeavor,” he said.

Doc stared back for a moment, eyes half-closed already. “Let us not worry until the matter is upon us, shall we?” He said shortly, tugging the coarse blanket up higher and shutting his eyes pointedly.

Faintly, he heard Wyatt sigh, and after a moment there was a brief scuffling sound. Before Doc could open his eyes to see what in the hell Wyatt was doing, he felt the other man’s warmth pressed against his side.

Eyes snapping open, he found Wyatt sitting up beside him, leaning back on his hands and staring at the stars. His leg was against Doc’s head and arms, and he couldn’t help but silently admit that the extra warmth was nice. And coming from Wyatt didn’t hurt, either.

A little more content, he shifted slightly to get more comfortable before once again falling asleep, knowing Wyatt was keeping an eye out. He slept more peacefully than he had in weeks.

It was going to be the last time for a long, long while.

The next day went about as well as Doc figured it would, considering Ike’s being sent back as a message. Nonetheless, it was still a disappointing sight to ride hard into Tombstone just to be told by an irate deputy that all the cowboys in town had cleared out, with Behan following suit. It didn’t surprise Doc all that much to hear Behan’s loyalties finally confirmed, but it made Wyatt grimace.

The deputy did have at least the semblance of a tip, sharing that he thought some of the group had splintered off toward Bisbee, with the others going to ground in the wilderness or to further out settlements.

By the shine to Wyatt’s eyes, Doc had a feeling they’d be making the ride that day. Before Wyatt even said anything, Doc wheeled his horse around and headed to the general store. He was going to need a lot more alcohol if he were to make it through this intact.

As expected, Wyatt proclaimed they were going to chase the ones heading to Bisbee down and work from there. All four men followed Doc to the general store and bought enough to bulge all their saddlebags out. After Bisbee, there was no telling when they’d next see another town.

They were back out under the harsh desert sun before the morning colors had completely faded, riding hard south. Bisbee was damn near a stone’s throw from the Mexican border, and if they crossed down below it’d be near impossible to find them. They just had to head them at the pass, so to speak.

It was hours of hard riding in a tense silence, with few breaks for the horses to get a drink of water and for their riders to stretch their legs.

By the time they hit the outskirts of the mining town, all five horses were exhausted and had worked up a lather beneath their saddles, foam at the corners of their mouths. Doc tiredly hoped they’d be staying the night in town, for the horse’s sakes if not his. Months of staying stationary in Tombstone had not left his body as adept in riding horses as it usually was when he was hopping state borders like a little girl with hopscotch.

Even just staying sitting in his saddle while Wyatt inquired after the location of the cowboys was sending a burning pain through his thighs and lower back. Christ, it was going to be a long revenge.

Thankfully, Wyatt returned to the group of four with news. The seven who’d made their escape south were holed up in a nearby saloon, which proudly housed a barber shop in the back and a small hotel above it. Admittedly, Doc could see the attraction in hiding in such a place.

Once Wyatt was seated once more atop his horse, they were off, trotting through the streets while following the directions Wyatt had been given.

They soon made it, but while Doc and the other three men dismounted, Wyatt did not. Looking up at the man questionably, Doc quirked a bemused eyebrow.

“Doc, Creek, you two head upstairs. Be sure the rooms are cleared,” instructed Wyatt, eyeing the shotgun tied to Doc’s saddle. “And hand me that shotgun of yours, Doc,” he added.

Rolling his eyes, he untied the shotgun, checked to be sure it was unloaded, before tossing it to Wyatt, who caught it easily. He rifled through his saddlebags for a moment before coming up with a handful of shells, loading the two in the chamber and pocketing the rest even as his attention turned to McMasters and Texas Jack.

“You two wait at the back door of the saloon. Wait ‘til you hear shots before comin’ in after me,” said Wyatt, snapping the shotgun shut and laying it across his lap.

“Understood?” He asked, wanting to be certain. All four men nodded, and Wyatt nodded back. “Alright, then. Good luck, boys.” And with that, he dipped his hat at them and nudged his horse nearer to the barbershop window, though he made sure to keep out of sight of the patrons.

Doc turned to Creek and tilted his head. “Suppose that is our signal to leave,” he remarked, walking toward the stairs at the side of the building that led up to the second floor as he idly checked that both his six-guns were properly loaded. Satisfied that they were, he put one back in its holster but kept the other one handy. A quick glance behind him confirmed that Creek was following.

The door leading inside was unlocked, and Doc found himself silently thanking someone else’s negligence as he crept through it, whole body tense and alert as he scanned the hall for a red bandana toting man.

There were only five rooms, as there was another, bigger hotel down the road, and this was only a small mining town. And just their luck, only two of the rooms were occupied. While Creek checked over his rifle, Doc pulled a cigarette from its case and struck his match off the nearby door frame. Once lit, he stuck it in his mouth and took a deep inhale, with the exhale coming out a bit raspy. He was going to have to ration out his smokes, both because his ability to buy them in the near future was going to be limited, and just for his own health. The strain he was going to put his body through without the cigarettes would be toll enough, he thought.

“Ready?” Creek muttered, sliding back the bolt on his gun in preparation.

Instead of answering, Doc just briefly tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette before setting it back on his bottom lip and stalked toward the nearest occupied room.

He scanned the hallway a last time before twisting the knob and shoving the door open, finding an unclothed cowboy in bed between two women. Raising his eyebrows, he moved aside as Creek stood closer beside him, rifle up.

“Nobody move!” Creek shouted, squaring his shoulders.

Doc tilted his head in vague amusement. His cigarette bounced along his mouth as he spoke. “Nonsense. By all means, move.”

When the cowboy seemed to be following Creek’s orders, Doc spun on his heel and walked into the hall to cover their asses, soon glad he did as another cowboy had emerged from the second occupied room at the disturbance.

For just a moment, he found himself regretting he’d allowed Wyatt to take his shotgun; at this range, the blast would’ve been a fast fatality.

As it was, he was left with only his colts, and truth be told, they were more his pride and joy than his modified shotgun, fun as it was to fire. It took only half a second to snap his wrist up from where his hand had fallen to his waist, and to squeeze the trigger. Unerringly, the shot landed right between the cowboy’s eyes. Behind him he heard Creek shoot his rifle and the ladies scream, and just below he heard glass shattering and several more gunshots.

Quickly, he spun his revolver around his finger to dissipate the smoke before dropping it back into its holster, turning toward the stairs that led to the first floor inside and raced down them, the long stem of ash that he’d neglected to drop from his cigarette fell to the ground.

Distractedly he heard Creek’s boots clunking behind his own down the stairs, but he was a little distracted by the sight of Wyatt riding his goddamn horse in the middle of the parlor. Doc came up short at the bottom of the stairwell, and heard Creek do the same.

There were five dead bodies on the ground, and a few nervous looking civilians eyeing the newcomers.

“Wyatt,” drawled Doc. “I find it insulting that I was not invited to this party of yours.”

Wyatt settled a very unamused look on Doc and jerked his head toward the shattered window, in the direction of the street.

With a sigh, Doc resettled his fallen hat onto his head and tipped it at the poor people caught up in the mess, and crunched over broken glass after Wyatt, who’d guided his horse back outside.

McMasters and Texas Jack were already waiting, and Doc guessed that Wyatt had been waiting for he and Creek to show up.

“What’re we doin’ now, boss?” Texas Jack called, crossing his arms.

Wyatt frowned, clearly thinking. Not wanting the man to get ahead of himself, or to run the poor horses ragged, Doc said, “There’s a hotel other side of town. We could stable our horses overnight and spend it here.” He paused when Wyatt still seemed hesitant. Sterner, he continued, “Wyatt, if we press on tonight, we are going to kill these horses and likely ourselves before this ride has even begun.”

To his relief, the other three men nodded in agreement, and it seemed Wyatt would finally relent. Shoulders dropping, he nodded back to them. “Alright,” he agreed. “Get back in your saddles and we’ll find a place to leave the horses.”

Without another word, everyone went to their hitched up horses and climbed sorely back into the saddle, soon following Wyatt back down the street they’d just come up from.

Those left alive in the barbershop only stared, and Doc knew the rumor of Wyatt’s ride was soon to spread to the rest of the dogs. Let them come, he thought darkly. They will pay for their hubris.

Chapter Text

May was slipping hotly into June, and Doc was exhausted. They’d been running up and down the state of Arizona for damn near a month now, either killing cowboys or looking for those who knew where they could find some more to slaughter. It was not a particularly appealing task.

Thus, Doc was exhausted, and Wyatt’s focus was so narrow that he had the feeling the other man didn’t even notice Doc’s bouts of coughing becoming more violent and his face becoming paler and paler, despite the constant exposure to the sun. Bemusedly, Doc could tell the others had noticed his ailing state, as they always seemed to awkwardly offer him water after one of his aforementioned bouts, or to take watch just among the three of them, leaving Doc to sleep restlessly. Yet still Wyatt remained oblivious, or at least, he appeared to be.

So it was to Doc’s surprise when Wyatt suggested they hole up in a nearby town for the night after taking care of a small band of cowboys that had thought to hide out at a watering hole. Considering they were in a desert, Doc thought the cowboys here were fairly stupid. Of all the places to hide, a place full of water was sure to have traffic. Eyeing the cliffed valleys in the distance, he found himself thinking those would be a far better place to hide out. Didn’t matter much now, anyway, he supposed.

Wyatt turning his horse around to address the other four men had caught Doc’s attention, and his following words even more so.

“We’re close enough to Yuma, figured we could stay the night in town. Rest up the horses, replenish supplies, clean ourselves up,” Wyatt said to the group, though his eyes lingered most pointedly on Doc.

Doc, who’d been downing more and more whiskey even as it continued to run lower and lower, could not complain. A night not sleeping on the sandy ground and praying as he fell asleep that he wouldn’t suffocate in his sleep would be a nice one indeed. So he only held Wyatt’s gaze and tilted his head, bandana tugged up over his nose. He figured the message was obvious.

Later that evening saw the whole posse comfortably situated within a half decent hotel around the outskirts of town. With their current situation with the cowboys, none of them wanted to risk being caught unawares in a crowded space.

Creek and Texas Jack were sharing a room, McMasters was by himself, and Doc and Wyatt were sharing one as well. When asked, Wyatt said it was to make sure Doc didn’t drink himself to death in their little respite. Doc knew better, of course. He’d just rolled his eyes and gone into their room to find a quarter. He needed a bath, desperately.

An hour later saw him trudging back into the room in his cleanest outfit, which he had plans of taking off as soon as he could. Silently, he begged that the clothes he’d handed off to the staff earlier would be cleaned in time for their departure the next day. As it was, he stripped to just his white overshirt and his underwear and practically fell into the bed.

Any other time and he’d be prowling the local saloons for a good card game to shark, but it was one night out of the last month’s worth where he had actual access to a bed indoors and by God he was going to cherish it.

At that moment, he didn’t even crawl under the covers, not wanting to sweat when he’d just gotten clean. He just laid face down and listened to the breeze blow in through the open window; the distant rattle of a carriage passing by; the jingle of a horse’s tack from a lone rider.

Idly, he wondered where Wyatt had gone off to in the last hour, but his drooping eyelids compelled him to ignore the desire to chase after the other man. The hot bath had soothed his irritated lungs and he was ready to sleep and not wake up gritty and hacking.

When he closed his eyes, the sky was orange, and when he opened them again it was pure black. Blinking awake, he wondered for a moment what had woken him when the door finally unstuck from the frame and banged open. In the back of his mind he knew it was likely Wyatt, but he couldn’t help but reach for the knife under his pillow, closer than the guns hanging from their holsters off the bedpost.

Almost as soon as he grabbed the knife did the familiar sound of Wyatt’s spurs register, and he let go and quickly relaxed once more into the blankets, letting out a long, rasping breath.

The bed dipped beside him and he found himself turning his head and squinting through the dark room, fuzzy eyes landing on Wyatt sitting within reaching distance. The man himself was tugging his boots off and setting them on the floor at the end of the bed, beside Doc’s.

“And just where have you been?” Doc asked, voice half muffled by the pillow his face was pressed against.

Wyatt hummed as he stood up to take off his belt, the buckle clinking loudly in the quiet room. “Took care of the horses. Refilled our saddlebags,” he stopped, and Doc could just barely catch the small smile on his face. “Scrounged up some more whiskey for our resident gambler.”

Rolling over completely onto his side with a low groan, Doc said, “For your sake and mine, I do hope I’m the gambler of mention.”

Wyatt snorted and dropped his pants, folding them and setting them on the chair in the corner of the room, his overshirt quickly following. “I don’t think the other three followin’ us have half as much patience dealing with cards as you do,” he mused.

“Suppose you may be right,” Doc allowed, watching Wyatt finish folding his clothes. It was something he found himself inarticulately fond of the man for. He didn’t just toss his clothes aside, nor did he his boots. He was very meticulous with his belongings, which Doc knew spoke of a rather strict upbringing on a farm. With the amount of siblings he had, he would’ve had to have taken good care of his things, because he wasn’t getting anything new until the fall.

Doc was meticulous with his belongings as well, though it was more out of vanity than upbringing, considering how much money he’d had as a boy. That and the fact that he was practically an only child.

Shirtless and clad only in his underwear, Wyatt climbed back into bed, crawling on top of Doc carefully and sitting in his lap, pointedly ignoring the smaller man’s raised eyebrows. Despite his confusion, he couldn’t help but admire the view, and also find a little humor in how Wyatt’s skin had tanned. From his neck down was an almost milky white, while above it was a dark tan. Doc’s skin refused to tan at all, so his body remained a rather mellow and less drastic white. .

Wyatt peered down at him curiously, bringing both of his hands up to rest on Doc’s chest. For a while, he didn’t move them, just left them there and felt Doc’s rasping breaths.

Face softening a little once he realized what Wyatt was doing, he placed one of his own hands on top of Wyatt’s. “There is no need to worry about me, Wyatt,” he said, squeezing.

A hum rumbled from Wyatt’s chest. “Don’t think I don’t hear you hackin’ and coughin’ all night,” he replied, beginning to rub slow circles around Doc’s sternum through his shirt. “And that you’ve been slinking further an’ further off every time we make camp to try and spare us a sleepless night,” he murmured.

Doc exhaled shakily, grudgingly finding some measure of relief from Wyatt’s hands. Whenever he tried to break up the fluid within his lungs, it never seemed to work out for him. He shouldn’t be surprised that of course Wyatt would have some sort of magic touch.

“Didn’t figure you fellas would want to hear a dyin’ man hack up a lung each night,” Doc said mildly. He knew Wyatt had clocked the fact that he hadn’t asked him to stop his movements, and was glad when the man continued to rub slow circles.

“I’d rather be kept up by your coughing than find out a coyote got you in the morning,” Wyatt said, pressing down a little harder to make his point. It pushed a short cough out of Doc, and Wyatt frowned in apology.

“Your opinion may not be shared by our compatriots, my friend,” he pointed out, closing his eyes and leaning further back into his pillow.

Another hum from Wyatt. “Maybe,” he allowed. “But they like you, or at least they respect you. And they sure as hell wouldn’t go against me. Doubt they’d really say anything.”

Doc just sighed and opened his eyes again, tightening the loose grip he’d kept on Wyatt’s hand to stall his movements.

“Why are we in Yuma, Wyatt?” He asked tiredly.

Wyatt looked at him. “At first, I wanted to come here just to give you a rest,” he finally admitted, confirming Doc’s suspicions. “But then I realized how long we’d been runnin’ about. Figured both us and the horses deserved a little break, and we needed more supplies anyway.” He paused for a moment before a sly smile crept onto his face. Slightly concerned, Doc eyed him warily.

The other man began to reposition himself, leaning more fully over Doc with one hand planted on the mattress beside them for stability and the other cupping Doc’s face.

“And I realized we’d hardly had a moment to ourselves since taking up with each other again,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb over Doc’s stubble.

Doc swallowed. “Is that so?”

Wyatt nodded somberly. “Once I came upon that thought, I knew it had to be remedied.”

Beginning to smile, Doc said, “So what I am hearing is that you lured me and our compatriots to a random up-and-coming town for a night of debauchery with me, leaving them none the wiser.”

“It is a distinct possibility,” Wyatt mused.

Letting out a short laugh, Doc dragged Wyatt down to kiss him by a hand cupping his jaw, similar to where Wyatt’s was on his face.

And God, did it feel good to kiss Wyatt again. It felt almost like the first time, having had not a single chance for any sort of intimacy since they rode out of Tombstone, and even before then it had been scarce.

Doc could almost feel the tension melt out of Wyatt’s shoulders as they continued to kiss. He found himself incredibly grateful that he hadn’t had a coughing fit in a few hours. Wyatt didn’t have to deal with the taste of blood on his tongue.

After long enough that Doc’s chest was beginning to burn, they both pulled away panting, looking at each other. Wyatt moved his hand up into Doc’s hair, and Doc dropped his to the other man’s waist, holding on tightly.

Wyatt waited perhaps just long enough for the burn in Doc’s chest to recede before swooping down once more and claiming the other man’s lips in a searing kiss. It sent Doc’s heart racing, and the slow burn of arousal began to make its way up his spine and into his stomach.

Finally, Doc began to get impatient. He was already half hard, and he wanted to take advantage of his body while it felt good enough to work properly.

Wrenching himself away from the kiss, he gasped out, “C’mon, darlin’. Let us not waste time.” To drive his point across, he arched his hips up with a raised eyebrow.

Wyatt huffed a laugh, shaking his head. But, as Doc knew from their first night together, the man always listened. He leaned down and began to suck a bruise into the very bottom of Doc’s neck while he was unbuttoning his shirt with steady hands.

Once his shirt was fully undone, Doc shoved Wyatt’s head away from his neck to shrug off the shirt, tossing it aside and quickly starting on Wyatt’s own buttons before he could distract Doc again.

As Doc was reaching to drag down his underwear, Wyatt dragged him into yet another kiss, this one slow and full of heat, making that small flame of arousal in his gut feel as if a drop of kerosene had been dropped atop it. Despite his efforts to get Wyatt completely naked being thwarted, he couldn’t say he was all that upset by the form of the interruption.

After Wyatt was sure Doc wasn’t going to pull away, he reached a hand up into Doc’s hair and began running his fingers through the strands slowly, scratching at his scalp occasionally. Even if he hadn’t acquiesced to the interruption before, he certainly would have now. Melting even further into the kiss, Doc dug his fingernails into Wyatt’s shoulder just to be sure he still had a grip on reality.

After several long minutes of just slow, heated kissing, Doc found his patience waning. He didn’t want to tempt fate more than he already had, and his cock was so hard that if Wyatt shifted his leg over just a little, he’d be humping against it like a dog. He couldn’t find it in himself to be ashamed, because by the look of Wyatt’s own underwear, he was in the same state as Doc, though frustratedly he appeared a sight less desperate than Doc did.

Using his hold on Wyatt’s shoulder, he managed to push the man away just enough to draw in a ragged gasp, swallowing convulsively in hopes of keeping himself from coughing right in Wyatt’s face.

“If you would be so kind, Wyatt, my body does not often cooperate with my wishes,” growled Doc, glaring up at the man.

Wyatt’s lips twitched into a smile, nearly hidden by his mustache. “I suppose,” he murmured, dipping down to leave a lingering last kiss on Doc’s mouth before pulling away to make his way out of his underwear, allowing Doc the opportunity to do the same. Though due to his position, appeared far less graceful in his endeavor than Wyatt did. It made Doc sneer up at Wyatt, who, able to guess the reasoning behind Doc’s aggression, just allowed himself a full grin.

“Do not laugh at me,” Doc muttered, hauling Wyatt back down to him by the arm, leaving them pressed together, chest to hips. Doc couldn’t help but grind up against Wyatt a little, letting out a shaky exhale at the frisson of pleasure that sparked up his spine from the movement. Wyatt let out a similar sound, ducking his face into the crook of Doc’s neck. Already sweaty, Doc could feel each minute exhale from Wyatt cooling against his jugular. It made him shiver at the difference in sensations.

“I would never deign to laugh at his majesty,” Wyatt breathed, grinding back down against Doc, though with far more force than Doc had managed to conjure. It punched a gasp out of him and left him unable to parse Wyatt’s words for a long few seconds. Once they did register, he frowned and reached a hand into Wyatt’s hair, tugging sharply.

“You are an ass,” Doc growled, though there was a distinct lack of bite in his tone. Wyatt just let out a soft moan and pressed his face more firmly into Doc’s neck, his teeth grazing Doc’s shoulder with each slow roll of his hips.

“Your ass,” responded Wyatt, voice quiet and breathy. Doc swallowed at the tone, and because he realized he’d been breathing with an open mouth. His back arched a little to meet Wyatt’s next hard thrust down, and he had to hold back a whine.

“How romantic,” Doc grunted, eyes falling closed at another sudden spike of pleasure. The way was being made more smooth between them as they both leaked more and more precum.

“Always,” said Wyatt, sounding far too coherent and sincere for Doc’s tastes. He forced his eyes open and tilted his head to look at Wyatt’s face.

The other man’s eyes were closed in pleasure and concentration, but a tear had marked a trail down his still-dusty cheek. The man hadn’t bothered to bathe. Normally, something like that in one of Doc’s partners would have sparked his fury, but this was Wyatt, and somehow Doc just couldn’t get enough of what he smelled like, even dusty and sweaty.

“Darlin’, what’s wrong?” Doc asked, stilling his movements and frowning. He could hear the click of Wyatt’s throat as he swallowed. Felt the short breaths of the other man fanning against his throat.

Wyatt huffed a self deprecating chuckle, pressing his lips against Doc’s cheek and leaving them there for a long moment, pulling away when he felt like it.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Wyatt said, wiping at his cheek, annoyed.

Doc gave him a pointed look, glancing between them.

Sighing, Wyatt dropped his forehead to Doc’s. “Just feelin’ - sentimental, I suppose. Worried about what we’ll do when we find Bill and Ringo,” he muttered.

Somehow surprised, Doc shook his head. “Well, you had me a little worried it had something to do with my performance,” he murmured, petting Wyatt’s cheek.

Wyatt snorted. “I know better than to criticize any skill of yours while my balls are in such a vulnerable position.”

Doc grinned, satisfied with Wyatt’s answers and glad he managed to bring the man back to the activity at hand, which Doc would very much like to resume.

“Smart man. Now, let’s leave the future to our poor unfortunate selves in the morning and enjoy what we are doing now,” urged Doc, grinding his hips back up to try and get Wyatt back with it. He was loath to relinquish his hard-won erection to Wyatt’s brooding.

“I believe you may have the right idea,” Wyatt ground out, readjusting the elbow he had pressed into the mattress beside Doc.

“Wyatt, I do not have the patience for-” Fuck.

Before he was able to voice his complaint, Wyatt had begun rutting down against Doc with renewed fervor, wrapping his other arm beneath Doc’s back and gripping the opposing shoulder for leverage. And, Doc suspected, just for the closeness of it.

Any attempt at words after that was a lost cause, mitigated to a garbled mess of syllables that garnered a noise of amusement from Wyatt. Too distracted by the smooth-slick glide of their cocks together, Doc had to allow the transgression against him to be put aside. He had better things to put energy into, at any rate.

In a matter of minutes, he was clutching onto Wyatt’s shoulders for dear life with his face turned into Wyatt’s hair, the strands tickling his nose a little, though he hardly noticed through the myriad of other sensations he was more focused on.

He had begun to arch more desperately into each of Wyatt’s downward thrusts, and he knew Wyatt could tell he was getting close, if the hand he had wrapped around them both meant anything. It also made Doc hope Wyatt was as close as he was, because he no longer had the endurance of his pre-sickness youth, but he still desired to finish with Wyatt.

“Wyatt,” he gasped out, hips bucking up helplessly into Wyatt’s slick grip. “Please for the love of God say you are close.”

There was a small grunt in Doc’s ear as the other man shoved his hips forward hard enough to force Doc lower into the mattress.

“Very,” was all Wyatt could manage, so focused as he was on the object of both their desires.

“Good, good, Christ, that’s good,” Doc panted, eyes clenching shut as the tension in his stomach coiled tighter and tighter with each second. By the raggedness of Wyatt’s breathing and the growing erraticness in his movements, Doc knew he hadn’t lied about being close.

There was a hum from Wyatt that could’ve been agreement, or just an absent noise to answer Doc, but he could really care less when he was so close.

Then finally, the sparks of pleasure crested high enough to cause his body to start twitching and his toes to curl. Through a clenched jaw, he ground out, “Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop!”

Doc was never more glad for Wyatt to be such an avid listener. He in fact, did not stop, but squeezed his hand just a little bit tighter around the both of them, and that was all Doc needed.

With a ragged and unattractive wheeze, Doc came so hard that he felt some of his muscles on the verge of cramping from how high strung he’d been.

Before Wyatt’s thrusts had the chance to turn from pleasurable to painful, Wyatt came over Doc’s stomach with a quiet groan that was muffled in the sweaty hollow of Doc’s throat.

The abrupt release of tension in his body caused spots to form in his eyes for several seconds as he melted down into the bed, shaking faintly. With how fast Wyatt’s weight had slumped against him, he had a feeling the other man was feeling similar.

It had been a long, long, few weeks.

Doc managed to bask in the feeling of a warm, loose-limbed and sweaty Wyatt Earp atop him for a few minutes before the stickiness and the weight on his chest finally made him shove the man aside. He only rolled over with a sad groan.

Clearing his throat in an attempt to stave off the coughing fit he felt creeping, he was endlessly grateful that it faded back into its usual level of nuisance.

“Wyatt, dear,” called Doc, still a little breathless.

“What?”

“Would you be a daisy to get something to clean us up,” he asked, running his hand along Wyatt’s side to sweeten the deal. After another moment, he added, “And a nice glass of whiskey from that new bottle you bought for us to share before we retire.”

There was a pause before Wyatt let out a painfully long-suffering sigh that stretched into a groan as he forced himself to his feet. Doc never liked to shirk things due to his sickness, but he thought in this instance it was the greatest excuse to ever exist. That and the fact that Wyatt was a gentleman. Thinking back to a few less-than-courteous interactions, he figured Wyatt was a gentleman, most of the time. When he felt like it, at least, Doc mused.

Swallowing past the dryness in his throat and pretending the burning in his chest didn’t exist, he watched Wyatt walk across the room to where a basin of water sat near the new bottle of whiskey he’d acquired. With half-lidded eyes, Doc couldn’t help but admire the view in an attempt to ignore the cooling semen on his stomach.

The lines of his back were especially sharp after weeks of hard riding, as he wasn’t usually so lean. Doc knew this from their dalliances in Kansas. He found that as attractive as the man’s slim waist and sharp planes of his back were, he didn’t much like the way his ribs were becoming visible. It was becoming evident just how much their ride was wearing on the other man. It did relieve Doc a little to know he hadn’t been imagining Wyatt eating less and less, though his perception of a decent-sized meal had been a little skewed the past few years due to his own shrunken appetite.

It didn’t take long for Wyatt to return with a damp cloth and a glass of whiskey, handing the glass off to Doc’s faintly shaking hands even as he diligently wiped down Doc’s stomach, gentle in his swipes.

Doc watched the man’s concentrated face and frowned. Setting his glass aside without taking a sip, he placed a hand on Wyatt’s bristly cheek, halting his actions. He’d been wiping at nothing but clean skin the last fifteen seconds.

“Darlin’,” said Doc softly, trying to find Wyatt’s eyes. “Have you eaten supper?”

Startled, Wyatt frowned back at Doc, pulling away from the other man’s hold. “What?”

“When have you last eaten?” Doc reiterated, careful with his tone.

The ensuing silence was filled only with Doc’s raspy breathing as they stared at each other.

“I… I don’t know,” Wyatt finally admitted, ducking his head.

“There’s jerky in my bag,” Doc said, glancing at the saddlebags he’d hauled off Keats exhaustedly earlier. “Grab some and come to bed.”

Wyatt continued to look at him for a moment longer. Finally, he sighed and walked back across the room, tossing the soiled rag onto the table as he rifled through Doc’s bag, coming up with a pouch of jerky. He pulled out a couple of the larger pieces before returning to Doc’s side, slipping under the blankets and tossing them over Doc. Grateful, he shuffled closer to Wyatt to leech off his warmth.

For a while, he just listened to Wyatt’s forceful chewing, though he could tell the man had been hungry by how fast he went through the jerky. He told himself to get Wyatt a good breakfast in the morning before they left town.

Then, the scratch of Wyatt’s calloused hands drawing over his mustache to be sure it was clean brought up the faint memory of a question Doc had thought of months and months ago.

“Hey, Wyatt?”

“Hm?”

Grinning, Doc asked, “Did you and Morgan style your mustaches after Virgil’s, or was that just a coincidence?”

Doc could practically hear Wyatt’s teeth grinding together. “Did Morgan set you up to this?”

Snorting, he said, “Not at all. I was just curious, frankly.”

Wyatt sighed and pushed his head further back into the pillow. “Yes,” he grudgingly admitted.

“To which part?”

“To styling it after Virgil.” Jesus, it was like pulling teeth with this man, and Doc would know.

Shaking his head with a smile, Doc turned to Wyatt. “It’s not embarrassing to admire your older brother, you know.”

“I just don’t want him to figure it out,” Wyatt said, annoyed.

Doc rolled his eyes. “You two must think him stupid. He clocked our relationship hours after coming back together, you think he doesn’t know you and Morgan took after him?”

Wyatt’s head jerked to look at Doc, and he could see the whites of the other man’s eyes. “Hold on a minute, what do you mean he clocked our relationship?”

Doc smiled. “Oh, did I not mention it before?” He asked innocently.

Wyatt looked like he was barely holding himself back from biting. “You did not,” he forced out through clenched teeth.

Doc leaned back more comfortably against both Wyatt and the pillows. “When I was restrained to that wretched bed after my little tumble in the Oriental a few months back, Virgil paid me a visit.”

“Did he now.”

“He sure did. Said he’d known about your… proclivities for a long while now, and had suspicions about the two of us.”

Wyatt was incredibly tense beside Doc. “He’s… what?”

Softening slightly, Doc turned his head to meet Wyatt’s eyes easier. “You remember that little dalliance with the stablehand you recounted to me back in Dodge? He told me he knew about it, and chased him off for taking advantage of you. Said uh, said you’re his brother, no matter what.”

The sound of Wyatt swallowing was incredibly loud in the oppressively silent room. “I…”

Shifting just enough to press a lingering kiss to Wyatt’s shoulder, he wriggled down a little to lie down all the way, exhausted from being out in the wilderness for so long, and also from his soiree with Wyatt.

“He loves you, Wyatt. I would not bring it up with him unless the situation truly calls for it, God forbid. I doubt he sees loving you as a burden. I surely don’t, and I’m still new to this family,” Doc said, closing his eyes.

Silence came from Wyatt’s end for a long enough time that Doc was in serious danger of completely dozing off. Then, he felt fingers running through his hair for just a short while until Wyatt slid down next to him.

“You are family, Doc.”

Smiling to himself faintly, he allowed himself this one moment. Tomorrow, they’d be running themselves back ragged all over the cursed desert. Tomorrow he’d be grooming the filthy lather that would build up under Keats’ tack after a long day of riding. Tomorrow he might kill another man.

But right then, he was warm, only slightly sticky, and still feeling the warm glow of pleasure from his time with Wyatt that evening. He was deliriously in love, God help him.

Chapter Text

They were in the middle of some nowhere town somewhere between Yuma and Tucson, teasing the Mexican border. It was hot, sandy, dusty, dry, and full of scorpions that not even the most demented could truly come up with on their lonesome. To say Doc was tired was an understatement. He was sweaty and almost always dehydrated no matter how much water he managed to keep down, with a persistent headache living behind his eyes in retribution.

The heat was making it near impossible for him to keep any food or drink down, and he’d had to give up almost any alcohol once the summer began to heat up in earnest. He hadn’t been a healthy weight to start with, but now he was practically skin and bones. He could see the looks of the other men in the posse, the vague worry. He had a feeling they were more concerned about whether he could watch their backs properly when it mattered. He couldn’t really blame them, either, because the question bounced around in his own head relentlessly whenever another coughing fit or dizzy spell overtook him. He tried to ignore Wyatt’s increasingly long, searching looks.

Staying in the saddle was becoming an effort beyond any prior comprehension. Something that used to come to him as naturally as breathing when he was younger, began to mirror just how difficult breathing had become in recent years.

This is all to say that Doc could’ve cried with relief when they finally got a lead to Curly Bill, halfway through a hellish July. The horses had shed most of their winter weight and then some with the constant exercise, though Doc tried to keep Keats in better shape than he did himself, and knew Wyatt to be doing the same. Wyatt, who was looking almost as rough as Doc was, even if he had at least a little more meat on his bones.

The town they rode into either didn’t have a name yet, or the sign had been knocked down by the brutal desert winds and no one had seen to replace it yet. Either way, Doc had no idea what the town was called, and he didn’t have any particular inclination to find out.

Upon arrival, they all split off to sniff around for any errant cowboys, and it didn’t take too long before Wyatt caught a lead from some distressed Asian fellas. Through broken english, Wyatt said, they managed to explain how these same cowboys would come in night after night and smoke all their opium without paying, threatening to shoot whenever asked.

After being told there were only two cowboys in town, Wyatt sent off the other three men to get a hotel room for the night. Doc just followed Wyatt in exhausted silence as they rode toward the outskirts of town where the local opium den lived.

Blinking the dark spots from his vision, Doc coughed roughly into his sleeve, tiredly relieved when only mucus came up.

It didn’t take long to arrive, and the two men gently pulled their horses to a stop. Doc blinked and Wyatt was already on the ground and hitching his horse to the crude post.

The other man looked up and frowned once he noticed that Doc hadn’t moved. Rousing himself, he forced his aching body to sling a leg over the saddle and slip down, knees threatening to buckle once he hit the ground.

A hand appeared on his elbow, and a slow look up showed Wyatt’s concerned gaze. “You alright?”

Swallowing the sand in his mouth, he shrugged. “I’ll live,” he rasped. Wyatt looked at him a little longer.

“We’ll stay in town another day. It’s already almost morning,” he said, sliding his hand up to Doc’s shoulder and gripping it for a moment. Doc just blinked slowly. He found himself inordinately grateful that they were just going to have to deal with some out-of-their-heads cowboys who wouldn’t be able to see straight, let alone shoot straight. He didn’t think himself very capable at that moment.

Nonetheless, he followed after Wyatt’s retreating form, hand held ostensibly on his holster, even though he doubted Wyatt would need his help. His reputation would precede him, hopefully.

Once they stepped inside, Doc had to stop and blink once more. All the smoke in the air made his eyes water, and it certainly wasn’t doing good things for his lungs. However, through the smoke he just managed to catch sight of two red-sashed men lounging on the floor, looking completely unable to climb up off it.

With hardly a glance at each other, Wyatt carefully stepped forward while drawing his Buntline, pointing the muzzle directly at the nearest man on the floor. Doc was unable to stifle a snort when the man stuck the end of the gun in his mouth, clearly believing it to be a pipe. His eyes slowly dragged their way up the length of Wyatt’s body, before it registered just who had their gun in his mouth. His eyes were barely able to widen before Wyatt was squeezing the trigger, the report of the gun loud in the enclosed space.

Doc only twitched, though his gaze lingered on the gore now spreading across the floor. He felt a little bad for the owners, though at least now they’d be able to get paying customers.

He finally pulled his gaze from the growing pile of blood and brain to watch Wyatt approach the second man, who had finally clued into just what was happening and was scrambling backwards. Wyatt stomped down on the man’s ankle, effectively keeping him in place with how pliant his body was due to the opium.

“Now,” Wyatt started, fire in his eyes as he put more weight on the ankle he was standing on, “just where is Curly Bill?”

“I- I don’t- I don’t know! Mister Earp, he didn’t-!” Wyatt bared his teeth and twisted his foot down, and even Doc could hear the grinding of bone.

“Don’t you lie to me, boy!” Snarled Wyatt, aiming his Buntline for the man’s thigh and firing. He cried out in agony, gripping at his bleeding thigh as both Wyatt and Doc watched impassively.

“Iron Springs!” he wailed, nails digging into the denim of his jeans from how hard he was gripping his wound. “He’ll be at Iron Springs!”

Immediately, Wyatt stepped back, leaving the man on the ground to sob quietly.

“How many men with him?”

Doc watched the man visibly swallow. “No more’n five,” he whispered, face ashen.

Wyatt stood there silently. With a frown Doc started to say, “What’re we gonna-”

Wyatt cocking the hammer and firing a round right into the second man’s head without any hesitation cut him off before he could even truly voice his concern. Blood sprayed across the room, and the thump of the body hitting the ground was loud.

The room had begun to clear of the thick smoke, as he and Wyatt had left the way in open.

Wyatt looked up from where he was crouching over the body of the first man. Doc wasn’t sure when he’d moved. “Can you help me carry them?”

Doc frowned. “For what reason?”

Wyatt tilted his head, a mad glint in his eye catching the light of a nearby lantern.

“To serve as a warning.”

Doc swallowed, a little apprehensive.

“And that entails…?”

Wyatt’s grip visibly tightened on the bloody collar of the man he was holding. “We are going to string ‘em up outside the sheriff’s office.”

Doc did not much enjoy that idea, but who was he to disagree? He knew, had Wyatt been the one to come so close to death, he would likely be enacting the same methods. Vengeance, in all senses of the word.

Wyatt had a mean streak as big as Texas, which Doc could always admire, but sometimes, in brief flashes, it worried him a little, if he thought too hard about it.

Usually he would remember that despite all his tendencies toward ill-intentioned actions, Wyatt had a fairly strong set of morals. The only exception being when it came to his brothers. He had his doubts whether Wyatt’s hellfire would rain on those who went against Doc, but silently he hoped so. He hoped that should Doc be gunned down, Wyatt would avenge him without mercy. But hope hasn’t gotten him very far in life, so he tried not to think about it.

He didn’t voice any of these thoughts. Instead, he just silently grabbed the second man, still bleeding sluggishly, from under the armpits and began to drag him outside.

Once he and Wyatt had both bodies propped against the hitching posts beside their horses, Wyatt pulled out a couple coils of rope from within his saddlebags. There was a sour taste in Doc’s mouth at the realization that Wyatt had clearly thought ahead in doing this.

Still, he took the proffered rope from a stone-faced Wyatt and tied the rope into a noose, slipping it around the dead man’s neck and tightening it. Once he was sure it wouldn’t come undone, he tied the loose end to his saddlehorn and hauled himself up into the saddle. Half his decision came from the fact that he truly doubted he’d be able to lift the dead man’s weight, and the other half came from watching Wyatt do the same.

Slowly, and with great deliberation, they rode down the street in the direction of the rising sun while those who heard the earlier commotion peeked out from ragged curtains.

They soon arrived at the empty sheriff’s office, and Doc watched from atop Keats as Wyatt strung up both bodies. Those two men had made their choices, as had Doc. He would have to live with them, just as those boys died by them.

It didn’t take Wyatt very long, and by the time they were riding back off to the hotel they’d seen the others head to earlier, half the small town had begun to crowd around the bodies. Doc had seen a fly land in the dripping mess of the first man’s head before they’d left. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to eat much in the next few days.

As promised, Wyatt kept them in that little nowhere town for another day, though Doc could tell the man was itching to ride right after Curly Bill before the trail went cold, but he had enough reason left in him to see just how awful Doc’s complexion had gotten. Thankfully, the two cowboys had managed to stir just enough trouble up around town that their public warning didn’t wear out the posse’s welcome, but it certainly garnered wary looks whenever one of them ventured out.

It was still a relief when they rode out the morning after. Doc was beginning to worry that word would get out to one of their buddies and they’d have another public execution. To his great relief, his fears didn’t come to fruition, and as the sun was rising big and red, they rode northwest toward Iron Springs. The two cowboys’ bodies were still left hanging, swinging in the gentle morning breeze. Doc tried not to look at the two pools of dried blood beneath them as the posse rode by. He glanced over at Wyatt, face set and determined, and spurred Keats faster. They had a lot of ground to cover.

It was an almost three day ride to Iron Springs with how south they were, and the first night on their journey north was a nice one, both in weather and Doc’s health.

As he laid back on his bedroll, not all that far from the forms of his sleeping compatriots for once, he thought about just what the looming confrontation with Curly Bill Brocious would entail. There had yet to be word on Ringo’s whereabouts, but hunting him down was the next logical step. Wyatt would not let the man go, not when he had his suspicions that Ringo had been the one to fire the shot at Morgan. Doc was far more certain of the answer than Wyatt, but that came more from a reluctant understanding of the man more than any extra knowledge.

He let out a shaky exhale, staring sightlessly into the dimly glowing embers of their fire. It was late, and he could hardly afford to add sleeplessness on top of all his other issues, but still sleep did not come. The look in Wyatt’s eyes as he shot that man on the ground refused to leave him be. Despite that, he wished that the man was closer than an arm’s length away, but even that was pushing it. He shifted his gaze from the embers to Wyatt’s back, turned away from him.

Saying he hadn’t done his own questionable deeds before the ride and also during it would be a lie. He’d never been one for concrete morals, not really. He saw what thinking like that did to certain men. No, what truly shocked him was that it was Wyatt committing these acts, with seemingly no remorse. It left Doc feeling like a reluctant voice of reason, which made his teeth ache. He did not enjoy being the reasonable one, it detracted from his wily charm.

Witnessing these acts of Wyatt’s left Doc feeling just a little wrongfooted. His entire perception of the man had shifted again, which seemed to be a common occurrence between he and Wyatt as of late. But this time… This time scared him a little. It reminded Doc of a younger version of himself, back when his name in the gambling circuit was new and his mettle untested.

And down this train of thought could lie only trouble, yet ride it he did.

Wyatt was beginning to remind Doc of what he could’ve become had he not met the charming marshal. Had he and Ringo crossed paths just that little bit sooner.

These thoughts were not new to Doc, loathe as he was to admit it. There was a bit of a narcissistic pull to Ringo, seeing his own more corroded attributes reflected back at him with a waspish retort. Doc easily saw a younger him taking up with Ringo instead of Wyatt; pledging his loyalty to the cowboys instead. Saw he and Ringo ripping each other to shreds and sending Doc to an earlier grave. There was not a lot he wouldn’t share with Wyatt these days, but this realization would live in Doc’s rotting chest until it finally caved in under the weight.

Doc was not unaware of the way his loyalties fell; how strongly and unequivocally he fell into them even when he began to resent them. He’d resigned himself to these character traits long ago, now. That did not mean that he wasn’t at least a little grateful for how things did end up turning out. Because even if he could see himself at Ringo’s side, tearing little pieces of flesh out of each town they rode through with chipped and jagged teeth, he knew he wouldn’t have been as happy.

Because while Wyatt may scare him sometimes, he knew there was no other one for him. And likewise, he had a feeling there was no other person truly meant for Wyatt. Sometimes, Doc doubted whether he was the one to fit such a daunting role, but then Wyatt would do something so incredibly benign, like fill Doc’s canteen without even being asked, or hauling the saddle off Keats on Doc’s bad days.

Doc blinked, finding his eyes had begun to drift shut. The embers of the fire had started to glow only when a lazy breeze swept over them. With a final, lingering look to Wyatt’s back, Doc finally fell asleep with one hand resting on the butt of his revolver sitting just between him and Wyatt.

It was the night of their third day on the ride to Iron Springs. They’d made it to the general area hours before the sun set, but it was with mutual agreement that they all decided to not have a gunfight in the dark. So, it was settled that the confrontation would happen some time the next morning.

They were camped a few miles out, with strict instructions from Wyatt to keep lights to a minimum, cigarettes only, so as to not be seen by any wandering eyes.

The moon was high in the sky, and all but Doc and Wyatt were fast asleep. It was this realization that had Doc sliding his eyes over toward Wyatt, who was leaning back on his hands a few feet away and staring straight up at the night sky. He could just barely see the glimmer of stars reflected in the man’s eyes.

Slowly, Doc glanced back over at the three other people in their party, trying to gauge if they were far enough away so that could have a private conversation with Wyatt without fearing he’d wake them.

Deciding that the distance was suitable when he saw McMasters’ mouth open wide with a snore that was barely audible, Doc crept his way closer to Wyatt’s side, falling to the ground beside the man with a grunt.

Only then did Wyatt look away from the stars, some of the shine leaving his eyes at the loss of the angle.

His face creased a little in concern when Doc pushed up against him, hesitantly reaching up to wrap an arm around his shoulders after a harried glance up to be sure they were truly alone.

“Are you cold?” Murmured Wyatt, rubbing Doc’s shoulder as if to warm him.

Doc huffed. “Always, dear. But that’s not why I came over here.”

Wyatt stopped rubbing his shoulder, but he didn’t remove his arm. “Pray tell, then.”

Exhaling slowly, Doc said, “We need to talk, I believe.”

It would have been impossible not to feel the way Wyatt stiffened against his side.

“Doc…” He said, voice lowered in warning. Doc just hummed, unaffected.

“We’re nearly finished with this ride now, aren’t we, Wyatt?”

Wyatt sighed, but decided to indulge in Doc’s questions.

“Yes, Doc. After we get Curly Bill, it won’t be too long before Ringo comes outta the hole he buried himself in. Then we just pick off the scattered remains,” said Wyatt, voice cold.

Doc set a chilled hand on Wyatt’s clothed thigh, just resting it there. He found himself a little relieved when Wyatt didn’t just brush him off.

“That is good, I suppose. Very good,” Doc muttered, almost to himself. Distractedly, he hacked out a wet cough to the side away from Wyatt, spitting out a glob of bloody mucus with a disgusted grimace.

Wyatt seemed not to care, about the spit, at least.

“Why do you ask, John?” Wyatt asked, sounding exhausted, all of a sudden. Doc knew this ride of vengeance hadn’t only been hard on himself, it just happened that Wyatt had far more resources to hide his turmoil than Doc did anymore.

Doc was glad he wasn’t wearing his usual hat; he had an unencumbered view of the sky Wyatt had been so enamored with previously.

“What are we doing, after this?” Doc asked, abruptly, looking away from the sky with a sharp movement of his eyes to meet Wyatt’s own. A cloud had shifted, or maybe Doc was crazier than he thought, because that shine had come back to Wyatt’s eyes, even though he wasn’t looking up anymore.

Wyatt frowned; tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Doc heaved a sigh and squeezed his eyes shut when a wheeze rattled out.

“I mean,” Doc said, blinking his eyes back open, “that our lives will continue on after we finish our mission here. Yours at the very least. So what are we to do after?”

Wyatt said nothing, for a long while, seemingly deep in thought. Doc was comfortable enough to let him get his thoughts in order. He just listened to the distant sound of cicadas coming from a far-off copse of trees in the near distance.

Doc felt Wyatt shift beside him, and wasn’t very surprised when the man finally spoke up.

“I’m not sure,” he finally admitted, refusing to meet Doc’s eyes. “What… do you want to do?”

Doc could almost laugh at the uncertainty in Wyatt’s voice, when not three days ago he watched the man hang two bodies for public viewing with a blank face, but he knew it would just make Wyatt clam up even more.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Doc breathed, eyes falling half-lidded out of tiredness. Briefly, he considered lighting a cigarette, but felt too lazy to crawl back over to his bedroll to get his tin and matches. “It would not displease me to see Morgan again, or even Virgil, if I must.”

Wyatt hummed, contemplating. “Yes, I believe it would be nice to check in on them, once this is all finished,” he murmured, idly tracing the lines of Doc’s face with tired eyes.

Doc just continued to breathe, staring up at the moon. “Where are they, then? You never deigned to tell me. Other than that they were going to be in California.”

Wyatt shifted again, slouching lower as the day’s long ride finally began to catch up with him. Fury got you far, Doc knew, but the exhaustion always hit far harder because of it.

“Did we not?” Wyatt asked, sounding a little surprised by their combined oversight. “Well, we all agreed it would be a fine idea to set them up at our parents’ farm in California. They’re getting up there in years, and we figured they’d enjoy seeing their sons again as well as having extra hands to work the farm once they’ve recovered a little,” he explained, eyes drifting shut even as he spoke.

“California,” Doc said, feeling the word out in his mouth. He hadn’t really been to California proper, passed through it a few times on his way elsewhere, but never long enough to truly get a bearing on the state. “I think it would be a fine idea to go visit your family once this is over, Wyatt,” he glanced over at the sleepy man. “I think it would help you get your head on straight.”

The other man let out a bemused huff, dropping his head back. “Oh, I think you might be right,” he admitted, voice a little rough.

Doc smiled faintly. “I usually am, darlin’. Now, you best be off to sleep. We’ve got some cowboys to wrangle come mornin’.”

This time, Doc didn’t receive a verbal retort, but Wyatt did sigh and slump down into his bedroll, lazily shoving Doc to the side so he could climb in. Doc took it in good faith, though he did flick Wyatt’s forehead in token protest of the manhandling before slinking back off to his own bedroll, silently grateful to be under some covers in the cool Arizona night. This far north in the state, the nights were a fair bit more frigid than the ones down south, even this late into the season.

Through slitted, heavy eyes, he watched Wyatt’s breathing even out as he finally fell asleep. Even from a few feet away, he could see Wyatt’s muscles slowly going slack.

It was then he noticed just how hard it was to keep opening his eyes after each blink, so finally did he too fall asleep, sand in his hair and his boots on.

The next morning they all rose early, though the sun was high enough that the only color in the sky was a light, gentle blue. Doc could only hope the fine weather was a good omen.

Despite being told Curly Bill would only have around five people with him, everyone knew the information could either be a lie, or just simply outdated, so they quietly loaded enough ammunition to last through at least twice as many men.

They didn’t take their horses, close as they were, and they walked the few miles in almost complete silence, Doc taking the rear. Ostensibly, it was to keep an eye out. Realistically, it was because it was harder to keep up with them at the front, especially Wyatt with his dogged pace.

Still, he walked with the rifle Wyatt had quietly asked him to take, and who was Doc to refuse? It didn’t matter that he barely had the strength in his arms to keep it lifted for any substantial amount of time, only that he could fire it when necessary. And as they were walking into a battlefield they had no prior dealings with, they were at a disadvantage. No, Doc did not question it, though he kept his six-guns loaded and placed securely in their usual spots.

Finally, the sound of birdsong and wind through the trees grew louder as they came nearer to the springs. It was far greener than most places in Arizona, and Doc’s eyes weren’t quite sure what to do with all the color for a few seconds.

He managed to close the slightly staggering distance between himself and the rest of the group just as they crept toward the nearest water source. Doc knew, if Curly Bill were to be anywhere, it would have to be near the only water source for miles. While the man may be loud, obnoxious and far too cocky, he was no idiot, not completely, at least, for he’s made it this far into the game.

Doc was scanning the area, just as the rest of the group was, when he could have sworn he caught a flash of something in the underbrush. However, just as soon as he opened his mouth to issue a warning, a shot rang out, and they were all soon busy throwing themselves behind cover while Wyatt yelled “Get down!”

He did not need a written invitation. Another shot rang out and he heard a bullet whizz by just a little too close for comfort while he finally managed to slide behind a tree, though the coverage was minimal. A lucky shot would be all it would take. Resolutely, he did not think about that. Instead, he waited for the idiots to waste their bullets on their initial shots, as did everyone else hiding behind cover, all almost as bad as his own. It was both comforting to know that he had about the same odds as them, but upsetting all the same. Because, what if they made it all this way just to fail before the finish line? Doc was not much one to believe in ghosts or any sort of supernatural thing, but he did not doubt that Wyatt’s ire would be enough to bring him back as a ghoul of some sort to finish the job. And, well, if Wyatt did, it only followed that Doc would do the same.

At this point, so many rounds were being fired at them, Doc didn’t even bother trying to peek up for a long while, a sharp, helpless sort of feeling taking over the usual agony in his lungs as he looked over desperately at Wyatt.

Wyatt was not looking at him, he was too busy listening to Curly Bill’s smug laughter from across the spring. It was incredibly obvious they’d walked into a trap. Whether it was intentional or not didn’t matter though, as the man who’d given the information was incredibly and irrevocably dead.

In a fit of desperation, Doc held the barrel of his rifle upside down over the small dip of sand he found himself in. He rather doubted he made any of the shots he made, and it took all of thirty seconds of futile shooting to grow frustrated with the blind firing and the way his hat was digging into the back of his head and obscuring his vision. With a sneer, he threw both hat and rifle away, wrenching his Lightning from its holster and peering over the dip with sharp eyes. The lull in the fire gave Curly Bill his chance to goad, and Doc could see Wyatt gritting his teeth from the corner of his vision.

“Hey Wyatt!” The cowboy called, mirth clear in his tone. “How the hell are ya?”

Of course, it was then that even more cowboys had to arrive, Ringo leading the charge with loud hooting as the newcomers fired increasingly more accurate bullets. Doc felt sand spray up and hit his sweaty face, grimacing at the feeling of it sticking.

“Got some boys over there behind you!” Shouted Curly Bill, as if it weren’t already obvious what he was setting up. Doc felt equal measures of rage and fear well up in his throat, causing him to swallow around nothing to try and tamp it down. Now was not the time to feel fear. The time to feel fear was either long after the fact, hiding his shaking hands from Wyatt in bed, or when he was bleeding out, if it came to that. That was one luxury afforded to dying men at least: the ability to show fear. It wasn’t a price he was sure he wanted to pay, not now, not yet.

“Got you in a little crossfire. How’d you like that?” The cowboy crowed, his voice echoing over the water and being distorted by the bullets still plunking into the sand.

“Come on!” McMasters snarled, pinned down almost completely while laying on his back. “Think of something fast, would ya!”

Doc wasn’t sure he knew who McMasters was talking to, but he had to guess that it was Wyatt. Most men did not go to him for orders, they simply expected him to already be following someone else’s.

Wyatt didn’t reply, he just reloaded Doc’s shotgun. There was a glaze over his eyes that Doc recognized from the night Morgan and Virgil got shot. It made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Wyatt,” he called, breathlessly huffing out a short cough before trying again, louder. “Hey, Wyatt.”

It shouldn’t have surprised Doc when Wyatt still did not answer, but it did sting a little. What did surprise him was Wyatt muttering a harsh “No,” under his breath. The look in his eyes made Doc nervous, and he tensed, ready for whatever foolish action the man was about to partake in.

As Wyatt hauled himself up, it was Creek’s turn to call out after the man, once again to no avail.

“No!” Wyatt growled, stalking forward without any hesitation. Doc felt his eyes bug out of their skull. Was the man out of his fucking mind? He watched, rapt, for several seconds as Wyatt continued to stalk forward while repeating “No!” over and over, each time angrier than the last. By some miracle, some grace of God, Wyatt remained unscathed even as he continued, even into the water.

Doc’s heart was racing almost out of his chest, and the adrenaline was covering the piercing agony in his lungs when Curly Bill swaggered out to meet Wyatt in the middle. “God fuckin’ damn it,” he muttered, tightening his shaky grip on his Lightning while he forced himself to stand with the help of the stunted tree beside him.

Curly Bill’s men managed to fire a few close shots before the man ordered them to back down. It was perhaps the first real stupid decision Doc had seen the man make.

He started to make his staggering way forward, spots rushing through his vision for a few seconds at the sudden elevation change, as Wyatt continued nothing but his mantra and raised the shotgun. Doc couldn’t see his face, but he had a feeling there was a nasty snarl stuck to it.

Doc watched, unmoving for a moment, as Curly Bill laughed and fired until he was all out, his smile draining off his face at the realization. None of his shots connected; not even close.

“Son of a bitch,” Curly Bill growled, hurrying to raise his shotgun against Wyatt’s, but while Wyatt was never the fastest shot, he was apparently faster than Curly Bill.

Wyatt fired two shots straight to the man’s chest, and Doc watched as the cowboy’s hubris finally caught up to him.

Before the shocked stupor of the cowboys could be broken, Doc locked his knees and trudged forward into the water, ripping out his Thunderer to hold alongside its sibling.

Behind him, he heard the hurried footsteps of the rest of the men following suit, and Doc could only hope at least one of them was keeping an eye on their backs. Ringo was still in the wind, but he had a feeling the man would be scurrying away to lick his wounds at the death of his master.

In a heartbeat, the tension snapped, and three more cowboys were dead by Wyatt’s Buntline before a shot could be fired in defense. Doc wasted no time firing his own clumsy shots, vision swimming an uncomfortable amount. He was distantly pleased to see most of them connect, seeing several cowboys fall to the ground with a cut-off cry.

Behind him, he heard similar shouts of agony from one of their group’s guns.

The cowboys, quickly realizing that their hierarchy had been broken and that they were falling apart at the seams, quickly began to run back off into the trees, with a few being picked off by Wyatt or Doc before they managed to completely disappear.

Doc watched them retreat, ears ringing loudly. He could hear his own staggered, short gasps for breath somewhere in his head. The burning of his lungs was beginning to outdo the adrenaline keeping it at bay, and he barked a short cough before he managed to bite his tongue hard enough to keep it at bay a few moments more.

He looked over and saw Wyatt standing rigid, shoulders heaving from his own labored breaths, eyes dark with fury.

They all stood there for several long minutes in tense silence, scanning the treeline until their eyes ached and their arms hurt from holding their guns up. Finally, Wyatt’s shoulders dropped and he said, tiredly, “C’mon. They’re gone. Let’s grab the horses and camp here for the night.”

Without any more direction, Doc and the rest of them trudged out of the murky water, Wyatt following behind them all at a more sedate pace.

Upon reaching solid ground, Doc found he couldn’t keep back the coughs that were itching up his throat any more, and he fell hard against the tree he’d been using as his partial cover earlier just to hack loudly, face turned away from the other men.

It was a long, long minute as he tried desperately to get his breathing under control. The amount of saliva pooling in his mouth made him afraid he might vomit, but he just ended up spitting stomach acid up along with the usual mucus and blood. It tasted even worse in his mouth than usual. With a grimace, he turned back toward Wyatt and the others, who were either staring at him with vague concern or pretending he wasn’t trying to deliver his lungs to the earth. Wyatt was the only one of the former.

Doc felt a drop of cold sweat slide down his face and down along his neck, making him shiver and press more weight back against the tree, suddenly dizzy. The spots in his vision were worse before he managed to blink them away. He saw Wyatt slowly turn to McMasters with a frown.

“You and Creek run back to camp and get our things, our horses. We’ll stay here tonight,” Wyatt said, voice rough.

Jack stepped up, a little cautious. “We sure they aren’t comin’ back?” He asked, nervous.

Wyatt’s face twisted into a dry, rueful smile. “I have no doubt they will be, but not before we’re long gone tomorrow.”

And so it was settled. Once he realized he wasn’t about to have to make the long trek back to his horse, Doc simply slid to the ground on weak knees, ass hitting the sand hard. He didn’t move for a long while, not even when they brought the horses back.

Eventually, Wyatt took a break from his keen-eyed treeline searching with Doc’s shotgun raised to go rinse off some of the grit he’d accumulated down by the springs.

At that point, Doc had gotten Creek to bring him one of his saddlebags to lay against, eyes closed and hands clasped over his stomach, but awake he remained as the other men cleaned their guns around him.

Jack walked back over to where Doc and Creek were sitting from where he’d left his horse to drink. “D’you ever see anything like that before?” He asked, incredulous. It didn’t take a genius to figure what he meant. Wyatt’s miracle walk. If Doc were to think too hard on it as well, he was sure it’d give him a headache, which was why he’d made it a point not to.

Doc cracked an eye open to see Creek giving Jack his rifle back, having been going through and cleaning everyone’s. He could see his own on the ground, next in line.

“Hell, I ain’t never heard of anythin’ like that,” Creek retorted, sounding half annoyed and half impressed.

“Nothin’,” McMasters agreed, tossing over Jack’s shotgun that he’d been borrowing earlier. “Where is he?”

Finally deciding to join the conversation, Doc lifted his head up a little, not liking how much effort it required. He couldn’t afford a flare up, not now. Of course, he was nothing but a vessel to his body’s whims, but he could get through it with sheer stubbornness if need be. He refused to let Wyatt sit him out this close to the end.

“Down by the creek, walkin’ on water,” Doc spoke up, widening his eyes to accentuate his statement with an amused curl to his smile.

“Well, let’s hope he’s got another miracle up his sleeve,” McMasters said, eyeing Doc, eyes trailing off toward Wyatt after a moment. “If I know Ringo, he’s headin’ straight for us once he’s regrouped.”

They all sat in silence for a moment, listening to Wyatt’s faint footsteps splashing around in the shallows.

“If they were my brothers, I’d want revenge, too,” McMasters noted, finally.

The word revenge struck Doc, and he tilted his head slowly, not wanting to get dizzy over such a small thing. “No, make no mistake,” he started, forcing himself to sit up proper on shaking arms. “It’s not revenge he’s after. It’s a reckoning.”

Creek and McMasters both looked at him for a moment, before Creek became occupied with cleaning Doc’s gun. He was glad to have a little less attention on him, because he could feel a cough creeping up his throat.

With a frown, he shook his flask and found it empty. And of course, Creek had brought him the saddlebag without his whiskey. He began to stand, a groan bitten back behind clenched teeth as his whole body ached and his lungs burned without any mercy.

Finally, a few coughs managed to force themselves out as he walked forward, wet and harsh, the sound of them disturbing the newfound peace the return of the birds after the gunfight had brought. He swallowed any more from coming out, but there was the telltale burn that promised more if he wasn’t careful.

“Doc, you oughta be in bed,” Creek admonished. He was probably the first outside of Wyatt to make a direct statement about his illness. He could almost respect it if he wasn’t so annoyed with himself. “What the hell’re you doin’ this for anyway?”

He could feel his eye twitch. The reasons he was there were more numerous than he could put into words. A few had to do with Morgan himself, but most bore Wyatt in mind. Half of the reasons to do with Wyatt were liable to end with him getting shot if he spoke them aloud.

Still, he had to answer, didn't he? He swallowed once more. “Wyatt Earp is my friend,” he said simply, voice slightly raspy.

Creek shook his head a little. “Hell, I got lots of friends.”

Doc stared in the direction of where Wyatt was, thinking. He had Wyatt, obviously, and he liked to consider Morgan a friend. Kate, definitely. Virgil if held at gunpoint, potentially. He realized quite suddenly just how few people he’d surrounded himself with, but found he couldn’t quite regret it. He didn’t have it in him to be loyal to more than a few, he was like a twice-kicked dog in that regard. Slow to trust, but quick to die.

“I don’t,” he said, hollowly.

He thought of Ringo and the remaining men he no doubt controlled now that Curly Bill was dead. Deadliest pistolier there is since Wild Bill, he’d said, all those months ago in a smoke-hazy Oriental, the room drunk on each other, and Doc drunk on Wyatt.

Quick to die, indeed.

Chapter Text

The hunt for Ringo went by far quicker than the one for Curly Bill did, but that had more to do with the cowboys not even trying to hide as compared to going to ground. Ringo was clearly digging in for a last stand, and was throwing his newfound weight around to try and intimidate Wyatt and them all. Doc wasn’t all that impressed, and neither was Wyatt. Doc found it irritating more than anything. All those men, and what to show for it? If they wanted to do some real damage, they’d have done it already. Doc had an inkling that Ringo was scheming up something special.

It took them less than a week to follow pointed fingers to a desolate valley just outside of Tucson, where the nearest settlement within reasonable distance was a little ranch.

By this point, the illness he’d been cursing just after Curly Bill’s death had grown into full grown torture. Breathing was an action that took nearly all his energy, and keeping his eyes open was becoming monumental. Was about an hour ago they caught sight of dust in the distance and tracked it to the top of the hill where they all sat atop their horses staring down at the league of men riding by.

Doc was hardly paying attention to anything outside the ragged agony that was each inhale. His vision had gone gray and even a little dark at the edges, yet the sun seemed entirely too bright. He swallowed, tasting only blood and dirt.

McMasters brought up an eyepiece, extending it with a few quiet clicks. Coughing hard into his balled up kerchief, he tried to listen.

“Ringo and Behan are out front,” McMasters reported. “There’s about… thirty of ‘em.” He shut the eyepiece and turned to Wyatt. “They’re all wearin’ badges.”

He coughed again, and caught Wyatt glancing over him worriedly for just a moment before turning back to look at the men riding in the distance.

God was he dizzy. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes found everything spinning. He swallowed, trying to fight back the nausea. There was entirely too much saliva pooling in his mouth.

“Well, we gotta find a place to hole up,” Wyatt said, annoyed.

One moment, Wyatt’s voice was clear, and the next, everything had transformed into a loud buzz. Quite suddenly, it felt like everything had faded out and his center of gravity had failed. Without realizing, he found himself sliding out of the saddle. He hadn’t even noticed his eyes had closed.

Sluggishly he tried to brace himself, but he was quickly caught by someone, likely Creek as he’d been closer. Another set of hands came on him, and he could recognize those calluses cupping his face anywhere. Slowly, he was put more fully onto the ground, though he could barely feel it. Wheezes rattled out of his chest and he could faintly feel blood and saliva dripping down his chin, warm against over-hot skin.

The hand on his face was gentle, but the one at the back of his head was firm, belying Wyatt’s worry. Try as he might, he couldn’t force his eyes open. Couldn’t find the energy to try and even speak or give a word of comfort to the man. He just felt more and more blood dribble out of his slack mouth with each wet exhale.

Christ, not now. He couldn’t die on the dusty ground in nowhere Arizona, choking on his own godforsaken blood. It was unbecoming. He would either die at the gambling table or in the middle of a firefight, preferably protecting Wyatt. He’d even settle for dying for Morgan, if only it would save him from such complete embarrassment.

Distantly, he felt something wiping his face and swallowed reactively.

Doc wasn’t sure how much time he spent sprawled out on the ground, but next thing he knew he was being hauled up by Wyatt and walked around his own horse. He found enough energy to frown, because surely they weren’t going to leave him in the shade of a cactus and call it a day?

No, instead he felt himself be hauled up with strong arms into what was unmistakably Wyatt’s saddle. Weakly, he gripped the saddlehorn in front of him while Wyatt climbed up behind him.

Through the buzzing, he heard, “Tie his horse up to yours, Jack. Let’s find a place to hole up in, he ain’t in no condition to be outside.”

“There’s a ranch nearby. Henry Hooker owns it, I’m sure he’d let us stay for the night,” McMasters suggested.

He felt Wyatt hum against his back. “You know the way?”

“I do.”

“Then let’s go,” Wyatt growled, reaching around Doc to grab the reins, kicking his horse after McMasters’. If he leaned back into Wyatt and took extra comfort in the man’s arms around him, well, that was between him and the horse.

At some point during their brief ride to the ranch, he felt Wyatt wrap his coat around his shoulders and press Doc’s hat more securely to his head. Doc was inordinately grateful, but could barely keep the energy to stay in the saddle, let alone speak on top of it. He hoped Wyatt knew, anyway.

Finally, after an endless amount of time, he felt the horse beneath him slow as Wyatt drew them to a halt. Just barely he could hear the sound of approaching riders. He tensed up, weakly reaching for his revolver just in case it was cowboys, but Wyatt placed his hand on his, stopping him.

“Is this Henry Hooker’s ranch?” He called, voice rumbling against Doc’s shredded lungs.

“That’s right,” Henry, presumably, said. “And I’m Hooker.”

Wyatt shifted behind him in the saddle, dropping his hand from Doc’s.

“We gotta sick man,” said Wyatt, voice just slightly strained. “And our horses are done in.” His question wasn’t voiced, but it was clear to everyone nonetheless.

“Put him up at my place,” Henry gruffed. “As long as it’s just tonight.”

Swallowing, Doc was doing his absolute best to pay attention to the conversation. The urge to just sleep was so incredibly strong that it was becoming almost as hard as breathing as it was to stay awake.

“We’re in debt to you,” Wyatt promised, solemn.

The other man didn’t answer, but Doc heard their horses turn and ride away, so he figured everything had been cleared.

Wyatt clicked his tongue and kicked his heels just slightly to get his horse moving, the sudden movement jarring Doc before he could prepare himself. Quickly, Wyatt’s arm wrapped around his chest, holding him in place as they trotted toward the stable next to the homestead.

Once there, he felt Wyatt get off first, hitting the ground with a thump. Doc leaned forward at a severe angle with nothing keeping him anchored in place. Gentle hands on his elbow and waist brought him back to a slightly more aware state. With effort, he managed to pry his eyes open to squint down at Wyatt.

“Think you can stand, cowboy?” He asked, injecting false humor into his tone.

Doc hummed, the sound coming out garbled. “Let us find out,” he rasped, tensing his muscles in preparation to swing a leg over.

With a frankly embarrassing amount of help from Wyatt, he managed to slide out of the saddle, gripping onto Wyatt’s forearms with a trembling strength as his legs threatened to buckle. Wyatt pulled him to full standing with a grunt of effort, waiting until Doc wrapped a shaking arm around his waist before he started to lead him out.

Christ, what would Virgil think? It was all that came to Doc’s mind. He’d promised the brother that he would do everything in his power to protect Wyatt, and here he was, barely able to stand on his own. The thought of letting Wyatt go off on his lonesome to whatever was about to go down made him sick to his stomach, the background nausea that’d been there for hours threatening him with acid at the back of his throat.

He barked out a cough at the sting, grimacing when more blood came up and landed on his chin.

“Wyatt, I fear I must apologize,” he whispered, staggering along as he was led up the front porch and inside, catching sight of the rest of the posse and who must be Henry Hooker standing in the kitchen as they passed.

“Ah, hell, Doc. Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for. Not like it was your decision to keel over off your horse,” Wyatt muttered back, kicking the door at the end of the hall open, which was thankfully empty. Before Doc could come up with a properly scathing response, he was pushed toward the bed and sat down on it.

He groaned weakly, forcing himself to stay upright and not just fall backwards.

“Gotta get your boots off. An’ some of your clothes,” Wyatt said, already kneeling down to pry Doc’s boots off.

He couldn’t help the faintest of smiles. “Why Wyatt, if you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask,” he murmured.

Snorting, Wyatt shook his head and dropped one boot to the floor, then the second. Doc resented the fact that he had to be undressed like a child, but he knew if left to his own devices, he’d be asleep with his spurs still on.

Carefully, Wyatt tugged off the coat he’d lent to Doc and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Soon, he was left only in his undershirt and pants. When Wyatt reached for them, he’d growled under his breath. He could only allow himself so many weaknesses in front of strangers, and he’d reached his limit ages ago. With some relief, Wyatt respected the refusal and withdrew his hand.

Satisfied that Doc was undressed enough to lie down, he helped Doc settle back against the pillows, pulling the blankets over him even though it was near a hundred outside and Doc was already drenched in sweat. Matter was, he was shivering damn near out of his skin, and if Wyatt tried to refuse him the blanket he was liable to finally snap.

Lying stiffly on his back and shivering, he felt a remarkably cool hand settle on his forehead.

“Sorry, Wyatt,” he whispered, knowing he was repeating himself, but he had to get it out before he fell asleep, because already he could feel himself fading.

“It’s alright, John. You just rest, now. Ain’t got nowhere to be for a short while,” Wyatt said, gently carding his hand through Doc’s sweaty hair.

He should’ve known he didn’t stand a chance. He was asleep before another damned coughing fit could claim him, Wyatt’s hand in his hair and the man’s forgiveness heavy in his stomach.

Doc slept through the night and most of the next day. His memories were… vague, at best. He remembered being wracked so badly with shivers that he felt as if he’d shake right off the bed. Remembered Wyatt’s hand holding his, talking quietly in a pitch black room once everyone had gone off to sleep.

Due to the fact that the hunt had stagnated because of Doc, he wasn’t all that surprised when Wyatt came into his room in the early evening, face stormy with news of Ringo. And, surprisingly, Josephine.

Covered in a cold sweat that was giving him intermittent shivers, Doc waited anxiously until Wyatt collapsed into the chair at his bedside to turn his head and raise an inquisitive eyebrow. Wyatt let out a long, slow sigh that ended with a grimace.

“McMasters is dead,” he said, tonelessly.

Doc was so shocked that a cough was startled out of him, long and hacking before he managed to push it down, rubbing at his burning chest furiously.

“Pardon?” He rasped, eyes wide.

Wyatt let out a humorless snort. “Said they wanted to talk to him. Came back strung ‘round his neck and tied to a horse. Beat to hell. Hardly recognizable.”

Doc couldn’t hide his own grimace, stomach turning nervously. Ringo was serious. Of course, Doc knew that the whole time, but he didn’t ever really think about just what Ringo would stoop to without Curly Bill as a buffer, because that’s surely what he was. Shoot a man, sure. But torture him? Where’s the honor in that?

Once again, Doc found himself thanking fate.

“Very unfortunate, indeed,” Doc muttered, a full-body shiver coming over him and causing him to pull the blankets more firmly around himself.

Suddenly, Wyatt’s face turned just the slightest bit amused, though it seemed more wry than genuine. “You know, Josephine stopped by here this morning,” he said, looking over at Doc.

Doc hummed, curious. “Is that so? And what, pray tell, did she have to say?”

“Their actor, the pretty one, got shot up just outside Tucson by some cowboys. They were stopping by just to water the horses. Didn’t stay long,” he relayed.

“Was Kate with them?” Doc asked, knowing already it was a bit of a stretch if Wyatt hadn’t already mentioned her presence.

Wyatt looked apologetic. “‘Fraid not,” he said resting a hand on Doc’s shoulder.

Doc tilted his head at the gesture, but didn’t say anything, not for a moment. “What message did Ringo have to send, Wyatt?”

From that moment to the next, Wyatt’s face turned thunderous again, though it was tinged with apprehension as well. “Told me we was to square off tomorrow at seven, just us two,” he murmured, the hand on Doc’s shoulder clenching just slightly.

Instantly, the apprehension made sense. Doc was feeling a bit of his own in the pit of his stomach, because already he knew that Ringo would kill Wyatt. It was almost a certainty, if left to his own devices. Wyatt was an excellent shot, but the length of Peacemaker’s barrel made it practically impossible to outdraw anyone with a lick of experience. He swallowed, suddenly feeling cold through his chest.

Sensing Doc’s silence for what it was, Wyatt stood and walked to the window, shoulders slumped and heavy. He couldn’t imagine what Wyatt was feeling, but he knew what he himself was: fear. Cut and dry, mind numbing terror. Because Wyatt had no chance, and Doc wasn’t allowed to stand at his side. He couldn’t just let Wyatt ride to his death to die in an inglorious pissing contest. Doc would rather choke on his own lungs for eternity than subject Wyatt to such an outing.

While Wyatt gathered his thoughts at the other end of the room, Doc did his own thinking.

Wyatt’s brooding lasted longer than Doc expected, because he could practically taste the man’s desperation in the air, but he soon broke the silence.

“I spent my whole life not knowin’ what I wanted out of life. Just chasin’ my tail,” he paused, slowly turning to lock clear blue eyes with Doc’s bleary ones. “Now, for the first time, I know exactly what I want, and who.”

He couldn’t look away. The intensity in Wyatt’s eyes, the sorrow hidden within, the love behind both emotions. Wyatt broke first, despite being the one to turn around, jerking his gaze aside and back out the window.

“And that’s the damnable misery of it,” he muttered, trailing off. Doc tried not to let it sting, knowing what he meant, but still. He wasn’t always the most rational man.

Restless, Wyatt turned around once more, but this time walked toward the entrance of the room, leaning on the frame and facing into the hallway. Doc could only stare.

“What makes a man like Ringo, Doc?” He asked. “What makes him do the things he does?”

Despite having an inkling that the question was rhetorical, Doc couldn’t help but posit an answer, even if it bared his own soul a little too much if Wyatt peered in too far.

“A man like Ringo… got a great, empty hole right through the middle of him,” he murmured, half breathless just from the effort of speaking. “He can never kill enough, or steal enough or inflict enough pain to ever fill it.”

“What does he need?” Wyatt demanded, half to himself and half to Doc. Doc took his half and ran with it.

“Revenge,” he said simply, letting Wyatt draw his own trigger-quick comparisons between Ringo and himself. As much as Doc was enamored by Wyatt’s fierce temper and sense of righteousness, there lied in the back of his mind a fear that Wyatt would never let this grudge go. That he’d be foul tempered and quick to anger for the rest of his life, rather than the sweetly awkward marshal who played a mean game of faro and a weak game of poker.

He would never truly reprimand Wyatt, for he could only go so far as a hypocrite, but he could remind him of his values all the same.

“For what?”

Swallowing, Doc debated with himself for several long seconds. Would it do to show his hand? Was he ready for Wyatt to see similarities not just between himself and Ringo, but more obviously between Doc and Ringo? Doc had known they were there since that first meeting, but he wasn’t sure Wyatt had ever made the connection.

“Bein’ born,” he finally said, voice raw.

As expected, Wyatt turned around, brow creased in concern, as he definitely hadn’t missed that self-deprecating lilt to Doc’s tone. He shook his head slightly, but Doc wasn’t sure what it was directed at.

His restless nature temporarily stymied, he walked back over and sat beside Doc on the bed, taking Doc’s over-warm hand gently.

“It all happened so fast, with Curly Bill, I didn’t really have time to think about it,” he admitted, and Doc could see where this was going. He clenched his hand in Wyatt’s grip. “But I’ve had plenty of time to think about this.”

Swallowing, Wyatt looked down at Doc like a horse who almost stepped on a rattlesnake, eyes wide and demeanor downright nervous.

“I can’t beat him, can I?”

Doc stared at him, unflinching even in his own overwhelming fear. “No,” he said, mouth turning down unhappily at the admission, even if it was one they were both expecting. Hearing it voiced aloud, though, made it uncomfortably real.

Wyatt jerked an awkward nod, mirroring Doc’s nerves. He looked away, slowly pulling his hand from Doc’s and squeezing his own two together, knuckles turning white from the force. He didn’t deny the veracity of Doc’s claim, and he was ashamed of it even as he was just the slightest bit proud of the trust placed in his opinion. Shame for not believing in Wyatt, but Doc was not one to pussyfoot around, not with Wyatt. He may lie, and he may talk in circles, but when it came to Wyatt, he was deadly serious when the situation called for it. He would not let Wyatt die to Doc’s own hubris.

It was then Wyatt began to stand, and Doc realized abruptly that the conversation had been deemed over. Time to put his own earlier thoughts into motion.

“Wait,” he started, pushing himself onto his elbows with an unfortunately real cough that just added to the pathetic image he was trying to cultivate for once. “I’m goin’ with you.”

Settling his hat firmly on his head, Wyatt just watched, eyes pained as Doc struggled to stand.

It burned a little, just how much of his act wasn’t a farce. He may be playing it up, but the coughing, the world-weary weight on his bones dragging him down, those were all real, so when he slumped back against the pillows, eyes screwed up in pain, it wasn’t all that hard to act up.

“Ah, God. I’m sorry,” he wheezed out, trying not to think about the second layer to his words, “I’m sorry Wyatt.”

Wyatt leaned back down over him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, John,” he repeated, distant.

Now for the hard part. Gasping a little, Doc asked, “What’s it like to wear one of those?” He was looking at Wyatt’s clearly polished badge.

The speed with which Wyatt handed it over left him ill at ease. Did the man truly believe that to be his dying wish? That he was dying then and there in the first place? If the stakes weren’t so high, he’d be pitching a fit over Wyatt’s clear lack of faith in Doc’s will to live, but now wasn’t the time. He had a star pinned to his chest, and a highly backhanded plan to execute.

He watched Wyatt leave, who was likely planning on camping out close to where the scene was supposed to take place the next morning, impatient to remain back at the ranch.

Doc would follow behind shortly, he knew. But first, he had a letter to write.

The owner of the ranch, Henry Hooker, was a nice sort of man. He apparently had promised Wyatt that no harm would befall him, despite not even knowing the sickly man. Goes to show the power of Wyatt’s conviction.

Still, the man’s kindness was a small nuisance when he was caught struggling to throw Keats’ tack over the bulk of his back, sagging under the weight. He’d managed to throw on one of his less dirty waistcoats left in his saddlebags, with his gray coat thrown over the top to fight off the impossible chill that was sunk into his bones.

Thankfully, Hooker could see the intensity in Doc’s eyes when he told the man of his promise to always protect Wyatt. That he’d followed him and his cause this far, like hell was he going to lie in bed while Wyatt got shot to hell. He didn’t stand in the way after Doc said those words, though he did sling Keats’ saddle over the horse for Doc, who grunted an uncomfortable thanks as he set to tightening everything proper.

He felt somber eyes on his back as he rode off, the sun having just set to the point that the sky was a deep, mellow purple.

He’d left a letter for Kate on the table in their little dining room with a small request for it to be posted for him. He’d set a couple quarters on the paper to cover postage, as he hadn’t been able to find a stamp in the house.

The letter wasn’t long, which went against his usual manner of speech, but he was too impatient to wax poetic to Kate, who he knew would only skim it for the important bits and didn’t care for his loquacious nature. On its single page, which he’d found slightly crinkled in a bedside drawer, detailed what he’d come to find out about Josephine and their lead actor. At the bottom, circled and underlined, he’d just written: Follow her. The address for their place in Tombstone was written in his finest scrawl, clear for even the dullest postman to get right. He needed that letter to get to its recipient, for her own sake more than Doc’s. Even miles away and two people between them, he was still aching for her happiness.

He rode slow, following the obvious tracks of Wyatt, Creek and Jack. He’d overheard the men talking about the showdown taking place at Silver Springs canyon, so it wasn’t too hard to veer in that direction once he got a little too close to where he knew Wyatt and the others to be camping.

He eyed the copse of trees as he spurred Keats nearer, thinking. Where would Ringo want something like this to go down? Private, surely, so nowhere near the mouth where anyone could watch. Somewhere deeper in, likely. Up high, so he could watch Wyatt come to him. Mouth twisting wryly, his gaze trailed up to the highest point he could see, shrouded in trees.

Looks like he had a destination.

Doc spent the night resting against the warm side of Keats, who he’d coaxed into lying down. He hadn’t bothered to make a fire, and his dinner was just canned beans he’d scrounged up from the bottom of a saddlebag.

With all his nerves, he wasn’t too surprised when he woke up just before sunrise, pink just visible on the horizon as he stretched out, squinting his eyes at the light.

With a jaw-cracking yawn, he set about putting Keats’ tack back on him, cleaning both his colts after he did so to kill the rest of the time. His guns were almost always immaculate, temperamental on the best of days, he couldn’t afford them to fall into disrepair. The hammer was finicky enough as it was.

Finally, it was getting near enough to seven that he liked his chances of seeing Ringo up top, should his guess prove accurate. He grimaced. If he was wrong, it was Wyatt’s life. Swinging on top of Keats with a stifled grunt, he thought to himself, No pressure…

“C’mon, boy,” he muttered, kicking lightly at Keats’ flank. “Let us go save an idiot.”

His ride up and around the canyon, into the trees overlooking the drop, was quiet. The tension he had to be imagining was palpable, and his nervousness made Keats’ ears flicker.

The sudden and immediate dissipation of the pit in his stomach once he caught sight of Ringo’s horse hidden behind a bush, opposite the way Wyatt would be coming up, made the relief rush to his head dizzyingly fast. He exhaled, ignoring the burn as he did so. Couldn’t help a slight smile form as he tied Keats up near Ringo’s horse. Silently, he peered through the foliage, catching a glint of what had to be Ringo’s gun as he flicked it around his finger in boredom.

Good, Wyatt hadn’t shown yet.

Absently, he pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket and took one out, lighting it before the wind took the flame of his match. He shook it out and tossed it aside, drawing in a loud, rasping breath while he pocketed the case once more. No more time to stall. Now or never.

Slowly, he made his way over to where Ringo was leaning against a tree, coat fluttering dramatically around him as he went. If he were to die, it would be in style. And if he must kill, well, better make it a good story, at least.

“Well!” Ringo called once he noticed the form walking toward him, head snapping in the direction of Doc’s footsteps once they’d registered. He hadn’t bothered to quiet them.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Mused Ringo, sauntering his way forward. Doc felt almost insulted. How could he not tell it wasn’t Wyatt lumbering toward him, but the lunger he claimed to hate so much? Yes, he felt almost insulted, but mostly he found it funny. Irony was a different breed of humor, and Doc was its most devoted disciple.

Coming out of the relative shade of the trees, he knew Ringo could no longer delude himself into believing it was Wyatt he was about to face. He pulled his cigarette from his bottom lip and blew out the smoke, peering across the clearing at Ringo’s suddenly ashen face.

“I’m your huckleberry,” he said, tilting his head and taking another draw, a cough forcing itself out against his will.

“Why, Johnny Ringo,” he drawled, forcing himself to keep from smiling wickedly. “You look like somebody just walked over your grave.”

Ringo’s nervous swallow was visible, and a curl of twisted pleasure formed in Doc’s stomach.

“Fight’s not with you, Holliday,” Ringo tried, taking a slow step back.

“I’ll beg to differ, sir,” Doc retorted, holding up a finger to back his point. “We started a game we never got to finish.” A short cough forced him to pause, and he sneered a little to cover up his anger over it. “Play for blood, remember?” He took another draw while Ringo tried to come up with a response.

“I was just foolin’ about,” Ringo lied, eyes flitting about nervously.

Doc smiled slightly, finally letting that feral look overtake his features. He let the smoke slowly curl out of his mouth and nose, ignoring the burn.

“I wasn’t.”

He watched Ringo shuffle about, saw how he kept glancing back like he thought Wyatt’s arrival would save him.

“And this time,” Doc said, sticking his cigarette between his teeth while he pulled aside his coat to show off Wyatt’s shiny badge. “It’s legal.”

Ringo’s face morphed into some sort of anger, though it seemed more borne out of frustration than true fury.

“We coulda been somethin’ real pretty, you and I!” Ringo snarled, taking a step forward and pointing an accusing finger at Doc’s chest. “Coulda burnt this fuckin’ country to ash and gotten drunk off the spoils.” He seemed to run out of steam, then, arm dropping back to his side. “We coulda been somethin’,” he finally said, stepping back to where he was before.

Doc was only a little surprised that Ringo had apparently felt that same spark Doc had. He didn’t know how he didn’t realize, looking back at how that scene at the Oriental unfolded. It vindicated him a little, to understand he wasn’t alone in this knowledge, something even Wyatt didn’t know.

“We sure could have,” Doc agreed, taking another hit of his smoke as he watched Ringo through narrowed eyes. “But I’m glad we never had the chance.”

A sneer appeared on Ringo’s face, his eyes glinting. “All because of ol’ goody Wyatt, right?” He demanded, snorting in disbelief. “He don’t appreciate you for what you’re capable of, Holliday. Not like I would.”

Eyebrows raising in shock, Doc stared across at Ringo. “Are you seriously trying to get me to double cross Wyatt? Now?” He laughed, not able to fathom the delusions Ringo must believe to think Doc would turn this late in the game.

“Had you asked me after my first meeting with Wyatt, I may have agreed,” Doc granted, tilting his head. “But it’s been years now, friend. You’d have to rip out my still beating heart before I’d go against Wyatt.”

Ringo’s face just continued to darken in anger, clearly seeing he wasn’t going to get his way. “You love him,” he stated, voice plain. “That’s it, ain’t it?”

“Now, how did you come to that conclusion?” Doc drawled sarcastically, mouth twisting wryly.

Ringo’s eyes narrowed. “Alright, lunger. Let’s do it,” he growled, signaling the conversation was at its demise. Doc swallowed, his own nerves beginning to ratchet higher. His cigarette was burned nearly to his fingers, but he was reluctant to drop it.

The switch-up between the two of them was almost dizzying with how quickly it happened, because seconds later they were circling each other like a pair of hungry dogs, Doc’s cigarette threatening biting heat at the skin of his fingers.

He kept his eyes locked on Ringo’s face, unwavering. Looking for the slightest twitch to indicate his next move. His life depended on Ringo’s bluffing face, after all.

They both came to a slow stop, and Doc took another draw, gaze never leaving Ringo. The tension between them was making his skin crawl, and he felt a bead of sweat roll down his back under his shirt, and another was forming high on his forehead, gravity threatening it to the same fate.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. “Say when,” he goaded, forcing a smirk onto his face to gain even more of Ringo’s ire.

He watched the other man’s hand slowly trail up to the grip of his gun, sticking out of its holster. In response, he tapped an impatient finger on his own.

In a fraction of a second, the tension snapped and Ringo finally committed to grabbing the whole grip. It was in that moment that Doc was supremely grateful for his own peculiar use of the cavalry draw, for he was able to rip his gun up and out and aim just under his raised left arm before Ringo could fully clear leather.

At that point, it was simply a matter of squeezing the trigger, a motion Doc was intimately familiar with. The action was smooth, the recoil absorbed, and the sound ignored even as it echoed loudly in the brush.

The haze of adrenaline cleared from his vision, and there was a hole in Ringo’s forehead. He swallowed as he watched the man try and aim still, not realizing he was already a dead man walking.

“Come on,” he called, unable to help himself even as he felt nausea twist up his throat. This man was the final major stronghold between he and Wyatt having the closest thing to a peaceful life two gunslingers could ever manage, but God, did Doc want to try. “Come on!”

Ringo choked. Stumbled forward. Some kind of knee-jerk response in him was able to fire a shot, but it beat harmlessly into the dirt. The worst it did was spray Doc’s boots with grass.

“Oh, Johnny. Come on!” He snarled, baring his teeth at a man so far gone he wouldn’t even be able to tell. Briefly, Doc was unable to keep himself from mourning what could have been, having it put down so obviously in front of him. Happy as he was with Wyatt, that vicious side of him always wanted an excuse to be let loose no matter what.

“You’re no daisy,” Doc scoffed, watching Ringo slowly stumble toward the tree he’d been leaning on earlier. “You’re no daisy at all!”

Finally, Ringo’s body gave out. He fell to the ground, dead the second he hit dirt. Kneeling beside him, Doc said, “Poor soul,” and meant it. Ringo was all of Doc’s own rougher qualities had they been entrusted to a man intent on exploiting them, instead of wearing them down for another’s own purpose. He had to sympathize, because in another world, it could have been him leaking blood from a hole in the head on the ground.

He unclipped Wyatt’s badge and set it gently on Ringo’s still chest. “You were just too high strung,” he lamented.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, the sound of hurried footsteps behind him, considering two live rounds were just fired in a highly secluded area. The shots were likely heard for miles, with how high up they were. Still, he whipped his head back once he heard crunching leaves, but the grip he’d had on his colt loosened and fell to the side once he saw it was only Wyatt. He was a little surprised no cowboys had rode up to see to the noise, but tried not to think too hard on it.

Wyatt had stopped at the edge of the clearing, staring at Doc in open disbelief, his eyes slowly trailing to Ringo’s body. Doc followed his gaze.

Standing on creaking knees, he said, “I'm afraid the strain was more than he could bear.” He watched Wyatt slowly creep closer, Peacemaker still drawn, though the man’s finger wasn’t on the trigger. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, Doc feared that gun would be turned on him, for this betrayal of Wyatt’s trust, but he quickly scolded himself for such unloyal thoughts.

He may have acted disloyally, but disloyal that did not make him.

Wyatt stood there beside him, mouth open in shock at the sight of Doc’s haggard but clearly upright appearance.

With a wry smile, Doc tilted his head and said, “Oh, I wasn’t quite as sick as I made out.”

Seeming to accept that answer, Wyatt holstered his revolver while he stepped toward Ringo, peering down at his bloodied visage. “Good, God,” he muttered.

Carefully, Wyatt picked up the badge on Ringo’s chest and turned back to Doc, face questioning.

“My hypocrisy goes only so far,” he drawled, though what he meant was This kill is yours to claim.

Wyatt stood just then and stepped into Doc’s personal space. “Alright. Let’s finish it,” he said, putting his hand forward to shake with a bemused grin. Doc noticed he didn’t try to deny Doc’s unspoken offer, and he was quietly grateful.

He reached his hand forward as well, humoring Wyatt. “Indeed, sir,” he agreed. “The last charge of Wyatt Earp and his Immortals.”

It was quick work, after that, to hunt down the rest of the cowboys. Word of Curly Bill and Ringo’s deaths had managed to spread throughout all of Arizona. Most of the boys either ran to Mexico or threw down their red bandanas in a panic once they saw Wyatt on their tails.

Still, it remained that Ike Clanton was a thorn in their sides. Forever eluding the posse, though never renouncing his loyalties, still proudly flying red and spreading word that he’d be the one to put an end to Wyatt’s wrath.

After a grueling two weeks when the group was beginning to run out of steam, they caught wind of Ike being back around Tombstone. Up near Tucson to prevent some cowboys from catching the line across the country, it wasn’t too hard to wrangle up the supplies they needed and pull a fast one eighty back south, pushing their tired horses to the limit, as well as their own bodies.

Every day after Ringo’s death, Doc silently prayed for this ride to end soon. The relapse he’d had at Hooker ranch never really got better, it never had the chance. Instead, he just drank a frankly staggering amount of watered down whiskey and slept in the saddle with his horse tied to Wyatt’s. The circles under his eyes were downright horrendous, and the shakiness to his hands frustrated and frightened him. His aim was everything. It was all he could offer Wyatt. He had no muscles with which to work, no iron fist to beat men down. He had a silver tongue and a wicked aim, and it felt as if both attributes were being forcefully stripped from his being with each passing day.

Still, he kept his pitying thoughts to himself and continued to follow behind Wyatt, day after day under the merciless Arizona sun.

Doc forced himself to stay awake during the ride back to Tombstone, for the sole reason of keeping Keats motivated. If Doc wasn’t murmuring to him or scratching his neck, his head would start to droop and he’d fall behind the rest of the group. As it was, his breaths came in great bellows and Doc’s pants were soaked through from horse sweat. He was dripping foam and lather behind them as they went, and Doc had to call a request to Wyatt multiple times to stop for water. He’d had Keats damn near ten years, like hell was he going to lose him chasing Ike Clanton.

The closer they got to Tombstone, the more he murmured promises of unlimited apples and sugar cubes and nice soft hay in the finest stable money could buy.

Finally, just when Doc was getting genuinely concerned Keats was going to drop, he saw the barely looming sight of Tombstone in the distance. Inordinately relieved, he just continued to pat Keats’ drooping neck as they plodded closer. The other’s horses seemed to be faring a little better, but Doc assumed it was because they were more suited to traveling long distances than Keats.

Their ride back into Tombstone received more fanfare than Doc was expecting, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been so surprised. They’d been gone over a month, only to return dusty and haggard and down a man. There was a noticeable lack of Behan, and Doc had to wonder if the man had gone to ground or if he was just avoiding the posse in town somewhere.

And, he realized as he turned toward the stables, there was a distinct lack of Kate’s flowing skirts. He hummed distractedly, curious. He’d have to check the post office while they were here, see if she left a copy of her letter in Tombstone just in case for him. He didn’t really desire to ride all the way back to Hooker’s ranch for a letter.

His attention was soon drawn toward the stable workers, who looked stressed at the sight of Doc’s horse. One of the men went to work on pulling off the horse’s tack, revealing all the white lather beneath. He walked Keats in after, having gotten out of the saddle as soon as they hit town limits, and led him into an open stall a worker was holding open for him.

Doc watched as almost as soon as the stall door was shut, Keats’ legs folded under him and he laid down. With a frown, he turned toward the owner who was also observing. “We’ll give him about ten minutes to cool off before we’ll go in an’ rinse him off an’ brush him down,” he said, noticing Doc’s apprehension.

Quickly, Doc rifled through his saddlebags before resurfacing with a wad of loose bills, shoving them into the stable owner’s hands. “Give him the finest treatment this establishment can afford,” he ordered curtly, eyes straying to the other side of the stable, where the spare horses were kept.

“And while I am here, friend, can I borrow one of your horses for a short while?”

While the owner seemed pleased by the money, he looked a little hesitant at the prospect of leaving a horse in Doc’s care. A little amused, Doc followed up his request with, “I promise you, I will only require this horse for one short ride. He will not be ridden near as hard as my steed in the hay did.”

Only a little comforted by Doc’s words, he turned to his own horses with a thoughtful hum.

“What kinda horse?”

Ike’s blubbering face flashed in his mind. His scurrying legs as he fled any scene of conflict.

Doc grinned, teeth glinting in the dimmer lighting. “Something fast.”

He rode out of the stables in no time at all, sat atop a prancing quarter horse. Doc had deigned the thoroughbreds too dainty for him. A quick glance down the street showed Wyatt’s horse still tied up to a post outside the livery, so Doc took the opportunity to check the post office.

The clerk noticed him immediately and perked up a little. “Mr. Holliday!” He greeted, sitting up from where he’d been slouching over the counter.

“Mr. Turner,” Doc replied, dipping his hat lightly. He watched the postman turn around to dig through one of his drawers, the sound of rustling paper loud in the otherwise empty room. Finally, with a noise of triumph, the man resurfaced with a letter that even from across the room, Doc could see the lipstick stained kiss on the envelope.

Turner looked a little sheepish as he handed it over to Doc. “Your woman gave it to me for safekeeping ‘fore she left town, in case someone broke into y’alls place,” he relayed, watching Doc peel open the envelope and squint at Kate’s fine script.

The letter was just about as curt as the one he’d sent her a few weeks prior, saying only that she wished Doc well and that she was going to take Doc’s advice and go after Joesphine. She ended it by saying that she’d update Doc of what ends up happening in a couple weeks, and that she hoped he was still alive by then. He smiled, just slightly.

Folding it back to its crisp lines, he tucked it away in a pocket and looked back at the postman. “Have you got some paper for me?”

Turner looked painfully amused. “Mr. Holliday, this is a post office.” Realizing his mistake, Doc huffed out a self deprecating laugh and held up his hands placatingly.

“My apologies. May I borrow your preexisting paper?” He corrected, wry.

Turner grinned and handed over a sheet of paper and a pen.

Doc muttered a distracted thanks before setting to work. Quickly, he wrote that the ride was nearly over, and that after he would be heading to Colton, California with Wyatt, which was where any replies to this letter should be sent. Thus satisfied, he stuck it in an envelope before digging through his pocket for the crumpled paper of Josephine’s tour schedule he’d managed to dig up some weeks past. It said she’d be in Salt Lake City for the next few weeks, so he asked Turner for the post office address in the city and wrote it on the envelope, handing it over once finished.

Walking out, Doc tipped his hat once more to Turner’s warm farewell and climbed back onto the quarter horse, setting off down the street toward where he last saw Wyatt.

Their stop in Tombstone was a brief one. The rest of the posse followed Doc’s lead and swapped out their horses before hauling out of town limits just as the sun was beginning to dip down toward the dusty horizon.

Ike was apparently making a run for the Mexican border, despite all his bravado toward Wyatt. Doc wasn’t all too surprised that the man decided to tuck tail and run when all the heat left was on him.

It wasn’t too hard to find his tracks, at least. Creek informed them that they were only a few hours old, and if they rode hard they’d be able to catch up before nightfall. They were all a little grateful to have swapped out their horses, for their old group was too tired and run down to do more than trot exhaustedly.

With a swig or three of whiskey for fortification, Doc dug his heels in and gave chase alongside Wyatt, racing to beat Ike to the border.

Creek was right. They managed to catch up to Ike and a few of his tagalongs about half an hour from the border with ten minutes left of sunshine. The followers, upon seeing the vengeful cloud of dust behind them, wasted no time in dropping their reds and veering away from Ike, leaving the man to run by himself. Doc would’ve laughed, had he the air in his lungs for it. As it was, he was forcing down the coughing fit that’d been clawing at his throat the past hour to keep his focus. Once Ike was taken care of, he’d allow himself a moment of weakness. Or five. However many he could hold to his chest, perhaps. Caved in as it was from sickness, he figured he could fit a good few in the cavity.

In the end, it was fairly anticlimactic. They got close enough to see the whites of Ike’s eyes when he turned around to see Wyatt’s gun pointed right at his heart. With zero hesitation and shaking hands, Ike ripped off his bandana and let it flow out behind him.

Movement caught Doc’s eye, and he snapped his head around to find what looked like Behan tearing off back to Tombstone. He smiled, bemused. At least now he knew why Behan wasn’t there to welcome them back to his town with open arms, though perhaps he would be when they returned. Doc wanted to see the shame in the man’s eyes as he rode past. The fury at being outdone.

He turned back toward the group, which had begun to slow at Ike’s surrender, and found Wyatt’s eyes following Behan’s trail already. However, even from that distance, the faint sight of a red kerchief blowing about in the wake of hoofbeats was enough for them to leave the man alone. For the moment, that was. Doc didn’t think the man should do anything to provoke Wyatt while they were still in town. He didn’t think it would take much to set him off and say damn the consequences.

As the rest of the posse stopped to watch Ike’s figure retreating over the border, Doc and Wyatt locked eyes. For just a moment, there was a clear understanding that this ride was finally over. Doc was searching Wyatt’s face for any resentment over the fact, but found only his own tired relief reflected back at him. The emotion welling in his chest multiplied by tenfold. Weeks, he’d been afraid that once this was over, Wyatt would resent the lack of action and continue on mercilessly or to stick his nose into trouble until he ended up shot or hanged.

But, looking at the way Wyatt’s shoulders were sagging forward and how his eyes were soft and open in their exhaustion, Doc had hope.

That night at the Oriental with the moon high overhead on a cloudless night, Wyatt formally dissolved the posse. He informed the men that once he received the money from the bounties that had been placed on the few they’d hunted down, it was theirs to keep. Doc knew this to mean they were staying in town at least another week while all the affairs were sorted. He tried not to be impatient about it, but Christ, he was sick of Tombstone. If he ever heard the name or saw the same shade of sand the town housed, it would be far, far too soon.

He spent the week packing up what things he had left in his apartment, trying to ignore the Kate sized hole missing within it. When he wasn’t packing or sleeping off the past month’s sheer exhaustion, he was gambling and drinking while Wyatt supervised.

Those evenings were his favorites, he could admit. Because Wyatt would either stand right behind him with his hand on his shoulder while peering at Doc’s losing hand that he was bluffing his way out of, or would sit right beside him with a hand hidden on Doc’s thigh. Either were preferable to the nights Wyatt stayed sequestered away in his house, brooding.

Thankfully, the money from the bounties came in with the last mail coach of the week, and the day after that, Wyatt’s house was put on the market. He didn’t care to stick around to see it be sold, and gave the retailer his parent’s address to inform him once it was sold, just as his brothers had done with their own places.

In no time at all, Doc and Wyatt had rented a wagon for their combined items, and were riding out of town at an ungodly hour that had Doc muttering irritably under his breath. Wyatt only cheerfully told him that he didn’t want to deal with a large farewell, and Doc begrudgingly agreed.

Keats, tied to the back of the wagon beside Beauty, was nearly good as new, though he still walked with a bit of a limp, but the local ferrier informed him it would go away within a few weeks. Doc had no plan of riding the poor horse as hard as he did again, so he didn’t mind the enforced rest he and his horse were being prescribed.

The ride to Tucson was peaceful, with none of the same anxiety that bogged down their last trip.

When they stopped that first night, they rented the same room as the last time they’d rode through. In it, Wyatt had pressed Doc into the soft mattress and made the man breathless for all the right reasons, murmuring sweet nothings into Doc’s ears after they’d finished and were curled up together.

The next day when they finally arrived at the train station, all Doc could think as he stared at the giant steam engine patiently waiting for its passengers to board, was that finally, his future did not seem to be so bleak and doomed to a lonely death.

He boarded their carriage, sitting beside Wyatt, and welcomed what came next. He only hoped he would live long enough to see it through.

Wyatt’s hand placed on his knee brought him out of his thoughts, and he met the man’s questioning gaze with a tilt of his head.

“You ready?” Wyatt murmured.

Doc grinned. “With you, Wyatt? Always.”

Chapter Text

It was a two day ride to Colton. Most of the first day, Doc slept, to be frank. Even with the week of respite in Tombstone, he never felt rested. Always wary, always having one hand near his revolvers.

He woke to find his head on Wyatt’s shoulder, where it must have been resting for quite a while since the sun was much lower in the sky than when he’d drifted off. The other man just seemed amused more than anything, lips quirking up in a slight smile at the sight of Doc’s disgruntled state upon waking.
“You could have shoved me off, you know,” Doc muttered, forcing his heavy body to sit up straight, wincing at the amount of cracks it elicited in his back. His own fault for sleeping at an angle, really.

Wyatt smiled more obviously. “Just us two in this part of the train. Not a busy route,” he replied, shrugging off Doc’s unimpressed face at the man’s poor excuse.

“Old sap,” Doc huffed, though his voice was inordinately fond.

A quick glance from Wyatt confirmed there truly were no other passengers around, and then the fool leaned over and pressed a lingering kiss to Doc’s bristly cheek. His amused exhale was felt against the nape of Doc’s neck when he jerked back a little in surprise.

“‘Course I am. Someone’s gotta keep you humble,” Wyatt mused, murmuring the words against Doc’s cheek and pulling away once he finished.

Doc only side eyed Wyatt, cheeks just faintly red as he smoothed out a wrinkle in his shirt distractedly.

Wyatt stayed smartly silent after that, but Doc could feel the smug amusement radiating off the man for miles and miles while Doc tried to read a book.

The second day was when Doc started to notice the tension that had been missing from Wyatt’s shoulders the last week beginning to creep back in. His leg began to bounce and his hands were clutching his knees so tightly the knuckles were white. Doc knew he’d be sore if he kept it up too long, but decided to say nothing.

Finally, the uncomfortable silence was enough for Doc to slap his copy of Moby Dick down onto his thighs and turn to Wyatt, irritated.

“Why are you so troubled?” Doc demanded, eyes narrowed. “Because after everything we’ve been through, this train ride is perhaps the happiest thing to happen to me in months, and I just cannot fathom why you of all people are upset to be seeing your own family once more.”

Sheepish, Wyatt’s grip on his knees ceased once his attention was ripped from his own clearly tumultuous thoughts. “Have I ever told you of my youth?” He asked, head tilted while he looked at Doc.

Blinking at the perceived non-sequitur, Doc said, “No, but what does that have to do with anything?”

Wyatt’s face turned rueful, and Doc forced himself to be patient.

“I was not always in such good graces with the law,” he admitted, adding hurriedly, “minus this whole cowboy business, I suppose.”

Doc looked at him, silently urging him to continue with a small nod.

“There was a woman, when I was just barely outta boyhood. Urilla.” A wry smile twisted his face and he muttered, “It’s always a girl.” He sighed, tilting his head back against the uncomfortable seat, shifting a little. “We got married, had a baby on the way. Then just a little before she was due, Typhoid came through the town. She got sick… Real sick. Didn’t make it, neither did the baby.”

Doc’s heart twisted uncomfortably in his chest. He thought he should be more unhappy to be finding out about such an important facet of Wyatt’s life, but couldn’t quite rally up the emotion. He knew now.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, feeling bad for such a token response.

Wyatt only hummed, gently taking one of Doc’s hands from where it was resting on the cover of his book.

“I am just a little ashamed to admit that I lost control for a while after she passed. I’d been sitting as a deputy-in-training with the sheriff at the time, so I started seeing what I could get away with,” he said, eyes going distant at dredging up near ancient memories.

Doc tightened his grip on Wyatt’s hand, but his eyes were sparking with curiosity. Learning something new about Wyatt was always an enjoyable activity. Kept him from marking Wyatt as some sort of complete figure in his mind. He was America untamed, with new rivers and valleys and rolling hills being etched tirelessly onto a care-worn map, creased and stained; the texture pleasant on his fingers.

“Started lifting cash off the guys we brought in. Once that got tired, I took a bit of a leap. Starting rustling horses, since we got along better’n me an’ cattle,” he admitted, absently rubbing his thumb back and forth over one of Doc’s knuckles. “No big surprise, I got caught after a few months. Was so afraid I’d get hanged I was shakin’ like a leaf,” he snorted.

As Wyatt was clearly still alive and if not completely well, only a little battered, he prompted, “But?”

Wyatt sighed. “But, the sheriff knew what had happened. Gave me a second chance. Had me sorting his paperwork and cleaning out the jailhouse for months. Finally, he figured me as honest as I’d get and let me go. Left for Dodge pretty soon after. Haven’t really been back since.”

“Never took you for such a dark horse, Wyatt,” Doc remarked, just slightly impressed at finding out about Wyatt’s misspent youth. He’d figured the man to be almost a Quaker up until he hit thirty. Doc was delighted to be proved wrong.

Wyatt looked bemused at Doc’s obvious pleasure. “Yeah, well, I gotta keep up with your wild stories somehow.”

Doc just continued to smile as he brought he and Wyatt’s conjoined hands up, pressing a lingering kiss to the other man’s knuckles.

They sat like that for a while, hastily pulling their hands apart when they heard an attendant walking down the aisles to inform everyone that they’d be arriving soon.

Doc watched the trees flash by, leaving behind only a green impression when he closed his eyes. He was grateful for the distinct lack of sand.

The nearness of their destination began to rankle on Doc’s nerves as they had on Wyatt’s. Staying in Colton was only a temporary measure, and they both knew it. But what next? Where would they go? He thought of his lungs with a grimace. Where could they go? The idea of restricting Wyatt to more dry climes upset him, but he also couldn’t quite imagine Wyatt enjoying the hot and humid south from which Doc had been raised. Additionally, he couldn’t see the man loving a place with frequent blizzards.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wyatt with his eyes closed, though he was clearly still awake. He swallowed. God, he didn’t want to be the one to breach this subject, but the idea of putting it off until they were standing on the train platform out of Colton was a far more daunting prospect.

“Wyatt,” he murmured, prompting the man to open his eyes blearily, having apparently managed to doze off, somehow. Doc swallowed, ignoring the burn that came with it. “This question is beginning to grow tired, I fear, but what are we going to do once we’re done visiting your family?”

Wyatt blinked, looking genuinely thoughtful. It wouldn’t surprise Doc if he were to learn that Wyatt hadn’t spared a thought in the direction of their future prior to this. He decided not to ask.

“I’m not sure,” he decided, peering over at Doc. “I know I’m done with the law. I can’t imagine you’ll be itching to ride in a posse again,” he said, smiling a little at Doc’s disgruntled expression.

He hummed, scratching at the denim on his jeans absently. “I’d like to work with horses, maybe,” he admitted. “Settle down on some property. Break in colts. Wear out all our tack driving horses in circles to keep ‘em calm,” murmured Wyatt, losing himself to the daydream a little.

Doc felt a small pang. “And where am I in these visions of grandeur?”

Wyatt refocused on him, smile soft and fleeting. “Beside me, of course. Perhaps running your own practice on weekdays. On the weekends we sit out on the front porch and watch the sunset. Drink for pleasure.”

There was a distinct burning in his chest that he could unfortunately confirm as being entirely separate from his sickness. “These are some mighty fine ideas, Wyatt. But just where would we go?”

Here, Wyatt shrugged. “Hadn’t gotten that far. Figured we could ask around about some land while we stay in Colton. Pick up some papers and see what’s for offer,” he said, voice resolute with the beginnings of a plan.

Doc looked at Wyatt, more intensely than he really meant to. Looked like he’d underestimated the depths of Wyatt’s feelings for him. Again. He hurriedly shifted his gaze to see the trees out the window once more, though they were beginning to thin out into farmland and the outskirts of a burgeoning town could just distantly be seen. He had to stop doing that, underestimating Wyatt. It never seemed to go the way he was expecting.

They fell into a contemplative silence, with the excitement of seeing Virgil and Morgan in just a little while hanging over their heads.

Pulling into the station was a fairly average affair. There were a few people crowded about, clearly awaiting the return of some family member or other. Doc was relieved to note that it wasn’t an exceptionally full platform. He wasn’t all that surprised though, since it wasn’t the holiday season.

He couldn’t fight a smile when he caught sight of two distinct figures standing just near the edge, clearly peering into the windows as they slid by.

Wyatt found them seemingly just after Doc did, and he straightened up just a little. The train was creaking to a complete stop when Morgan’s eyes finally met his. The man broke out into a wide grin, elbowing Virgil-- on his good side-- and pointing at Doc and Wyatt’s carriage. Virgil, unamused but still pleased, waved a hand once he caught sight of the two men.

It didn’t take too long before the sound of the doors swishing open reached Doc and Wyatt’s ears. They both stood at the same time, knocking elbows with sheepish grins before gathering what things they’d carried on with them. Getting their horses and the rest of their things was going to be an ordeal. Doc hoped the brothers had brought a wagon.

Finally, it was time to step off the train and onto the platform, Doc followed at Wyatt’s heels while trying not to cough in his sleeve at the sudden change in air quality. The air was muggy and smoky, which was doing him no favors, but he was going through a decent period and was able to swallow down the urge to cough, but just barely.

“Wyatt!” Morgan cried, rushing forward excitedly. Doc was startled to see his own cane in Morgan’s hand as he limped over. It took him a moment to remember he’d given it to Virgil. At least it was getting good use, he mused, watching Virgil follow behind Morgan at a more sedate pace.

“Morg!” Wyatt called back, voice warm as he embraced his brother, the both of them clutching each other tightly.

Doc met eyes with Virgil over the other two’s heads and found himself already being studied. He couldn’t really imagine what the man was able to glean, other than the fact that Doc was marginally tanner and a whole lot thinner. He hoped to change the second detail, though, now that they wouldn’t be chasing circles around a whole desert state.

His attention was stolen from Virgil by a sudden collision from Morgan.

“Doc! Missed ya too, you reprobate,” Morgan said, holding Doc almost as tightly as he’d done Wyatt.

He stood stiff for a moment before relaxing into the hold, his own fond smile creeping onto his face.

“Hello, Morgan. I have missed you too, my friend,” he murmured, pulling away to get a good look at Morgan. He was sure the other man was doing the same thing, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Morgan looked a hell of a lot better than when he’d departed. He’d gotten the color back to his face, and other than the limp, seemed to be in good health.

They were both interrupted by Virgil’s gruff voice intoning, “Come on, fellas. We oughta go round up your things. I’d like to be home for supper; ma made corn bread for you, Wyatt.”

The gleam in Wyatt’s eyes was unmistakable, and Doc hid a smile under his hand as he followed the brothers to go collect their belongings.

Settling in didn’t take all that long, to Doc’s relief. He and Wyatt were both placed in the attic, which had two twin beds on opposite sides of the room, though they both just crammed into the same one each night once they were sure everyone downstairs had gone to bed. Morgan and Louisa had one room, Virgil and Allie the second, and their parents with the third. Overall, Doc was just happy he didn’t have to sleep in the barn.

Being it was California, being up there during the daylight hours was unbearable, so they both ended up being woken by the heat an hour or so after the sun rose each morning.

To Wyatt, this meant he could get a headstart on his chores, as he’d taken to caring for the horses. For Doc, it meant that he’d commandeer Morgan’s empty bed for another couple hours before blearily forcing himself to finally get around.

Wyatt’s parents were about what Doc had been expecting. His mother was a stern but kindly woman who glowered when she saw Doc drinking whiskey, but played a mean game of poker once her husband went off to bed. Their father was a quiet, looming presence in the house, but not an aggressive one. He just knew how he wanted things to be and how to keep them that way. That saying, Doc tried to avoid being around the man alone.

He was quietly grateful that neither of them much minded his ailment, though that may have more to do with the fact that they stuck him up in the attic where they didn’t have to hear him cough up half a lung. And while Wyatt’s mother disapproved of his drinking, she never verbally reprimanded him for it. As a sign of good will, he tried not to drink around her too often.

When Doc wasn’t following after Wyatt like a lost dog or bothering the other residents of the house with inane chatter, he sat on the front porch and smoked intermittently, watching the wheat in the distance sway in the breeze.

He felt a little bad for not contributing more for his stay, but both Wyatt and Morgan have told him that they had plenty of hands to get things sorted. Doc could see the tired pleasure in Wyatt’s eyes when he came to bed each night. After chasing after cowboys and looking over his shoulder the past year, Doc could tell the calm tranquility of manual labor on a farm was like a balm over a sunburn that hadn’t had a chance to heal.

Being able to catch up with Morgan as well was… nice. Nicer than he was expecting, at least. It was nice to know that Morgan truly did value their friendship as much as Doc did. And his dog didn’t seem to mind Doc’s presence on the front porch with him all that much either. They kept each other company while the brothers worked, though he’d always get up, tail a-wagging once Morgan came back into view.

After a few, calm, peaceful weeks of not having to worry about cowboys or incensed gambling partners, Doc began to notice he was finally gaining back some of the weight he’d lost. Not only that, but his lungs seemed to be in a state of fine-but-could-be-worse. He still got short of breath easily, coughed even easier, but the amount of fits that ended with him collapsing or throwing up blood had petered out. Seemed that doctor in Tombstone may have been a little right about his night time activities, he thought wryly.

In the end, it did surprise him just slightly how long it took he and Wyatt to try and get more intimate beyond a few heated kisses in the dead of night, when even the crickets had stopped chirping. It was about a month into their stay, and Doc was probably the happiest he’d been in years, and Wyatt looked the most relaxed Doc had ever seen him. He found himself mourning their inevitable departure, but attempted to enjoy his time on the quaint little farm in Colton, California.

On a surprise rainy day, all the brothers were forced inside after completing the bare minimum of their chores. Virgil and Morgan sat under the overhang on the front porch to watch the rain come down, but a quick meeting of eyes between Wyatt and Doc had them both sneaking upstairs.

Five minutes later had them kissing each other heatedly on the twin bed they’d both been occupying. Doc was sprawled atop Wyatt, pressing him into the mattress even with his slighter weight.

Later, Doc would perhaps think it an error in judgment to be so totally focused on the man he was lying on top of in a house full of clueless people, minus Virgil, but even with his knowledge, he wouldn’t want to see the situation Doc and Wyatt found themselves in.

As it was, they both missed the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs up, so involved with each other. Truly, the only sounds Doc was hearing were the quiet, breathy moans being made against his mouth by Wyatt.

That was, until Morgan’s voice called out, “Hey, have you guys seen the box of ma’s dish rags? She’s making casserole and…”

Upon hearing Morgan’s voice, Doc, without preamble, startled so badly he rolled clean off of Wyatt and hit the ground with a terrible wheeze. Wyatt sat up so fast that had Doc not rolled off, they would have bumped heads. Still, it was too late. Morgan stood stock-still at the stairwell, eyes wide and face ghost-white.

“Um,” Wyatt rasped before he frantically cleared his throat, looking just as pale as his brother.

Doc’s heart was beating so hard, he was sure Morgan could see the pulse in his neck across the room. “Morgan..” he tried, stopping when he realized he had no idea what to say.

For a good thirty seconds, they all just stared at each other in the most excruciating silence Doc had ever experienced.

Finally, Morgan summoned the courage to ask, “How long?”

Doc and Wyatt looked at each other for a moment before Wyatt decided to answer. “Well. This… first started in Fort Griffin, in ‘78,” he admitted, looking unbearably uncomfortable. “Broke things off when I got with Mattie. We ah, we’ve been… goin’ steady since around the OK Corral shootout.”

Morgan still didn’t seem quite able to figure out what to do with himself, but he swallowed and straightened up. “Does anyone else know?”

Wyatt looked over at Doc with wide eyes. Taking pity, Doc finally managed to get his vocal cords to work. “Kate,” he said, watching Morgan intensely. “Virgil, too.”

All of a sudden, Morgan’s face morphed to horror. “How did Virgil know before me?” He muttered to himself, clearly despairing.

Once again, Doc and Wyatt frantically met each others’ gazes, though this time distinctly confused.

“Did you guys… not trust me enough? What about Virgil made you guys tell him first?” He demanded, stepping forward. Doc’s eye twitched at the restraint it took for him not to flinch back. Already in a bad position to defend himself on the floor, he didn’t exactly feel the safest.

“You are being remarkably calm about this, Morg,” Wyatt said carefully.

“I’ve had my suspicions,” he admitted, staring resolutely at the floor. “And… this ain’t my first time seein’ two fellas together.”

Doc’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Wyatt only frowned.

“To answer your question, we never told Virgil. He found out by himself and confronted us about it,” Doc murmured.

He and Wyatt both silently decided not to ask about the second part of Morgan’s statement.

“Morg are you… are you mad?” Wyatt asked, looking strangely vulnerable. This was different from Virgil. For one, Doc had been the one to even tell Wyatt that his brother had figured it out. For two, Virgil had never had to walk in on his brother getting hot and heavy with Doc to discover the truth about them.

“I… don’t know,” Morgan said finally. “I think I’m gonna go have a think outside.”

“You’re not gonna tell anyone, are you?” Wyatt’s voice was almost desperate, and his hands on the bed sheets clenched even tighter around the fabric.

Morgan looked almost offended at the thought. “Of course not, Wyatt. You’re my brother. I just… need to wrap my head around some things for a little bit. I’ll be back later, I promise,” he said, voice resolute.

Morgan’s eyes drifted over to Doc’s silent form on the floor. For a moment, it looked as if he was going to say something, but he frowned to himself and left the room before anything came out.

Doc and Wyatt listened to Morgan’s retreating footsteps for several long seconds before Wyatt released a breath that sounded closer to a gasp. Doc, feeling much the same, coughed raggedly for a few moments before he managed to catch his breath once more.

“Jesus Christ,” Doc ground out, his head falling back and hitting the wall with a thunk. His heart was still beating way too fast, and he was starting to get dizzy with it. A quick look at Wyatt showed the man was not faring much better. He was so pale he looked gray, and his eyes were a little glassy.

“Jesus Christ,” he said again, quieter this time. Morgan knew. Morgan knew and he didn’t immediately threaten to shoot them or tell the entire fucking world. In terms of how bad things were, they certainly could be worse.

There was movement beside him a moment before Wyatt was reaching over the side of the bed. “C’mon,” he muttered. “Get off the ground. Ain’t good for you.”

Numb, Doc grabbed his hand and allowed himself to be pulled up, but he only sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his clasped hands.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Then: “I’m gonna go… see to the horses. See if Morg’ll be ready to talk to me when I get back.”

Doc turned his head slightly, but didn’t look up from the rumpled blanket spread across the bed. “I’ll stay here, I suppose. Pray to a deaf God to perhaps show mercy on two sinner’s souls,” he said faintly, barely aware of the words leaving his mouth. God, what if he just lost his friendship with Morgan? All of the sudden, the prospect of having to live without the cheerful younger brother left him realizing just how close they’d gotten during his stay on the farm.

So lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t notice Wyatt slipping his boots on and quietly leaving.

He just went back to staring at his clasped hands, thinking and praying.

About an hour later did he finally become aware of himself again. Blinking, he stood to try and stretch out all the stiff muscles he’d been ignoring.

After several long moments of contemplation, he decided to try and find Morgan to speak to him before Wyatt did. Whether or not it made anything better was up for debate, but it was worth the try. He didn’t think even he could make it much worse.

With the semblance of a plan in place, he tugged his boots on and trudged downstairs, resolving himself to search the entire property for the errant brother.

To his surprise, he found the man sitting on the front porch, dog at his feet, and watching the rain.

Hesitant, he stood in the doorway, unsure of how to continue.

Without even looking away from the downpour, Morgan said, “Sit down, Doc. If you collapse out here you’re liable to drown.”

Without any argument, Doc sat. He fell into the chair he usually occupied, and tried not to think about how close he and Morgan were sitting. Had to reassure himself that Morgan was a good man, but it was a little hard to beat that idea into his head when his revolvers were sitting real pretty in a drawer upstairs.

For a while, neither man spoke, and Doc tried to pretend his heart wasn’t attempting to beat out of his chest. After a while, he remembered he had his cigarettes on him, but was unable to find his matches.

He sat there glaring at his unlit smoke, hoping that perhaps the vitriol in his gaze would be enough to light it, when the sound of a match being struck came.

His eyes snapped up to find Morgan holding out the match, not meeting his gaze but not looking completely away. Quickly, before it could singe the poor man’s fingers, Doc leaned forward and breathed in, letting the end catch. As soon as he pulled away, Morgan shook out the flame and flicked it off the porch and into the rain.

Doc got through about half of his cigarette before Morgan broke the silence.

“You know, I love Louisa,” he started, trailing off into sudden uncertainty.

To show he was listening, he let out a muffled hum and waited for Morgan to continue.

“I love Louisa,” he repeated, visibly digging his thumb into the seam of his pants nervously, “but.”

Frowning, Doc prompted him with, “But?”

“But… there was someone before her,” he admitted.

Trying to understand how this was relevant, Doc said, “Sure.”

Letting out a shaky exhale rough enough to match Doc’s own, Morgan tipped his head back to stare at the overhang sitting above the porch. “He was a postman’s assistant. Had the prettiest brown eyes I’d ever seen,” he whispered, barely audible over the drumming of the rain.

With those words, it clicked what Morgan was trying to tell Doc. “Morgan, you don’t…”

“His name was Martin,” Morgan continued, acting as if he’d never heard Doc. “Suppose I was lying when I said I’d seen two fellers together before, because nothin’ ever happened ‘tween us. Was right after Wyatt left for Dodge, and I felt I had something to prove, so I left not long after,” he paused, face relaxing a little at the revisiting of more fond memories. “Met Louisa not long after and she… she’s the love of my life.”

Finally, Morgan turned and met Doc’s eyes, face pale and looking unsteady. “What’s that make me?” He asked, the tremor in his voice tearing at Doc’s heart.

Thinking over his words, Doc took a quick drag off his forgotten cigarette before replying, voice a little hoarse, “It makes you Morgan Earp, married to Louisa Earp. Unruly brother to Wyatt and Virgil Earp, among a few others I don’t know the names of. No matter who you were with, you’d still be Morgan Earp, just as I am still John Henry Holliday whether I am with Kate or… or Wyatt.”

Morgan continued to study Doc, perhaps looking for something on Doc’s face that gave away his sexual inclinations. Looking for a sign that he may be displaying on his own face. He eventually swallowed and resettled, and Doc could only assume he never found what he was looking for.

Truth be told, when Doc came out here, he wasn’t exactly expecting to be giving advice over the subject of men of all things, but it was far better than some of the scenarios he’d come up with in his brief solitude in the attic after Wyatt had left.

“I guess you’re right,” Morgan finally allowed, eyes drifting back out to look at the rain.

“I usually am, in these matters,” Doc replied, voice dry.

Morgan quirked the barest hint of a smile, and didn’t say anything to dispute Doc. He took it as a win and continued to puff on his cigarette until it was just a nub.

The silence between them now was far more comfortable, and Morgan’s dog soon let out an impossibly world-weary sigh. He couldn’t help the side-eye he gave the dog at that, and was startled by Morgan’s snort of laughter, not realizing the man had seen.

Sheepish, Doc looked away and tried to pretend he wasn’t just glaring at a dog for doing absolutely nothing.

“If you and him were… together, why’d he always have me go an’ fetch your drunk ass?” Morgan asked abruptly, turning to glare half-heartedly at Doc.

“I have a personality that one must become accustomed to to enjoy, as you and your brothers have inevitably done. However, even Wyatt can only bear it for so long when I am in such a state,” Doc replied, wry and amused. Morgan rolled his eyes in a frankly scarily similar way to his brother, but seemed to accept the answer, at least.

Just as Doc was contemplating asking Morgan to light another cigarette, he caught movement across the property, near the barn where the horses were stabled. Looking absolutely pathetic in the rain, mustache drooping sadly, came Wyatt wandering back.

Humming, Doc forced himself to his feet and bravely clapped Morgan on his good shoulder. “Well, looks as if you’re going to be having another, hopefully more fruitful conversation. I will leave you two to it,” he said in parting, heading back inside just as Wyatt’s steps were becoming audible on the gravel path.

Waiting upstairs for either Wyatt’s return or for the dinner bell to be sounded, Doc fell asleep by complete accident and was awoken by Wyatt sitting heavily on the bed beside him. He blinked, frowning to himself as he tried to figure out when he fell asleep, then just decided to push that aside and sit up, groaning weakly as he did so.

“How did your talk with Morgan go?” He rasped, voice still mostly asleep. He cleared his throat with a grimace.

Wyatt huffed a little, a bemused smile on his face. “Feels like I should be the one asking you that, since you got to him first,” he remarked, settling back against the headboard.

“Ah, but I asked you first,” Doc replied, smug.

Rolling his eyes in consternation, Wyatt still decided not to argue. “I think your talk helped mine. Assuming he told you about… Martin?” He probed, looking over to gauge Doc’s reaction. At the other man’s nod of affirmation, he continued. “Was pretty accepting, though he seemed to be thinkin’ pretty hard over something. Which I am going to attribute to you, though I won’t dig.”

Doc only tilted his head, neither confirming nor denying.

“Well, I think seeing us made him realize some things about himself, and he seems more… relaxed, I guess. It’ll only get better from here, for all of us,” he asserted, seemingly mostly to himself. Normally, Doc was disinclined to agree with Wyatt’s more optimistic dreams, but this time… he had hope.

Coming up at the end of their second month of their stay, when the idea of leaving was being gently pushed forward by the both of them, Doc received a letter. And by the way Morgan was grinning as he passed it over, he had a suspicion it was from Kate.

A quick glance at the return address confirmed his thoughts, and a pleased smile formed over his face once he saw where it came from. Clearly written did it proudly proclaim its origins from Salt Lake City, Utah.

With a muttered thanks to Morgan, he turned on his heel and trudged upstairs to read the letter in peace, peeling it open the second he crossed the threshold.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gently thumbed the edge of the paper, and read:

Unsure of quite when it started, Doc realized he was crying. He wasn’t even sure why. He wasn’t particularly saddened by Kate’s words, because she’d only put his own thoughts onto paper, brave as ever to tread into unknown territory. If he had to put an emotion to it, it had to be… grief, perhaps. Similar to what he felt for Ringo, maybe, but far stronger since those feelings had longer to materialize and cement themselves in his bones, deep in the marrow.

Yes, he knew it. Kate would forever be a part of him, yet he was still mourning the chapter of his life he now knew to be closed.

He wasn’t sure how it didn’t occur to him before, but now it did. No more lazy mornings in bed with Kate coyly playing with his hair. No more evenings getting dressed and heading their separate ways, coming home late in the night far richer than when they left. No more bad days coughing up the remaining bit of life left in him with her carefully watching over him. No more screaming matches that got them kicked out of hotels before they found themselves having sex in the most crazy of places.

Still, he thought, eyes trailing over to where Wyatt’s things laid around the room. Still, he had someone just as meaningful to make new memories with, for however long he was around to continue doing so. And, if he had any say in the matter, he’d be around a long while yet.

Lying back in bed beside Wyatt after a particularly filling dinner, Doc decided he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life in a similar fashion. Excitement was for the youth, and between his tuberculosis and the ordeal with the cowboys, he felt aged beyond his years.

Shifting beside him, Wyatt said, “I’ve been thinking about where we should go, after this.”

Doc hummed. “That’s good, because I’ve been rather stumped on the subject.”

“I was thinking Denver,” Wyatt admitted, resolutely staring up at the ceiling when Doc looked over at him sharply.

“You don’t have to make such a large decision entirely on the basis of my health,” said Doc, carefully. He wasn’t itching for an argument, but his hackles were raised. He didn’t mind suffering through Wyatt’s protectiveness over the little things, but a thing like where they might spend the rest of their lives was far too big for him to be comfortable with the poor man having to settle, just for Doc.

Wyatt looked a little sheepish. “While your health did come into play, Denver is also a pretty nice place to put down a ranch. Moderate weather, ‘cept for the winter, of course, but it ain’t as bad as it would be further north. And, I don’t know about you, but I’m a little sick of the heat.”

Doc couldn’t fault the logic in the man’s words, even if he was still a little wary of the prospect. “I don’t want you to live with an unhappy decision for me, Wyatt. So, are you sure?” He pressed, staring at the man’s cheek, as he still wouldn’t turn his head.

Visibly swallowing, Wyatt nodded. “I’ve been thinkin’ about Denver since about when we got here,” he paused to turn onto his side, placing his hand firmly on Doc’s cheek and holding eye contact. “I am very sure, darlin’.”

Feeling as if he couldn’t breathe for entirely different reasons than he was used to, he eventually remembered how to and sucked in a shaky breath through his nostrils. “I… well. I guess we’re going to Denver, then.”

Smiling, Wyatt placed a lingering kiss on Doc's forehead. “We’ll look for property once we get there,” he decided, to which Doc could only nod.

“We’d better start packing then, haven’t we?” Doc murmured.

Leaning forward to give Doc a real kiss, Wyatt said, “Oh, I think it can wait a little longer, don’t you?” Against Doc’s lips. And, well, Doc didn’t have it in him to disagree.

A week later and they were back at the same train station they rode in on, horses securely in the right carriage, belongings properly stored, and the only thing left to do was say their goodbyes. As Wyatt’s parents were getting up there in years, they elected to stay home and had their farewell there. Morgan and Virgil on the other hand, had chosen to follow them.

Virgil and Wyatt were speaking lowly to each other when Morgan sprang forward and pulled Doc into a tight embrace, startling the thinner man, though he quickly relaxed into it.

“Don’t be a stranger, Morgan,” he murmured, patting his back. “We’ll send you guys our address once we have one. Come visit, or at least keep up correspondence.”

“Wouldn’t dream of missing out on seeing y’alls new place,” Morgan replied, voice slightly choked. “God, I’m gonna miss you two like crazy though.”

Pulling away from Morgan, Doc flashed what he tried to get across as a comforting smile. “Oh, I imagine I’ll miss you as well, even ol’ Virgil over there,” Doc drawled, speaking up just a little.

“I heard that,” Virgil gruffed, unamused. Doc turned his head away to hide his grin, while Morgan snorted.

Suddenly, the piercing whistle of the train’s last call sounded, as well as one of the attendants calling out the words for good measure.

“Suppose that’s us, then,” Wyatt said, looking between Morgan and Virgil, mouth downturned.

“Have a safe trip, you two,” Virgil said, Morgan hurriedly nodding in agreement.

“You fellers keep the farm goin’ even without me, you hear?” Wyatt warned, words softened by the faintest glimpse of a smile.

“We won’t let you down, Wyatt,” Morgan promised, earnest.

The whistle sounded again, longer this time. “It was an honor, gentlemen,” Doc said, taking a step back toward the train.

For a moment, no one moved, before Virgil rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion at them. “Go on, git,” he ordered, crowding Doc and Wyatt toward the train, with Wyatt laughing quietly.

“Alright, alright, we’re leavin’,” Wyatt retorted, turning and climbing onto the train, Doc quickly following.

Once they found their seats, Wyatt wasted no time in shoving down the window and waving. They made it at the right time it seemed, because the train jolted into motion, and Doc had to place a steadying hand on Wyatt’s back.

Indulgently, he stood and waved with Wyatt up until they pulled out of the station, sitting down heavily with a sigh. Wyatt stopped waving, but continued to look back until the station was no longer in view before he finally sat down.

Pulling a book from his bag, Doc prepared himself for yet another two day train ride.

Doc couldn’t help but agree with Wyatt. Denver was indeed a nice place. They were staying in a fairly decent hotel while Wyatt hunted down every real estate worker in the city for a lead on property to buy. Doc left him to it, as he was no expert on matters of land.

Staying in Denver proper while they waited was enjoyable for one sole reason: he was able to play poker once more.

Sure, he’d been playing with Wyatt’s family, but that wasn’t real stakes. Now, he could rob a man for all he’s worth and feel nary an ounce of sympathy once again.

Still, after three weeks of living out of one of his suitcases, he was pleased when Wyatt returned back from a trip out holding a deed to a plot of land that was now theirs.

They wasted no time in moving in. It didn’t take all that long, since they had few real belongings between them after most of a life on the move. The place itself was nestled at the foot of a sloping valley, about two hours out from the outskirts of Denver. The house had three bedrooms, and it even had its own indoor plumbing, which Doc raised his eyebrows at.

There was a decent sized barn outside as well, though Wyatt noted they’d have to build another one to fit all the animals he wanted to buy come spring. As they were comfortably in fall, with frost forming on the windows at night, they both agreed to put off any major livestock purchases until the spring. Though, Wyatt still came home one random day with three beat up looking horses. When asked, he admitted that they were on their way to slaughter and couldn’t let such fine horses go to waste.

That was where it started, with five horses, three bedrooms, and two sets of boots at the end of one bed.

Several, several long months later, Doc and Wyatt were both lying in bed together, the window to their room open as wide as it could go in an attempt to blow in some cool air in the stifling house. Wyatt had used the woodstove earlier to cook supper, and in the dead of summer, even in Colorado, it was far too hot for comfort.

Doc was smoking, blowing the plumes of smoke in the direction of the window occasionally. Wyatt was lying comfortably on his stomach, with Doc rubbing distracted circles onto the man’s back.

He couldn’t help but relish in the lack of burning agony coming from his lungs. His relapses have gotten fewer and further between the longer they stayed in Colorado, and he was hesitantly hopeful at the chance of going into remission. He knew that even if he managed that, flare-ups would happen, and that his lifespan was drastically reduced no matter what he did.

But… he couldn’t help but hope to live a longer life beside Wyatt in their own slice of paradise. Hope that he wouldn’t leave Wyatt alone on this ranch too soon. Hope that he’d get to see Kate and Josephine come visit next month and for every visit after that. Hope that he’d get to tease Morgan and suffer through Virgil’s long, contemplating stares for years to come.

“You ever think we’d get to this point?” Doc wondered, exhaling another lungful of smoke with only a short cough to follow, which felt more like habit than anything.

There was a muffled questioning hum from Wyatt, and he turned his head to blink up at Doc blearily.

Doc lazily motioned around with his cigarette at their room. “You know. Making it so firmly out of the law business. Owning a ranch, my practice opening soon,” his smile turned a little sly, and he nudged at Wyatt with his socked foot. “In bed with another man.”

Snorting, Wyatt rolled over onto his back with a groan. “Can’t say I did,” he decided on. “Thought when I was wading through that water toward Curly Bill, that’d be the end of me. Every day since then has felt a bit like stolen time.”

He grabbed Doc’s free hand and brought it up, kissing the knuckles gently. “Can’t say I’m all too displeased to have gotten to this point though. It’s been… real nice,” he murmured, setting Doc’s hand back down.

“You and your… what is it now, ten horses, plus the sheep. Then there’s those puppies I saw you eyeing last time we got eggs,” he huffed out a laugh at Wyatt’s wide-eyed surprise. “Yes, Wyatt, I saw that. Can’t say I’ll be too shocked to wake up one day and find out we’ve got two new ankle biters.”

“They’ll be old enough to pick up in another week or so,” Wyatt muttered, which was all the confirmation Doc needed.

“Nice to be proven right,” he mused, blowing out a last lungful of smoke before leaning over toward the nightstand and stubbing out his cigarette.

“Like your ego needs it,” Wyatt said, happily ignoring Doc’s scathing look.

“Plenty of time for you to bring it down a peg or two,” Doc said, leaning over to press an annoyingly wet kiss to Wyatt’s cheek.

Doc’s playfulness quickly melted away when he caught sight of just how fond Wyatt looked in that moment, eyes soft and open. Slowly, he slid down under the covers beside his lover without breaking eye contact.

Once he was comfortable, Wyatt leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, causing Doc’s breath to catch in his throat.

“Plenty of time indeed,” murmured Wyatt, voice full of promise.

Doc was inclined to believe him.