Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first sign started in Fort Griffin, Texas.

It happened inside the Bee Hive Saloon. A huge place that drew in the most colorful of lifeforms; from dandies to pickpockets, to everything inbetween. Once violent, now tamed with time and care from its owners and the stern hand of law enforcement.

The gaslights inside blurred from a haze of smoke above the patrons' heads, unnoticed. Many a game was being had, and many a drink was being poured. Looser lips, laughter, and a few temperaments raised above the white noise of the constant chatter. The place was buzzing with life as usual. With, thankfully, less brawls since Doc Holliday's last stay a few month's prior.

Doc was in the middle of a poker game with a few drunkards - one who was struggling to stay upright in his seat - when he eyed a man enter through the front door. He wasn't a regular, and he wasn't some greenhorn looking to make it big in this booming town.

In fact, there was nothing particularly astonishing about the man. He was dressed all in black, wore a stetson, and had a duster on to complete the picture.

And yet.

Doc felt compelled to watch him as he made his way to the bar, scanning his surroundings as he went. Like a hawk looking out for its next prey. Briefly Doc challenged a thought what it would be like to be on the recieving end of that stare. How he would combat it. Then promptly shoved the idea down. He tore his eyes away from the newcomer and went back to his cards. He picked up a few chips then dropped them back on to their stack. He had a winning hand for sure. He looked at the drunk next to him and smirked. He raised.

The man to his left folded. So did the man directly in front of him. The one to his right, who was teeter-tottering between consciousness and having his head make friends with the table, refused to back down. But he was also too out of it to continue. So they were at a strange stalemate. The man started to droop, his card hand tipping forward to show everyone what he had. Doc exhaled sharply through his nose and slammed a hand onto the table. The chips rattled as the other men flinched back. The inebriated man snapped his eyes open and bolted upright, flinging his arms upward. Cards flying. Doc rolled his eyes closed assuming the man was going to fall to the floor. But no such incident came, as a strong hand clamped onto the drunk's shoulder to steady him. Doc peeked, intrigued, and trailed his eyes up the arm to rest on the face of non other than the newcomer he had been observing earlier.

The man was watching him with a curious gaze. Then he grinned. "Are you Doc Holliday?" he asked. His voice was non threatening.


Again. Nothing astonishing about him. Nothing Earth-shattering anyway.

And yet.

"Who want's to know?" Doc said after visibly eyeing the other up and down.

"Just a man who needs some help from a 'Doc Holliday' and Shanssey directed me over to you specifically. So," the newcomer tips his hat in Doc's direction, "I ask again; are you Doc Holliday?"

The man was direct, Doc would give him that. And not exactly being confrontational. At least, that's how Doc wanted to take it. The man's voice was warm, like layers of honey. Maybe it was the smile and the voice combo but Doc gave him the lead.
He looked back at his cards. "You a lawman?"

"For now. Most likely be again once I head back home. Is that a problem?"

"That all depends," Doc leaned back in his chair, "what sort of 'help' are you asking of this 'Holliday'?"

The amused smile never left the stranger's face. "Information."

Doc hummed. Absently tapped a finger to the handle of one of his pistols. He stared the other man down, but never once felt intimidated nor did an alarm bell go off about him. The man gave off a friendly aura. In truth, Doc was charmed that the man wanted his help. Something he would never admit.

With his poker game going nowhere, Doc ended up calling his hand, scooped up his winnings and lead the other man to a more private table in the back. Once he did so they got more settled in by ordering drinks (Doc with whiskey, the man with coffee) at the bar and the mini interrogation began.

With drink in hand, Doc had to ask-- "Now. You have me at a disadvantage, Sir. You know my moniker but I know nothing of you. Besides you were or still are a lawman. Care to elaborate?"

The newcomer chuckled low, folding his fingers on the small table in front of them. He drew a wicked smirk and made direct eye contact.

"The name's Wyatt Earp. Temporary Marshal of Dodge City and I'm looking for a man that I'm hoping you can help me track down by giving me any information on him as you see fit. Satisfied?"

Doc took a sip of his whiskey. It burned as it went down, just the way he liked it. "What's the unfortunates' name?"

"Dave Rudabaugh."

Doc frowned. "Who?"

"Aw, come on." The other man brings his coffee to his lips but doesn't drink it. "Don't jerk my chain like that, and we were just starting to get along too."

Doc's eye twitched, but he took a couple deep breaths to calm himself down so as not to take this personally. In truth he had no idea who the other man was talking about. He met many a man playing faro or poker and never lingered much on people's names unless it was significant to do so. So going by his name alone was not helpful.

"I have no idea who you are inquiring about." He took another sip of whiskey.

Wyatt waved a hand as he spoke, "About our age, goes by the alias Dirty Dave, has never heard of water therefore refuses to bathe..."

Doc nearly chokes on his drink. The memory of his stench ghosting in his nostrils.

Oh. Him.

"Ah yes," he set his glass back down, "His distinct bouquet is not as easily forgotten as his name. What do you want to know?"

Earp peered into his coffee, as if it held the answers he was seeking. "Let's start with where he was headed next?"

Doc pulled out a cigarillo and brought it to his mouth. He began searching his person for some matches when a strike was heard, smell of sulfur, then a small flame was placed in front of his face. The light danced in the lawman's eyes as he held it out to him, a grin on his features. Doc leaned forward and lit the tip of his cigarillo to the burning match. When it was sufficiently lit, he pulled away and the other man whipped the flame out and tossed it to the floor.

Doc puffed on his cigarillo and acknowledged his companion openly with a genuine smile.

Something must have clicked in his brain because he gave Wyatt Earp everything the man wanted to the best of his knowledge. Freely. Without making him work for it. Without so much as a fight. Which surprised Doc more than he was comfortable with. He didn't know what it was about the man that got him to behave this way but he'd be lying if he said it didn't startle him a little bit.

And even after giving the other what he wanted, Wyatt Earp still stayed.

The Marshal didn't get up and leave after getting the information he seeked. Instead, he lingered, ordered more coffee and let the conversation drift naturally to whatever direction it swayed. Doc couldn't stop asking the newcomer inquiries about Dodge City. The lawman seemed more than happy to tell him anything he wanted to know. Doc wondered if it was repayment for him helping the lawman out.

They stayed in the saloon talking for hours. They made each other laugh, become thoughtful, and seemed eager in wanting to hear what the other had to say.

At some point during their talk, Doc kept calling the other man 'Marshal' and 'Lawman'. The man finally countered with a warm smile and told him "Call me Wyatt." Doc returned a smile of his own and let the man's Christian name roll off his tongue to test it.

That, was his first mistake.

The chest flutter that followed was immediate. Almost like it was a natural response to hearing the other man's name from his own lips. An unlocking of sorts. It was subtle. Like a dormant seed having always been planted in the earth of his lungs, finally being awakened with a command of "Open Sesame." Only it wasn't Sesame to unlock the secret door of wonders this time. It was Wyatt. Just Wyatt.

And what an eventual curse that name and man would fall down upon him.

Saying it tickled his lungs ever so slightly. His only acknowledgement of it was a gentle clearing of his throat. The beginning of more severe to come. He downed his whiskey and set the glass on the table. Then absently played with the empty cup with his fingers, tracing the rim with his tips, down the sides.

Wyatt followed this movement with his eyes as they continued their talk.

Their visit went on amicably, with Doc being completely invested with whatever the lawman had to say.

Wyatt Earp noticed no change in him. Nor would he for some time to come. But Doc knew. Deep down in his subconscious a tiny voice was screaming at him that something was going to start to dominoe. It was that same voice that warned him there was no saving his mother the moment she started throwing up flowers. He refused to listen to it back then, as well.

Something was just beginning. But what it was Doc was not prepared to face.

Chapter Text

The first sign that something was amiss happened in Dodge City, Kansas.

It took Doc a few months to move out there. The turning point finally being an incident where he stabbed the cheater Ed Bailey with his double-edged knife - lovingly named Hell Bitch - and needing to flee from a crowd of people screaming for his blood.

When he arrived, he wasn't disappointed with his choice. With sixteen saloons, ranging from upscale operations such as the Long Branch and the Alamo to southside dives, Doc practically dove right in to this new city. He planned to set up a dentistry office as soon as his old colleague, John Seeger, sent him his dental chair that he left behind in Texas. While he waited for its arrival, he dipped his toes in the other delights Dodge had to offer.

One of course, being his favorite pastime: gambling.

Another thing Dodge had to offer was the accomodating weather. Which was causing his lungs to behave for once. They, as of late were strangely tingling since Fort Griffin that one night. They didn't hurt, per sey. They just... itched. Doc would scratch his chest but to no avail. It was too deep to fix. All he could do when there was a flare up was simply clear his throat as best he could and drink a glass of whatever to wash it down. But something always felt sortof, stuck back there. Refusing to dislodge and clear his airway. It never was suffocating, so he'd let it go. It was just irritating.

It always coincided when he thought about a certain lawman. Which upon reflection was stunning that his attention was on him at all. Considering he only met him one time. Though it was for a long time.

On a bright and sunny day in late May, he wandered down the dusty street, a cane in hand, to one of his new favored hang arounds, when a friendly voice called out to him.

"Well, hello stranger."

Doc turned and found fimself face to face with the one man whom he'd been thinking on and off about for months now. Someone who he briefly met but who had left a lasting impression on him far deeper than he could explain. Or expected. Someone whom he wanted to see again. But damned if he knew why.

It was Wyatt Earp, the so-called Marshal of Dodge. He was smiling at him with that way of his, squinting from the sunlight despite wearing his stetson. A lit cigar in his hand. Doc noticed a shiny badge pinned to the lapel of his vest peeking out from beneath his coat. 

A curious warmth spread throughout his body starting from his chest. Like a blooming flower opening its petals to the sun.

Doc returned a kind smile and gave a little nod. "Wyatt."

Wyatt looked him up and down, brought the cigar to his mouth and shook his head. "A little birdy told me you've been lookin' for me. 'Sat true?"

Doc felt heat rise to his face and cursed the men at the Sheriff's department. He bounced his cane a little and pretended to act disinterested. "I don't know what you mean."

"Sure." The other scoffed.

Truth be told Doc did look for Wyatt the day he arrived in Dodge, but couldn't find him anywhere. He even went to the Sheriff's office to find out what he could. Thinking him being a lawman that would be the most logical place. They for one wanted to know who he was and what his business with Earp exactly intended - which there wasn't anything - he should have known there would be fifty questions to his one. But besides that the information he could get out of them told him Wyatt was still in Texas.

Then the shame he felt for looking for someone he barely knew sunk in and he quit after that. He felt stupid doing it in the first place, and getting basically nowhere made him realize what a waste of time it was. What was he trying to achieve doing this? So he ignored a tightening in his chest and moved on.

"When did you get into town?" Wyatt continued.

Doc sighed, "Roughly two weeks prior."

"Two--" Wyatt gaped at him, the cigar nearly falling out. He caught it with his hand and the ash that had been collecting on it fell onto his oufit. He started brushing it off, looking between his vest and Doc's face. Then he frowned. "And you haven't bothered to come say hi to me?"

He seemed genuinely hurt.

Doc was taken aback by his honesty. The small flutter from before came back stronger mixed with a bizarre feeling that he stuffed down.

Doc blinked, unsure how much to divulge to the other man. "I didn't know we were that close."

"Well, sure we are." Wyatt smiled at him again and it did things to Doc. Things he'd never openly admit.

"Close enough to say 'hello' to each other at least." Wyatt stuck a hand out, its invitation warm and inviting. "Don't you agree?"

Doc looked at the outstretched hand. It was calloused and worn, a hard working hand. Don't, begged a small inner voice. Don't touch him.

As he'd done many times in the past, he ignored it and clasped the hand gladly with a firm shake.

The hairs on the back of Doc's neck instantly bristled at the touch. A jolt of something unspoken swept through him. He gasped which went unnoticed as a wind picked up blowing the dust around them. They had to grab their hats and hold them to their heads to keep from blowing away. Still they didn't let go.

"That was weird." Mumbled Wyatt, as the gust calmed down to almost nothing. He laughed it off and looked back to Holliday.

His response was a cough.

Several, in fact. Doc let go of the Marshal first and brought his hand up to cough into it repeatedly, each one a little heavier than the next. But nothing serious.

"You still with me?" Wyatt joked.

Doc cleared his throat, waving his hand at him. "Still alive. Just clearing the dust from my lungs."

"I can see that," Wyatt nodded. He seemed thoroughly amused.

After straightening his vest and cravat, Doc tapped his cane down and gestured to Wyatt's chest with a lazy finger. "So. Officially reinstated as Marshal once again, I assume?"

Wyatt's expression changed in an instant. He took the cigar from his mouth and gave a big toothy grin. His face it up as he pointed the cigar at Doc. "You remembered."

Doc felt more fluttering than before and at the same time his heartbeat was in his ears. He shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the other man like it hurt to look at him.

"How could I not? You brought it up often enough." Doc started walking away from the Marshal. And damned it all to hell but the other man kept in step.

Wyatt laughed. "Yeah, I suppose I did. But you got a detail wrong there, old rip."

"Do enlighten me." Doc walked faster. He felt like he was being suffocated.

"I'm not the Marshal."

That got Doc to stop and look the lawman in the eyes, down to his badge, then back to his piercing blues with a questioning stare. He opened his mouth to say something but Wyatt held up his cigar hand that pointed a finger in the air to stop him. He smirked at the dentist.

"I'm the Assisstant Marshal. There's a difference."

Doc closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't care, I'm getting a drink." And he spun on his heel and walked away. His heart was pounding and he didn't know why.

"What do you mean 'you don't care'?!" Wyatt took off following him till he was next to Doc again, both heading off to a saloon to quench a thirst.


*****


In the coming months to follow, Doc and Wyatt became closer. They spent more time together by seeking each other's company when the timing was right. They'd run into each other at odd times and strike up a friendly conversation because of it. The fluttering and pains in his chest increased, but his time with Wyatt was a nice distraction.

Little did he know how connected the two were.

Through it all, Doc had to admit that Dodge City was a lovely place to be. In more ways than one. He started his dental practice again, the gambling was aplenty, the weather was nice, and most importantly; the people accepted him. In return for it Doc behaved himself. He didn't get into any fights. Didn't overly drink till he forgot how to walk. And he didn't cheat. Hell Bitch stayed where she was, always in his coat pocket. Unsheathed. (He stupidly left her sheath back home in Georgia.) He never had to draw his pistols for any reason.

Until one day in August, where he drew both his guns for something that had nothing to do with him, that didn't involve him in any way, but he knows - if given half a chance - he would have done it a hundred times over and then some.

Because it was for him.

He was seated at a monte table playing a game with some other gents when a commotion outside the Long Branch caught his attention. He saw a handful of men he didn't recognise pulling guns on someone he did, and...

Doc's eyes widened. Oh no.

He sprang up so fast his chair toppled over as he ran to the front door of the saloon not thinking, whipping both pistols out. He cocked them back. Then slammed out of the doors and held them out in front, aiming them at the nearest bastard that dare point a gun at the lawman whose own piece was not drawn.

He doesn't remember what he screamed. Just that it was loud, commanding, and filled with expletives that were very colorful. All he knows was that he was angry.

Either the words did the trick, the entrance was quick and loud enough or his face was sufficiently scary - or some combination of the three - but whatever it was it startled the unknown assailants just enough for his friend to jerk his own pistol out and point it at the man in front of him.

"Alright Ed. You heard the man. Tell your men to back down and put your pistols on the ground, do you understand me? You're under arrest." The Assistant Marshal said coolly.

Doc noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone was going for their gun. Doc's body moved before he could finish what he shouted, "Lookout, Wyatt!"

He aimed and fired. The other man cried out in pain as the bullet hit him in the shoulder. His gun clattered to the ground.

"I said throw down your guns! Now!!" Wyatt roared at the assailants around them.

They didn't need to be told a third time. After Doc's accurate shooting, they were more than happy to cooperate. They all chucked their weapons to the gravel and awaited further instructions. A few looked at each other. Others just wiped their hands on their clothes, unsure what to do now. They all looked shaky.

Wyatt and Doc kept their guns raised. Doc moved his from person to person, not taking a moment to lower his guard. Wyatt spoke again, voice dangerously low. "Put your hands in the air. All of you."

They did.

"Now. Move." Earp gestured with his pistol in the direction of the jailhouse. "Morisson, Driskell. You too. Now get." He shoved two in particular forward. Doc followed behind this little parade.

As they approached the jailhouse, Marshal Bassett and Officer Masterson ran out to help round up the little 'posse'. Officer Masterson eventually left to get the doctor for the wounded one. Once they were all inside, Doc finally put his pistols away.

He stood outside the jailhouse for a few minutes just loitering, then decided to go home. The sun was beginning to set, and he oddly felt tired. His heart was pounding as his mind replayed what had just happened and what nearly could have happened. He felt himself start to wheeze. As he took his first steps to leave he heard a door slam behind him, shuffled footsteps then--

"And just where the hell do you think your going?"

He turns to see Wyatt, a few paces away. His hat is off. An odd look in his eye.

Doc feels oddly small under that intense gaze, and he instantly wishes he was anywhere else but there. He tries to get his wheezing under control by clear his throat, then hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and shrugs. "My intention was to meander my way back home." He manages to say.

"Just like that? After what you did?" The assisstant Marshal takes a few steps closer. His face looked lost.

Doc didn't want to look at it anymore. Something about it was warning him to stay away. He took a step back and avoided the other's steadfast gaze.

"I didn't do anything anyone else wouldn't do." Doc felt a tickle in his chest. Was it more fluttering? Now?

"Like hell you did." Wyatt walks even closer until they are mere steps away. "You do what you did without letting me say anything? Doc. You just saved my life!" Wyatt throws his arms out for emphasis then drops them.

"And?" Doc stares at Wyatt impatiently. He really doesn't want to be here.

Wyatt blinks and shakes his head, seemingly bewildered. "And... Thank you?" Then he looks off in the distance, like a thought occured to him, and a lovely smile graces his features. He looks Doc dead in the eyes. "Also, you swear beautifully."

Doc, not expecting that, feels his face heat right up.

"I-I do not recall what I said--"

"It doesn't matter. You, my friend, are a master of your art." Wyatt laughs, clapping a hand on Doc's shoulder.

The touch burns. But he doesn't want the hand moved, exactly.

Doc grins at the other man. "Well, you are most welcome, Wyatt."

The two men just stand there as the sun sets, staring at each other with a knowing smile. Until Doc coughs again, and into his hand. It's harder this time, and he feels something tickle up his throat and land into it. When he looks at it, he freezes. A shock of cold runs through him, like someone dumping a bucket of ice water on you. A heavy weight sinks to the pit of his stomach. With a barely audible 'excuse me' Doc turns and leaves Wyatt behind and storms his way over to the Dodge House where he's staying. He hears Wyatt call to him but he doesn't stop to find out what it is.

When he gets to the Dodge house he climbs up the steps taking two at a time to his room till he gets to it, then opens it and promptly locks the door. Only when he's safe in his room does he unclench his fist and looks down at the offending object within.

Lying there, in the middle of his palm, is a small, delicate, light purple petal.

Just like the ones his mother coughed up. Only hers were yellow and long. Black-Eyed Susans.

Doc hated Black-Eyed Susans. They killed his mother.

He crushed it back into a tight fist bringing it up to his forehead, scraping his knuckles across the skin there. He squeezed his eyes tight.

"No..." He said through clenched teeth. Then slammed his fist down hard on the dresser several times, trying to break it. Bottles falling over every which way. He wanted to feel pain, but not the internal kind.

He needed a drink, and he needed one now.

Chapter Text

The first sign that something was wrong happened in Las Vegas, New Mexico.

Doc had stayed in Dodge City till near December, where several things took place. Things, that gave him a reason to leave town.

One such thing, is he met a man named Charles Wright. This 'upstanding citizen' was a crooked faro dealer with a shady past who had an ace up his sleeve. And it was a good one. He was the son of a prominent figure and businessman in Dodge - the founding father of it no less - a Mr. Robert M. Wright. Well, Money went missing from a Wright and Beverley's store. Charles was suspected, but the weasley little shit accused Doc of the dirty deed and the bastard's father believed him. Doc couldn't compete with a figure like Robert M. Wright, so leaving town seemed awfully tempting...

Another thing, was his health started to deteriorate. He knew why, of course. He'd have to be sufficiently kicked in the head and dragged hundreds of miles to not know who the purple petal was for. The lawman was the only one who made his heart tremble. And that was the crux of it. He was spending too much time around Wyatt. But he found he couldn't drag himself away from the man, like he had some sort of pull to him that Doc could not escape from. Or would not escape from. They had become quite close since Doc saved his life, and the flutters only got worse because of it.

As the months past, one petal turned into two. Two turned into three. And so on. It got to the point where Doc had to start purchasing extra handkerchiefs so when a coughing spell took place, he had something to hide the evidence in. A hand and elbow could only do so much. They weren't messy, they were just small, light purple petals-- all the exact same. But some of them would get caught in his throat and that's when a real spasm would take place.

Nearing December he began to wonder if there was a way to over come it. If perhaps he spent less time with Wyatt, the connection would weaken. The feelings less intense. It didn't work on his mother, but maybe...

And finally, three. The town council passed ordinances outlawing gambling and prostitution. The fines went up, and the gambling opportunities went drastically down. No more gambling; no more Doc.

So, three reasons for Doc to pack up and leave Dodge City.

So he did just that.

Though, Wyatt wasn't happy about it.

He took personal offence to the incident concerning the Wright situation. After Doc left, he butted heads with Robert M. Wright, blaming him for his friend leaving because of the ugly situation they tried to frame him in. 

Of course, Doc knew none of this. And even if he had, it wouldn't change the decision Wyatt would make nearly a year later.

*****

Doc traveled a bit. But his condition seemed to worsen when he parted from Wyatt, at least for a spell. Like the separation from him alone was harmful to his very soul. His chest rattled when he breathed, and the number of petals doubled to the point he thought he was choking on them.

The way people treated him - when they didn't notice the petals - was disheartening. He could hear the low voices behind his back, the disgusted or sympathetic stares. How they looked down on him and his growing haggard appearance.

He knew they thought he was consumptive. And that suited him just fine. In fact, Doc had every intention to treat this like it was consumption. A disease of the lungs that was ultimately fatal. Same thing, right? But unlike consumption, there must be a cure for it. Besides the obvious one of course - which Doc knew was never going to happen - he decided to seek out other possible cures. One that seemed to have a great affect on consumptive patients. Or so he's heard. It was worth a shot. What had he to lose?

So eventually, Doc made his way to Las Vegas for the healing waters and gambling dens they supplied.

While he was there one thing was for certain: he missed Wyatt. Mourned his absence. He continued to take in the healing springs but the petals kept falling. Rarely did they fall into the water if he coughed unprepared. When it did occur, there were various men who were consumptive around. The looks he recieved from the others when it happened were mixed. Some were distant, others were sympathetic. One particularly sallow looking soul even appeared envious.

In a singular incident, another invalid wouldn't stop staring at the petals as Doc tried to fish them out, angry a cough caught him off guard and that he did it in front of others openly. He didn't know where to put them so he balled them into his fist and put his elbows on the outside of the spring, trying to act casual. He closed his eyes and focused on deep breathing as the fumes of the sulphurous waters wafted over him. His lungs seemed to calm from the effect of it. After a few minutes, he heard someone wade closer to him, felt the waves against his skin. He could feel the presence of another studying him. When it was too oppressive, he opened his eyes and met that of a stranger who was too close.

Doc looked him over once. He was pale, just like everyone else here, and gaunt. A skeleton with skin around his age. He had dark hair and a mustache, and had a knowing smile on his lips. His eyes sparkled with life, however. And there was a fire in them that Doc understood.

Doc was going to say something when the man spoke up first.

"Water Lilies." The voice was raspy.

Doc blinked, dumbfounded. "Pardon?"

The other man pointed a frail thumb to his own chest and a finger to his mouth, then tipped the finger in a downward motion towards the water.

"Water Lilies," then he motioned to Doc's closed fist, "And you?"

Understanding dawned on Doc, and he stiffened as he realised he was looking in a mirror of sorts. This man was him, only more advanced.

Doc thought about denying what the man was implying, but changed his mind. Afterall, this man must have caught him hacking up earlier. What was the point?

He brought his fist with the crumpled petals to his front and opened it to stare at them. They were wet, tiny, and looked even more frail than normal.

Doc absently shook his head. "I don't actually know what they are, yet."

"That's good," said the other man after clearing his throat. "Means you're not as far along and not on the next phase. Maybe there's still a chance for you."

Doc looked the other in the eyes and gave him a half smile.

The man returned the look and held up a boney, soggy hand.

"William Leonard."

Doc took the hand with his own thinning one. "John Henry Holliday. Call me Doc."

William raised an eyebrow. "Doc?"

"I'm a dentist."

"You don't say? That's something else we have in common."

"You're a--"

"Jeweler. But I assume by your trade you dabble in gold, yes?"

Doc smirks, grateful the subject had been changed. He lets the petals go in the water, not caring where they float to next. "I do indeed."

William coughed gently, his lungs rattling in his chest as he leaned back against the edge of the spring. A mischievious look in his eye.

"I think this might be a fortuitous meeting."


*****


Doc was reading a book in his office while he waited for his next patient who was fifteen minutes late. His legs were crossed, his one leg wiggled as his nerves started to build up from inaction. A finger traced an eyebrow. He had reread the same paragraph three times in a row and it still wasn't registering what the hell the author was trying to say.

A knock came at the door. Finally, he thought as he set his book down. He stood up and turned as the door opened and was greeted with William at the entrance.

Doc wasn't surprised by him being there -- he lived in the building where his dental office was, he came by all the time. They were practically in each other's hair. When he didn't run into William here, he met him at the Old Adobe House for dips in the hot springs. They became remarkably close, what with William being one of the rare people - if not the only one - Doc could talk freely with concerning his 'illness'. He didn't have to hide it with him.

What did alarm Doc was the state his friend was in. He looked downtrodden and his hands fidgeted. There was a panic in his eye he'd only ever seen in soldiers after the war when he was young. Something was very, very wrong.

Doc tensed and took a step forward. His hand flexed to a gun he wasn't wearing. "Bill, what's wrong? What happened?"

"Doc," the jeweller's voice was strained, a tinge of blood was at the corner of his mouth. One hand clutched his stomach. Doc watched the movement but saw no wound. "I have to go. I have to leave New Mexico."

Doc hardened his stare. "Why?"

William closed the door, locked it, and rushed to Doc with more speed than the man seemed capable of. He grabbed Doc's forearms and held them firmly.

"Remember Jose Mares?" he whispered.

"The man you shot?" Doc responded in the same tone.

William looked around the office like a panicked bird, then nodded. "Well, there's an indictment out there for me, and I'm not sticking around for it."

He ran to the window and looked out, then closed the curtain. A congested cough overtook him and it wracked his body. He pulled out a handkerchief and hacked into it. Doc watched as three bloody full white flowers - Water Lilies - vomited onto the now stained cloth and onto the floor.

Doc swallowed thickly. He felt himself start to sweat. The other man gasped for air and nearly collapsed to the floor, but Doc sprinted forward and caught him in time.

He half carried--half dragged him over to his dentist's chair and deposited him in it as carefully as he could. He went and pulled a small towel from a cabinet and came back to wipe his friend's perspiration from his face. The man felt icey to the touch, a cadaver's skin, but Doc ignored it and kept at it till a chilled hand gripped his wrist. He looked into his friend's face and saw his eyes half lidded.

"I have to go." William stated quietly.

"No, you can't--"

"I have to." The jeweller flicked his listless eyes up to Doc's. "I'm sorry, my friend."

Doc studied his face, then gave a heavy sigh. "I understand. I do." He said, defeated.

If anyone understood about indictments, it would be Doc.

William let go of Doc's wrist and puts one hand flat to the dentist's chest. Then took his other hand and rested it on his shoulder. The fire lit up in his eyes as he bore into Doc's blue ones.

"Try to overcome this." He adds pressure to his chest. It causes Doc to lightly cough. He takes his friend's hand in his, and with near tears in his eyes, he says gently--

"I don't think that's possible."


*****


Las Vegas wasn't all that Doc hoped it would be. When William left, Doc ended up floundering around himself. He eventually left as well and wandered for a few months, even going back to Dodge City for a short spell. He hoped he'd run into Wyatt, but that never came to fruition. Instead Bat Masterson had a little adventure for him to tag along with. Any friend of Wyatt's was a friend of his as far as he was concerned, so he indulged in the distraction. It was as close to Wyatt as he got. He would take it.

Once he was through with that undertaking - which won him a nickel-plated revolver from Bat as a thank you - he traveled around more. Which after months lead him back to Las Vegas, once more. He doesn't know why he came back - the gambling, most likely. But the place was starting to become something Doc wasn't comfortable with being around. Gangs started showing up. Hyman G. Neill, otherwise known as 'Hoodoo Brown' had become the boss of New Town, and Doc liked New Town.

The 'Dodge City Gang' (as they called themselves) was everywhere. And Doc kept getting either pulled into their mess or accused of being a part of them. All because he knew the people who were associated with them. But Doc wanted a way out of this chaos. And he just needed a reason to find it.

It happened with a letter that he received one day in October.

He held the letter in his hands, shaking as he read it. It was from Wyatt, stating that he was coming to Las Vegas to stay for a short while and wanted to see him.

He felt light-headed. He read the letter again. Wyatt, wanted to see him. He hadn't seen him in nearly a year and Wyatt remembered him and wanted to see him.

It was foolish to think that Wyatt would simply forget about him. But the way this year had been going, he wouldn't put it past a simple case of forgetfulness that his secret desire would up and move on.

He didn't forget Wyatt. He can't--how could he? He was reminded of him every day. Every time he breathed was for him. His very air depended on the lawman. His thoughts were filled with him. Whether he wanted them to be or not. The petals in the trash were constant reminders of him every time he saw them.

No. He couldn't forget Wyatt.

He felt excited, barely contained energy bubbling to the surface. He shook with adrenalin. His head spun. He needed a drink. He closed his eyes and tried to deep breathe, one hand resting on a nightstand. But it only summoned a coughing fit. He whipped a handkerchief to his mouth and coughed louder and harder than he had in a long time. It burned his lungs. Which was new...

His illness had plateaued for quite some time now, and he had begun to think that maybe the springs and the absence from Wyatt had caused it to either decrease, slow down, or at the very least not get any worse. He began to think that William was right, and that he could battle this. Do what his mother couldn't. Conquer the problem come hell or high water.

But the moment he heard from Wyatt, all that was dashed to the rocks. When he pulled the cloth away from his mouth this time, he swears he saw a few drops of red on the white fabric amongst the petals. But he didn't linger on it as he dumped the contents of the handkerchief into the trash bin like he always did. He tried not to think about the fact that it also seemed like the petals were larger.

He didn't want to think about any of that. Didn't have time.

Wyatt was coming. And he first needed to write a responding letter to acknowledge his friend's trip with open arms.


*****


Doc checked his watch again for the twentyfifth time in the last hour. Only a few minutes had passed since his last check and he was growing increasingly impatient. He started swinging the watch around to distract himself as he strained his eyes to the distance looking for any sightings worth notice.

He stood on the Plaza in Old Town dressed in some of his finest to look his best for a certain someone.

Old Town wasn't the safest place to be, even during the day, and it took a few choice words and more growls to get people to stop trying to take advantage of him and understand he was not a man to mess with while he stood there, waiting. He leaned his cane against a hitching post to pull out a flask and take a heavy swig. The drink burned down pleasingly, soothing his throat which had been increasingly getting coarser since the arrival of Wyatt's letter several weeks ago. He took another swig, gurgled it and swallowed it down. He put the cap back on and slipped the flask back in his coat pocket. He was more nervous than a virgin in the marriage bed. He straightened his vest, smoothed out his coatsleeves and fumbled with his tie pin. Once satisfied, he collected his cane and looked at his watch. Again.

Doc admonished himself for even behaving the way he was. This wasn't like him. It was out of character for the dentist to act like some windswept lover. He felt like one of those maidens who waited on the cliffs for their true love to return from out at sea. He snorted at the thought.

Some shapes in the distance crept ever closer. They caught Doc's eye. It felt like his heart stilled as it approached. The closer it got, the more his chest tightened and the flutters increased. He suppressed a cough as best he could. It's closer now. He can see the shape of it. Two wagons lazily making their way down the dirt road toward him. It takes everything in him not to rush forward and run to meet them. But he would never be caught dead doing that. He doesn't want to look like a damn fool. So he stays where he is and watches, leaning his weight on his cane with one hand and playing with his watch with the other. He checks the time again.

He stifles a row of coughing by clenching his stomach and trying to breathe slow. He can't do that now, not in front of Wyatt. He felt light-headed.

They're getting closer and Doc could start to see the people on the wagons. From this distance he could barely see who was who but he just knew which one was Wyatt. He felt the pull already. The flutters increased.

Another few minutes and they were even closer. The wait was killing him.

Now he could see them clearly. Doc waved an arm at them to get their attention. One wagon had an older man he didn't recognize with a woman by his side. The other wagon he sees Wyatt, and the lawman noticed him right away and waved back. As he waved a head popped out from under a flap, followed by that someone climbing onto the front next to Wyatt and drew his attention away for a minute.

Wait a second, Doc thought. Who the hell is that?

Doc's arm stilled in the air and his smile faltered. His heart thumped in his chest. They may not be close enough, but they aren't that far away anymore. Doc isn't blind. That person he saw...

Was not a man.

So. It's like that.

Doc's vision suddenly went dark and he swooned. He shot a hand out and grabbed the hitching post to stop himself from falling as his knees buckled. He leaned his weight on both the post and his cane as he waited for his vision to return. He was panting. He felt clammy.

He didn't know what the hell just happened. He'd never experienced that before. He didn't know what it meant or why it was happening now. It made him feel weak, exhausted. It took every bit of strength he had not to collapse.

All he did was see who Wyatt was with and that was the reaction.

By the time they reached him Doc had grown solemn. He let this new information fester till they got up to the Plaza.

Doc didn't even acknowledge the other man in the second wagon. His attention is rapt on Wyatt and his new, 'companion'.

He tightened his grip on his cane.

Wyatt pulled the reigns and beamed at him. Doc returned a thin smile, lips turning white from the effort.

"Well! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" Wyatt crowed as he stood, wiping his hands on his pants. He climbed down and stretched his legs, rubbing his behind. Then he gingerly helped the woman down next. The way he touched her made Doc's stomach roll. He felt like someone gut-punched him.

The reaction was instant and violent. He nearly keeled over from the pain as the worst coughing fit he's ever experienced shaked his lungs. It's loud and hard, and he barely had time to bring a handkerchief to his mouth before he retched up petals. They felt clumpy and wet, not the flutter he's used to.

Not now he thought as he begged it to stop, feeling mortified it's happening in front of Wyatt. God, he'd let it happen in front of anyone but Wyatt.

It went on longer than he'd like until he's weezing into his hankerchief. He glanced down before stuffing it away and saw the alarming amount of deep red that was mixed with the petals, causing them to look soggy.

That was not good. An alarm bell went off in his head.

He felt drained. He hoped to God or whoever was listening that Wyatt didn't see the petals. Doc swayed, straightening with effort and did his best to fix his appearance. As he did so, he saw the other man mouth to Wyatt the word 'Consumptive'.

Fine, he thought. Let them think that. Better than the alternative.

Wyatt took the woman by the elbow and steered her over to Doc. His eyes rove over his friend and he watched him carefully, concern in his words. "You still with me?"

Doc scoffed at first, automatic response, and tried not to visibly tremble at the way Wyatt watched him, having not seen the man for so long. Perhaps now that Wyatt thought he had consumption, he'd be able to get away with a lot more. A slight weight lifted off of him at the thought, and he tipped his head and just said, "Still alive, time willing."

Wyatt's eyes narrowed. "That's a bit morbid, isn't it?"

Doc doesn't answer him. Just stretched his thin smile further. There's a pain in his chest that's growing. But it's not just his lungs. His heart aches. He's finding it hard to breathe again. His vision wavered. It hurt to look at the woman, but he did so anyway. Cursing his southern decorum.

"Who is this enchanting creature?"

Wyatt turned to her, a sparkle in his eye. Doc screamed internally at seeing it.

"This here is Celia Ann Blaylock."

"Mattie." she stated, giving Wyatt a side eye.

"I was getting to that, darlin'." Wyatt mumbled.

Doc's body stiffened at the word 'darlin''. His stomach churned violently. He put the back of his hand to his lips and close-mouth gagged into it. He tried to swallow whatever wanted to come up. He hoped he made it look like he just yawned instead.

Against his better judgement, Doc took the lady's hand to his lips and kissed it.

"Mattie, darling, you are lovlier than a wild rose." The words were poison on his tongue.

Mattie smiled faintly, a slight blush coloring her cheeks.

The unknown man stepped up, dusting off his hat. Another woman is at his side. He's older - much older than Wyatt. Or at least he looked it. Tall, thinning hair. Thick mustache, same as Wyatt's. Same intense blue eyes. The woman was brunette, pretty yet rough around the edges. Older than Mattie.

Wyatt introduced them both with pride.

"Doc, this is my older brother, James and his wife, Nellie."

"Call me Bessie, dear." Said Nellie as she fixed her shawl.

James held a hand out. "And I go by Jim."

Doc took the hand and shook it firmly. "John Henry Holliday."

The two Earp brothers glanced at each other, then Jim spoke up. "I thought he said your name was 'Doc'?"

"It is."

"Then, what should I call ya?"

"Doc."

Jim gave him a look as he placed his hat back on his head. "How does one get 'Doc' from John Henry?"

Doc and Wyatt say 'dentist' at the same time.

"Sure." Jim snorted. Bessie lightly slapped his arm.

"Well," Doc started, clearing his throat. "I'm sure the company would much prefer to freshen up after such a gruelling trek before we head out to your encampment."

Jim sighed, relieved. "Much abliged to you, Doc. It's been a long journey."

Doc sweeped the arm holding his cane out and Jim and his wife walked ahead. Doc expected Wyatt to do the same, but he waited patiently for Doc to move first. Once he did, Wyatt walked along next to him, Mattie on his arm.

Doc's fingers accidentally grazed Wyatt's as they walked. An inaudible gasp escaped him. He could feel the stirrings of petals rising up and he willed them to stay down. They were a flurry in his lungs, furious to get out. Burning inside. He wasn't sure he could hold it off for long. He saw spots in his vision.

He wiped his brow; he felt feverish. That was new. He hadn't had that symptom before.

"Speaking of 'dentistry', how's that going for you?" Wyatt asked in earnest. Unaware of the storm brewing in Doc.

"I'm not currently practicing." he stated simply. "And I may not for the foreseeable future."

"Never say never, Doc. You may just yet."

Doc gives him a lopsided grin. He's leaning more on his cane than he's aware of. He felt depleted, and he wasn't sure how much longer he was going to be able to stay upright.

"And you, lawman. Still a Marshall? Still protecting citizens from corruptables?"

Wyatt's reaction is immediate. His lips tighten into a thin line and his brow furrowed. He clenched his fists till the knuckles turned white. Mattie fired a warning glance at Doc, then her eyes softened to Wyatt. Doc saw he may have struck a nerve.

"No. I'm not. Nor do I think I will be again." Wyatt said darkly.

The world spinned and Doc stumbled, catching himself on his cane. He felt a hand grip his shoulder to steady him. He stifled a moan at the touch. Wyatt's talking to him but he can't hear him over the pounding in his ears.

He's light headed. Doc made an effort to keep his eyes open, but he can't. He's seeing two of everything, like he's drunk but he knows he's not. He tried to shake his head to clear it, but it only made things tilt worse. He looked to Wyatt and the lawman's face deformed before his very eyes. The sun was too bright, sounds were too loud. Suddenly everything shifted.

Something was very wrong, and that fact dawned on him as a strong arm wrapped around his waist and caught him as he felt his world tip and he blacked out.

Chapter Text

The first sign that something was bad happened in Tombstone, Arizona.

Wyatt was only supposed to stay in Las Vegas for over a week or so, but he ended up staying a month. He would say it was because he missed the pleasure of Doc's company, but Doc knew it had more to do with him worrying over his health than anything else. He suspected Wyatt's brother had come to the same conclusion as himself. Hell, even the women could see the ex-lawman fussing over him everytime Doc came over, much to Mattie's annoyance. It should have pleased him, having all this attention from Wyatt, but it only made him irratable around the other the longer Wyatt stayed. He wasn't an invalid, for Christ's sake. He could take care of himself. Especially for visits.

He knows he gave them all quite the scare when they first arrived. It was something he had no intention of repeating. Not that he had any ability to control it really, but he was damn well going to give it his all.

After it happened, he remembered waking up disoriented and sluggish. His eyelids felt too heavy to open. His limbs like lead. So he listened. He could hear distant music, some muttering in the background, horses hooves and carriage wheels. Flowing water.

Closer still was a scraping and clinking sound. Like metal on porcelain. Doc focused on these sounds till it grounded him. That's when he became painfully aware he was dressed in nothing but his undergarments with a blanket draped over himself.

At that, he made another attempt to open his eyes.

The lamplight was dim on a table across from him, but was still offensive to his sensitive eyesight. He seemed to be in a tent of some sort with very simple furnishings. A feminine touch was present by way of lace, doilies, and knitting accoutrements. A man sat in a chair by the bed Doc was laying in. It was Wyatt, dressed in nothing but a white shirt, dark pants and boots. His sleeves were rolled up. He had a cup and saucer in his hand. He was taking a sip of whatever liquid lay inside when he practically spat it out once he saw Doc watching him.

"Doc!" Wyatt could barely get out through coughs. He pounded his chest to try to clear it.

Doc observed him, amused.

"Hello, Wyatt." he said, surprised by his own frailty.

Wyatt set the cup down next to the lamplight, scooted his chair closer and leaned in. He touched a hand to Doc's forehead and sighed, relief showing in his handsome features.

"Your fever finally broke, you tough son of a bitch. Thought I was losing you there for a second." His voice was gentle, and so was his touch. He moved his calloused hand from Doc's forehead to his cheek, sliding down his neck to rest on his shoulder.

Even weak as he was, Doc lightly leaned into the touch. It was overwhelming. Wyatt hadn't even done that much but Doc wanted more but needed less. He couldn't help but breathe the other man in everytime the hand got close to his nose. He smelled of leather, coffee, dirt, and violets. A woman's scent.

He internally recoilled at that.

Wyatt had no idea what this touching was doing to Doc internally. Even just leaving his hand where it was on his shoulder was dangerous for the thinner man. His breathing picked up. His lungs stirred to life. He felt a low cough begin to grow. He tried weakly to push Wyatt away but the attempt must have been misunderstood for Wyatt instead touched him more by grabbing his small frame and lifting him half up and holding him close as the hacking got worse. Thankfully, Wyatt grabbed a handkerchief from the table and brought it to Doc's mouth and held it there. Doc fought against him as best he could through the fit to grab the cloth away from Wyatt. Terrified of what he'd find once he was finished. It was a feeble attempt but by some stroke of luck, Wyatt receded and let him have the handkerchief.

When the coughing subsided, Wyatt tenderly laid him back down to the bed and settled him in, shaking his head.

"Are you always this stubborn when you get sick?"

Doc gripped the cloth like it was a lifeline, afraid the ex-lawman would try and take it. "Only for those who take care of me."

Wyatt chuckled low and gently smacked Doc in the cheek. He got up and moved outside the tent where Doc can't see him anymore.

Doc tried to sit up but found he's too weak at the moment to move, his body drained of all energy.

The sound of pouring water can be heard, as well as low voices. Both feminine and masculine. He recognised them as belonging to Wyatt's brother, Jim, his wife Bessie, and of course. Mattie. The latter being the most upset.

Doc grinds his teeth as he listens in on what they say:

"So, how's our graveyard cougher doin'? Thought I heard voices." - Jim

"He's awake. Fever broke, thank God. But he's weak as all hell." - Wyatt

"Good. Now we can send him home and I can have my bed back." - Mattie

"Quiet, he'll hear you. And he's sick. Give him some time to recover his strength at least." - Wyatt

"I don't care, Wyatt. I'm tired of sleeping in that damn wagon." - Mattie

"At least one more day, alright? I promise." - Wyatt

"(Sigh) One more day, Wyatt." - Mattie

"Well, I'll make him something to eat. After being out for so long I'm sure the poor soul has a devil of a hunger in him." - Bessie

"I'm sure he'd appreciate that." - Wyatt

"How long has he been sick?" - Jim

"Hell, I don't know. Does it matter?" - Wyatt

"I just don't want him droppin' dead on us when you dragged us here to see 'im. Hell, I thought he had." - Jim

"You're too much." - Wyatt

"You know you thought the same thing." - Jim

"Honestly Jim. Shut yer trap. Think what that poor boy has to go through." - Bessie

The muttered voices continued. Footsteps got closer till Wyatt was back in view, a small white towel in hand. It appeared damp. He had a comforting smile that seemed strained.

Doc asked the elephant-in-the-room question. "Where are we? The encampment?"

"Right as rain, my friend." Wyatt answers, coming over to sit on the side of the bed this time.

"I see. And how did you know where to go?"

"After dragging your sorry ass back to the wagons Jim and I asked around for directions and found some very obliging people."

Doc found it hard that anyone would be willing to help in Old Town without something in return, and began wondering how much they had to shell out for information.

Wyatt sat at the side of the bed. As he brought the cloth to Doc' face, Doc asked another question. "How long have I been out?"

The wet cloth hovered over him. Wyatt stared at it, Doc stared at Wyatt. They stayed like that for a few seconds. "Doesn't matter." Wyatt spoke low.

"How long?" Doc pressed.

"A few days."

Doc tried to scramble to sit up, but to no availe. "A few..."

Wyatt met his eyes. "Told ya we were worried about you."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "'We'?"

"Yes, 'we'." Wyatt one shoulder shrugged. Then began pressing the damp towel to Doc's face and neck.

Doc leveled his eyes, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Attempting to wipe me down."

"Well, then that's what I'm doing."

Doc glared at him. "I can see that. My question is why are you doing it? Did I suddenly lose my arms?" His temper was beginning to flare.

"You're remarkably chatty." Wyatt commented.

"I must be feeling better."

"You must be." Wyatt paused, looked Doc square in the eyes then pulled away, placing the cloth in his right hand. "Alright then. You do it." Wyatt folded his arms over his chest.

"About time." Doc said, as he attempted to lift the cloth to his neck. But he was too weak, and could only raise it by a few inches. He made a second attempt, but no difference. The room got quiet. He felt his stomach drop of embarrassment. He glanced to Wyatt who just sat there, arms still crossed and blinked at him. Eyebrows raised.

Doc threw the cloth down on the bed and turned away from him. "I'll do it later."

They stayed silent like that for a little while. Doc caught himself listening to the outside world once again, which began to lul him back to sleep. His eyelids drooped when Wyatt spoke up.

"So when were you going to tell me?"

Doc snapped to wide awake. A streak of panic rushed through him. He could feel his heartbeat quickening. He looked at the other man and he felt his breath falter. Wyatt was staring back at him with such glaring intensity he sensed the flutters rekindle in a whirlwind. His fingers gripped the the blanket.

Doc had only ever been scared once before in his life and now that fear was returning with a vengeance. Did Wyatt know? Had he found out about the petals? How? What had Doc done since he was unconscious that gave himself away? Was it the coughing he did just now? Did he say something? Do something?

Oh God.

Does Wyatt know it's about him? Did he forgive him? Hate him? Or is everything they have over? Did he...

Doc shook his head gently. He's spiralling, and he didn't even know what Wyatt knew yet.

He started with something small. He spoke softly. "About..."

Wyatt narrowed his eyes. "About you having consumption. Damn, Doc. I thought we were closer than that."

Doc sharply exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The wave of relief he felt knowing that Wyatt was upset with him because he thought he kept his so-called 'consumption' a secret was sublime. He nearly laughed out of alleviation from the stress he was in moments ago.   

The flutters even managed to calm down. But only a tad.

Doc cleared his throat. "Oh, well it just never came up in polite conversation. Besides, I knew you'd discover it eventually."

Wyatt's jaw squared. "Yeah well it's a hell of a way to introduce it to me. You scared me half to death."

Doc quirked one side of his lip up. "Death, is my problem."

Wyatt slouched a little. "Not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be." He whispered, exhaustion beginning to take hold. His eyelids grew heavy.

Wyatt's features softened, and he reached out to touch Doc on the top of his head. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and just smiled. Doc had a feeling he would have given anything to hear what Wyatt was going to say.

Instead, Wyatt stands, "Get some winks, old rip." Then walks out of sight.

He wished Wyatt had stayed by his side while he slept. Or at least until he fell asleep. But he knew it was too much to ask. It wasn't his place.

It doesn't take long for Doc to drift off.


*****


By the time the Earps were ready to pack up and leave, Doc's illness had gotten degrees worse. Mattie's presence being the catalyst.

She must have sensed something amiss from Doc towards Wyatt, because everytime he came around to visit she hung on him like a saddle to a horse. It wasn't till two weeks into their stay that Doc discovered to his utter horror that she knew. When or how Mattie learned of his illness he doesn't know, all he does know is the day he realized she hated him.

He had come over as usual to spend some quality time with the Earps - particularly Wyatt - who were all scattered in different directions doing various things. Doc was in Wyatt and Mattie's tent, leisurely studying the different framed photos that were decorating the table they had in there. He had a whiskey in hand, throwing back its contents every so often.

When suddenly the flutters erupted and a harsh coughing fit took hold. It was so sudden, he didn't get a kerchief to his mouth in time to stop the bloody spill over. Globs of petals dripped to the dirt floor before he stopped it. He rode it out, his lungs burning like fire. As soon as it eased off he wiped his mouth and shoved the evidence away in a pocket. He was bringing his boot to cover the petals on the ground when a shapelier boot stomped over the bloody clumps in front of him. He looked up to see a seething Mattie, eyes radiating so much hatred they could've killed by look alone. She said nothing. But ground her boot into the petals while never taking her gaze off Doc. She wiped her boot across the ground then kicked some dirt onto the remains. Then as silently as she came, she left.

Doc knew it was a threat. Stay away from my man.

Doc was not a man to back down from a challenge. He was no coward. This 'threat' was no different. In fact, he began popping up more frequently after that. Just to piss Mattie off. And it sure as hell worked.

But he paid a high consequence for it.

The more frequent the visits, the more intense the flutters became. It increased to such a degree that Doc saw at one point petals were starting to come out attached to each other. He knew what that meant. It was only a matter of time before something whole would come out. And once that happened, then...

He didn't want to think about it.


*****


Something else happened during the Earp's month long stay. Wyatt would not stop talking about a place called Tombstone, and what a prosperous place it was and what a wonderous future it would hold for his family. He intended to bring most of his brothers there to live and start a life filled with opportunity.

And most importantly, he wouldn't stop begging Doc to come along with him.

The yearning to follow Wyatt anywhere he wished was so strong, it practically would drive him to madness. Especially since Doc had grown weary of Las Vegas and its new 'gang wars'. He also wanted something new, something fresh. Something, with Wyatt in it.

But he didn't want to be subjected to more entanglements with Mattie. His health couldn't take it.

Seeing them together, having to bear witness to their domestic life and simple loving touches was torturous. Of something he could never have. Doc would sit there, choking back petals, slowly dying for a man oblivious to it while he cuddled a woman who gave him a knowing, smug glare.

No. He needed to get away from Wyatt. Once again. For as long as two destined souls could be separated from one another before the pull draws them back.

So when the time came he bid farewell to the Earps, to Wyatt. Who still pleaded with him to come to Tombstone. But Doc politely declined. He watched them leave. His heart wrenching that he wasn't on the wagon with him. He gasped and involuntarily took a few steps forward, than caught himself and froze to the spot. He remained a statue, squeezing his fists until they were numb. When the wagons were out of his sight he fell to his knees and cried. Not hard and heavy, but silent miserable tears. He shuddered a breath which his lungs fought against.

Surprisingly, people left him alone in his grief. The past month flashing before his mind. So much Wyatt was there in such a short amount of time. Caring for him. Touching him. Yet Doc kept pushing him away. Because of Mattie. Because his love wasn't returned and he was angry about it. He wished he could talk to William concerning his confused feelings, but William left him. Now so did Wyatt. He had no one. He was alone.

And he felt like dying wasn't so bad.


*****


Doc's first destination of choice was Prescott, Arizona. Unbeknownst to him, Wyatt also went to Prescott to pick up his brother, Virgil, then continued on to Tombstone. Doc liked Prescott. It had more stability and a cosmopolitan society that spoke deeply to Doc. With his illness increasing, he gave up dentistry and became a full-time gambler instead. Making himself at home on Whiskey Row, the gambling district in Prescott. He stayed the winter.

While he was there, a curious thing happened. He recieved a letter from Wyatt. How Wyatt knew where he was Doc had no idea, but the letter found its way to him all the same.

When he opened and read it, it was the same thing. Wyatt urging Doc to come to Tombstone. Doc dropped the letter away and sighed wearily. "You damn fool," he mumbled to no one.

It wasn't that he didn't want to go to Tombstone--Tombstone had nothing to do with it. The place sounded appealing to the fatigued gambler. It had everything to do with the ex-lawman. And how life-zapping it was to keep staying away from him. It took every bit of strength he had left not to rush to the other man-- and this letter wasn't helping. It would be so easy to just give up and run to Wyatt's side and never leave it. No matter the cost.

But he had to try for his own health, his own sanity, to see if he could live on his own and overcome this 'curse'.

But he knew deep down it was fruitless.


*****


After Prescott Doc went back to Las Vegas. He didn't know why either. He told himself it was because he came to settle some old debts he had outstanding. Clear the waters there. Only spend a little time and then move on.

He ended up spending the entire spring and summer.

While he was in Vegas - apparently a place to meet friends - Doc met a man named Miguel Antonio "Gillie" Otero Jr., the son of the prominent New Mexico entrepeneur who was a trailblazer in the Santa Fe railroad organization. He was hands-on for quite a bit of it, and would run into Doc several times. Gillie liked Doc. And the feeling was mutual. He seemed to take great care in what the gambler had to say.

Perhaps it was a moment of weakness. Or maybe Gillie got him on a particularly low day when he was drunk. Or even still, it could have been the man's youth and romanticism of life that drew Doc in. Whatever it was, Doc found himself confessing more than he meant to to the young man. He didn't give everything away, just that he had been 'jilted by a lover' and that's why he moved around so much. Somehow the other man fished out of him that it was in fact a man he had been pining over. His reaction was interesting.

Afterall. Gillie liked Doc. More than he should've.

He'd follow Doc when he wasn't looking on his days off. Noticed his habits. Observed his movements. What he liked and didn't like. How his body moved when he walked. His drinking tolerance. His little ticks. Wrote it all down.

He'd even follow him home.

Now, none of this was necessary. Doc accepted him as a friend. But, Gillie didn't want to be just a friend. And in there lied the problem.

What to do, what to do...


*****


It was evening. Doc strode right into the saloon, pistol out and cocked. There was that snake-eating bastard, Charles Wright, standing behind the bar, wiping it down.

"Hey, Charlie. Remember me?"

The shit stain only had enough time to duck low before Doc fired his six-shooter at where his round head used to be. A look of surprise and recognition hitting him in the face all at once.

Doc thought the coward would high-tail it out of there, but was amazed when the other pulled out a gun himself, pointed it back at Doc and fired it. An ugly grimace twisting his face.

And so, the back and forth gunfire began.

The onlookers hit the floor from the first shot, some screaming in terror as the barfront turned into a free-for-all shooting range. Bullets hitting walls and windows, splintering wood and shattering glass. The two shooters were not far away from each other, and yet by some miracle, Doc didn't get hit once. Neither did Charles from the look of it, until the man finally fell to the ground behind the bar. Doc wasn't sure if he was hit or not, but he stopped shooting once the bartender disappeared from sight.

It was a rather short, stupid fight. But Doc was satisfied with its outcome, and soon holstered his pistol and walked out of the saloon with his head held high. As he exited, he noticed a familiar face just outside of it.

"Gillie?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

The young man looked like a deer caught off guard on the trail.

"I--"

"Nevermind, we need to get out of here." Doc grabbed him by the forearm, looking around nervously for the law that he knew would be soon to arrive. "Come with me."

The man gave no resistance.

They sped walked till they reached New Town, Doc's legs aching by the time they reached it. He felt an eruption of petals overtake him. He barely made it into an alley where he doubled over and coughed up a lungs worth of large bloody petals. His hanky never even leaving his pocket. When he finished expunging his lungs of their foreign contents, Doc leaned up against the brick wall, exhausted. He wheezed in shuddery breaths, wondering how much longer he'd be able to support himself on his legs. He tipped his head back against the cool surface of the wall, when someone stepped in front of him, reaching out and removing his hat.

His eyesight was blurry, but he could still see it was his friend Gillie. The man was just watching him, a strange look in his eye. Gillie stepped closer until they were only a few inches away. Doc watched him with lidded eyes. An alarm bell in the back of his mind was going off that something was wrong, but he was just too tired to listen to it.

Gillie reached a hand out to Doc's mouth and smoothed a thumb over his bottom lip. That caused Doc to frown and attempt to shift away from the strangeness of this confrontation.

Gillie shot his other arm out to the brick wall next to Doc's head, locking him from moving away. He brought his thumb into view, which now had a red streak on it.

"You've got blood on you."

Doc was not in the mood for whatever was going on here. He was tired, drained, and just wanted to sleep before the authorities came rapping at his door for the little stunt he pulled.

Gillie was a good man. But he had gotten a little strange ever since Doc confessed a few things to him in a drunken rambling. Well, there went another friend.

Doc frowned. "What are you--" his words died on his tongue as Gillie rushed forward and closed his mouth over Doc's.

Doc stood rigid, eyes widening as reality was hitting him.
Once movement came back to him, he through his arms up against Gillie's chest and pushed him away, only succeeding in getting the healthier man off his mouth.

"Gillie--" was all he could get out before the other man forced himself back on him, grabbing his hair and latching onto his lips, biting, gnashing, and licking like a fiend starving. He let his other hand roam hungrily anywhere he could reach. Doc struggled the whole time. Gillie reached down and groped his ass, then slid his hand down further till he grabbed one of Doc's legs and yanked it up by the knee, grinding their crotches together.

When he tried to force his tongue down Doc's throat Doc somehow got a second wind of adrenaline and, fueling it with an ever growing rage, pushed Gillie back once more just enough to clock him across the jaw with his right fist. Gillie's head snapped back and he fell over like a solid door from its frame.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Doc roared. His body shaking with anger, fists still clenched. He kicked the other man in the face with his boot hard enough to draw blood. He wished he had his cane.

Doc had a handful of rules that personally concerned him directly. Only a few.

One of them being that no one, and he means no one, was allowed to touch him except those he trusted. Which those lists were very tiny.

But to touch him that way? That was reserved for only one soul. And he wasn't even aware of it.

So for someone whom he'd just considered a friend to violate one of those rules was near unforgivable.

Doc re-asked the question louder but Gillie doesn't respond. In fact, Gillie doesn't move. Doc nudges his motionless form with his foot but still nothing. He sees the man's chest rising and falling, so he's not dead. Just knocked out. Doc didn't feel bad. He spat on his form, picked up his hat and walked out of the alley. While he still had energy, Doc made his way to a nearby saloon.

He needed to get drunk.


*****


Doc went back to Prescott in June. He was officially done with Las Vegas and everyone in it. Not only that, but he gave up the fighting pull to stay away from Wyatt. It was just too oppressive. And after what happened with Gillie, he understood that he'd rather be around the one he desired most and perish by his side than die somewhere at the hands of somebody else taking advantage of him in a weakened state. Be it at the end of a gun, a fist, or something else unthinkable.

On Montezuma Street in Prescott, he moved into a boardinghouse where he shared quarters with several interesting characters. Mostly with a temperance advocate and the secretary of Arizona Territory. A highly impressive figure who he got along with swimmingly.

He gambled, of course, but he also ended up debating temperance issues and talking politics. Doc associated with influencial people and found it refreshing.

He also ran into a man by the name of John H. Behan, who would later on cause some serious issues for him and the ones he cared about.

After a short stint in Prescott, Doc went to Tucson for the San Augustin Festival that lasted from August 27th to September 16th. It attracted quite a number of people but particularly gamblers. Wyatt and his brother Virgil went to the festival as well. But only for a short time, and Doc missed them both. But he sensed a strong pull the short couple days Wyatt was there, and it drove him crazy why he couldn't find the source. It faded when the ex-lawman left but never completely.

When he was through with the festival, Doc finally, finally, made his way to Tombstone. On the way there, he road on the same coach as Behan and his son, Albert. It was September 14th.

What greeted Doc when he arrived was not rewarding. Tombstone was crowded, filthy, covered in waste paper and rotten fruit. Its town sprawled over flats that weren't flattering and his first thought was that maybe he had ended up in the wrong town. Or so he hoped.

But in all honesty, Doc was used to places that were less than glamorous. Besides, he didn't come here for the sights. He came here for other reasons.

One were the saloons and gambling houses. Which he'd come to eventually learn were Tombstone's only bright spots and were everywhere. They were carpeted, magnificently lit, and comfortably furnished. What more could he ask for?

Well, there was one thing. It was Wyatt Earp.

And he ran into the man as soon as he arrived. Almost like he was waiting for him.

After Doc settled into the Cosmopolitan Hotel and claimed a room on the second floor, he walked through the town, counting the many saloons Tombstone had to offer. A voice that he could've picked out in a crowd called out to him.

"Well, I'll be damned. You came."

Doc turned around and stilled. There stood Wyatt, dressed all in black and looking mighty fine. His tanned skin darker than he'd last seen him. While he knows he himself had grown more pale, sickly.

There was a lit cigar in Wyatt's hand. Doc could see a shiny badge pinned to his vest's lapel from behind his coat.

It felt like Dodge City all over again.

Doc's heart beat faster at seeing him. The flutters activating. He felt his head swim, and he leaned on his cane for support. The damn cane he'd been having to rely on more and more lately.

They had been so long apart, and Doc blamed himself for that. He should've known he couldn't outrun this. That it was inevitable. The feelings too strong. That Doc was bound to Wyatt, and that was final. Perhaps even after death, too.

"You still with me?"

Doc was brought back from his musings with the familiar phrase Wyatt used on him. He gave a half smile in return. "Still alive." He answered with his usual response.

Wyatt smiled brightly, a twinkle in his eye. "I can see that." He brought the cigar to his mouth.

It wasn't a come on. In truth, Doc knew for a fact Wyatt was just being funny. But all the same, the words did things to him that caused Doc to shift under the other man's watchful stare.

Wyatt stepped forward and, without asking, grasped one of Doc's hands in both his own. Giving it a firm shake. "How are you, you old rip?"

Doc was taken off guard for a moment. Not by the act, but by how warm Wyatt was against his skin.

A new symptom that Doc had picked up in Las Vegas was being feverish at all times. Another similarity he had with consumptive patients. It had grown with alarming speed and then shockingly backed down once he made up his mind to go to Wyatt in Tombstone. Then it teeter-tottered ever since. He had grown customary to its unpredictability. It soon became background noise as time went on.

He was more sensitive to temperatures now. Everything felt cold; putting a bullet in a chamber, holding a worn playing card, a glass of whiskey with no ice in it. They each held there own temp. And it was maddening to the point Doc considered wearing gloves.

But Wyatt. Wyatt was the opposite. He was all warmth and comfort. That was not normal. Doc's first instinct was to pull away, overwhelmed by the heat. But he stayed. The overpowering need to be touched by this man dominating all other thoughts.

Wyatt furrowed his brow. Looking from his hands to the gambler's face. "Hey Doc. You okay? You feel awfully warm."

Doc's mouth opened slightly, eyes widening. For a moment, a thrill ran through him like he'd never experienced.

"You feel it too?" He asked, softly.

A moment passed between them, an eternity for Doc. Then Wyatt brought a hand up to Doc's forehead and reality came crashing down.

Oh. Right. Naturally he felt warm. He's feverish. There was no sharing of anything. It was all one-sided. As usual.

Doc, embarrassed, swiped the hand away. "I'm fine, Wyatt."

Wyatt, concern still etched in his countenance, was about to say something contrary, but let it slide. He held his hands up. "If you say so." He said past his cigar.

Doc, wanting to change the subject, cleared the ever-rising petals from his throat and asked an obvious question.

"So, a lawman again?" He pointed to the badge. "Just couldn't say no to the call, can you?"

Wyatt laughed good-naturedly as he lifted his coat to show off the badge better. "Well, you know how it is."

"Thought you said you were never going to be a lawman again?"

Wyatt never got a chance to respond. For at that moment, two men stepped up, dressed similarly to each other. One older, one younger.

"What are you two cowpokes bein' all friendly about?" Said the older looking one. His voice deep.

Wyatt perked up at the sight of them. He took his cigar out. "Oh, nothing much. We was just getting started when you showed up. Glad you did. Doc," Wyatt put a hand on the older man's shoulder, "These are my brothers. Virgil," he gestures to the older one, "and Morgan. Fellas, this is my friend, Doc Holliday."

Morgan, who had a very open face, stepped forward and clasped Doc's hand. His smile seemed genuine. "Wow, the Doc Holliday. Wyatt's told me so much about you. Golly, I've been just dyin' to meet ya."

"I certainly hope not." Retorted Doc with a grin.

Morgan's face went blank for a moment, then he seemed to catch on and he laughed. The man's face was very expressive thought Doc casually.

The one called Virgil shook his hand next. His look was stern but he had a smirk nonetheless. "Doc. I've heard stories about you. Are they true?"

Doc noticed Virgil also had a badge pinned to his vest. He chose his next words wisely. "That all depends on the speaker, sir. And how trustworthy their reputation is."

"Well, I have it on good authority that you shot a man in Dallas."

Doc's eye twitched at the memory, and he held up a finger. "Correction: I was the one shot. And my would-be-killer got away. Not sure where you get your 'good authority' from, but it appears to be defective."

"They said you caned the man, and that you died."

"A tad prematurely. Though I don't deny the caning."

"Yeah, I bet you don't." Virgil's eyes were steely.

"Alright, alright. That's enough you two." Wyatt interrupted. "Virgil, turn it off. You just met him."

Virgil glanced to him and shrugged with his head. "Don't worry nuthin'. Afterall, a friend of Wyatt's..." and he let it die there.

But Doc understood what he was saying. You're safe, until you fuck up.

"Oh, that's right. Wyatt, Mattie's been lookin' all over for ya. Says it's an emergency. Somethin' about laudanum. You better head back home quick as a whip." Morgan told him with worry etched on his baby face.

Mattie. The very mention of the woman's name shot a vicious surge to his heart. The memory of all the times the two of them were together hitting him at once. He had suppressed it all this time, and now the gates came flooding open. The reaction was so visceral that Doc gasped hoarsely, activating the fury of his lungs to the point he doubled over in pain. He whipped a handkerchief out and flew it to his face.

The coughing was tearing through his throat. His lungs were burning from effort, squeezing whatever was inside out. He felt a softness inside bulging in his windpipe, choking him. Liquid was coming out, but that was all. There was something big stuck in there, and it was suffocating him. He tried desperately to hack it up.

He sensed a warm, supportive hand on his back. Rubbing up and down. Patting when needed. The group of people got closer. He felt crowded.

After one final push, Doc vomited something of substance into his handkerchief. He could feel the size of it in his hand. It was definetly a clump. He wiped his mouth lazily. Doc leaned all his weight against a body standing next to him, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders to steady him.

Doc felt drained. This was not how he wanted to introduce himself to Wyatt's family. For the second damn time he embarrassed himself in front of them.

At least this time he didn't faint. Small victories.

"You alright, Doc?" asked Morgan. Poor thing seemed genuinely concerned.

Doc wrapped up the hanky and shoved it away in a pocket. He waved his other hand dismissively. "As good as gold."

Doc noticed Wyatt was the one holding him. Still. He peered down at the arm around his shoulders, how close they were, and up at the lawman's face. "Wyatt."

Wyatt shifted his feet but otherwise didn't budge. He nodded once. "Just waiting for you to regain your footing."

Doc pretended to fume though he secretly loved this. "I never lost it. I don't need you to coddle me."

"I'm not."

"Then what do you call this?" Doc gestured to Wyatt's arm.

"...Assisting a friend?"

"I'll ask for assistance if I need it, thank you very much. By the way, if you do not remove your arm from my person in the next ten seconds I am not held responsible for my actions."

"Nope."

"Beg your pardon?"

"You heard me, I said no. And if you make a fuss about it, then I'm going to have to get more--ow!!" Wyatt yanks his hand away from Doc as if he'd been burned. He held his hand to his face and his eyes were wide. "You bit me!"

"Be grateful I stopped there."

"Do you two need a moment?" Virgil asked with an eyebrow raised. Morgan seemed pleasantly entertained.

Wyatt massaged his barely injured finger. "I can't believe you bit me." He said in disbelief.

"I warned you, and you deserved it. Besides, instead of fretting over the dying, you should go to your other half who is in need of your assistance. Now off with you." Doc Tipped his head to the Earp brothers. "Gentlemen."

"Doc." They both said in their own way. "It was a pleasure meeting ya." Added Morgan.

Doc raised a hand as he walked away, this time heading back to his hotel. It killed him to send Wyatt back to Mattie just like that, but he had other pressing matters to attend with. He heard Wyatt shout something to him - most likely about getting him back for the bite - but he wasn't listening. He was too preoccupied with the thing in his pocket.

He had to check. He had to be sure.

He got to his room as casually as he could so as not to cause a scene. Once inside he locked the door, took out his kerchief, took a deep, steadying breath, and unwrapped it.

Doc stared. And stared.

It was everything that he feared.

Laying in the handkerchief was a rather large, perfectly intact, light purple flower. Its delicate petals riddled with blood.

Doc touched a tip of a finger to trace the edge of one of the petals. He marveled at how this flimsy, fragile thing got so atrociously stuck in his throat a little while ago.

His lungs burned as they formed new ones.

He let out a breathy laugh while a tear ran down his cheek.

He knew what this meant. He knew.

Chapter Text

Tombstone wasn't much to look at upon first glance, Wyatt had to admit. Some would even go so far as to call it an 'embryo'. But if one stayed in it long enough like he had, they could see that it had a lot more to offer. A surprising amount more.

It boasted a more urban and stable business community than most boomtowns did. There were not only plush saloons but also fine hotels, a public library at J. Goldtree & Company's cigar store, complete with a carpeted and well-decorated reading room, and a school under construction. There were also Masons, a brass band, a miner's union, a miner's hospital, the Home Dramatic Association, the Tombstone Social Club, a fire department, two daily newspapers, and a variety of social and political clubs.

Boil it all down and Tombstone was, in fact, rapidly growing from its humble beginnings of a mining camp into something incredible. Far better than its superiors. Wyatt was proud to be a part of it.

Since he'd been there, he and his brothers invested into mining properties for greater fortunes and tried to broaden their base. Sadly, it didn't go as well as he had hoped it would. Several of their mines turned up dry. But they kept dabbling. However, in order to stay afloat, they fell back on what they knew best: their experiences as lawman and gamblers.

After his sour experience in Dodge (which started with that corrupted Robert M. Wright and his weasel of a son, Charles), Wyatt vowed not to be a lawman again. Or at least, nothing to do with being a Marshal. And he somewhat kept to that promise, if one squinted real hard.

He didn't become a Marshal; he became the deputy sheriff of Pima County. There was a difference. Virgil became a U.S. deputy Marshal on way to Tombstone, and Morgan was a shotgun guard for Wells, Fargo after Wyatt stepped down from it previously. Warren either gambled or occasionally plugged away as a deputy for Virgil. Jim worked at Vogan & Flynn's; a gambling house as a barkeep.

Not exactly the plan any of them had in mind (aside from Jim). But, it paid regularly, and they had mouths to feed.

Warren was a damn handful. He was a bully drunk and got bored easily. Spending most of his time at the whorehouse, doing whatever he pleased to those scarlet ladies, which usually ended up with them having more bruises on them then before he came in. Or he was at the gambling houses or saloons, spending all his money there being loud and boisterous. Starting fights when there weren't ones to begin with. He was an embarrassment to the Earp name.

Now, it wasn't that the Earps were innocent of these vices, either. Most of them met their significant other in a brothel, and Wyatt enjoyed gambling. But they at least held some kind of decorum when it came to such proclivities. They weren't cruel, like Warren.

Warren's only excuse - if one wants to call it that - is that  being the youngest Earp, Warren seemed to have missed a crucial upbringing. Being too mollycoddled, as Virgil often fumed about. They blamed their mother for spoiling him and raising him to be wild. Even Morgan seemed worn out by Warren's actions, and all he ever did was make excuses for him growing up, being the closest to him on account of their age.

Wyatt and the others seriously considered sending him back home and ridding them of anymore humiliation. But they didn't. Because family was family. Even if the little shit was a bur in the saddle.

Another thing about Warren that the Earps tried to keep under control, was his particular 'carnal tastes'. They were wild and wooly of course - the whores could testify to that -  but not wholly directed at just women-folk. Men were also hunted by him, willing or unwilling, depending on how drunk he was. That brought a whole new world of trouble to them when it'd get ugly. He, as usual, would hide behind his brothers' badges to protect him. It rarely worked with Virgil. Morgan would give him the benefit of the doubt, and Wyatt...

Well, Wyatt was just getting tired of him. He didn't exactly tolerate it, but he was grateful Warren never tried it on anyone he cared about.


*****


It was a warm afternoon, nowhere near the horrid temperatures it had been earlier in the month. People were bustling around the street, enjoying the day for what was left of it, going about their business and finishing up their daily routines. Wyatt was amongst them, looking for laudanum on behalf of Mattie. It was a simple request, but one he'd dreaded fulfilling as of late.

Mattie had taken to the opium bottle too quickly, too heavily. Same with alcohol. Her reasoning for them made less and less sense. She hadn't always been so dependant on them, but it took a turn after their leave of Las Vegas.

Something happened to her in Vegas, he's sure of it. But he can't fathom what. It could have occured one of the times she went off on her own, but they weren't frequent. When she'd return from such trips it was always with a smile. Most of the time she stayed at the camp, or clung to him every chance she got. So it didn't make sense. But after Vegas she worsened.

Even more confusing still, she would complain about Doc. Who, by his memory, was nothing but cordial to her everytime he visited. With she to him. They would always exchange pleasantries. At least whenever he himself was around. So why this all of a sudden?

She would badmouth him every chance she could. Twisting some knife into Wyatt about their relationship, turning it into something he didn't understand, but felt defensive about. And he would defend it. Though he didn't know why he needed to.

That would always make her angrier. Which in turn made his life more miserable.

On days she was particularly out of it - alcohol coursing through her bloodstream - she would go on a rampage and accuse Wyatt of cheating on her with Doc. She would throw things around and hit him, asking if he enjoyed kissing him. Fucking him behind her back.

On those days Wyatt was floored. He couldn't fathom where she was coming from with these ideas. Doc was just his friend. He was a man, for God's sake. There wasn't even the slightest inkling that something would be between them that way. Yes, they were close. And yes, he cared a great deal for him, more than most, but...

There was nothing else. Nothing.

He just didn't understand where these wild accusations were coming from.

He thanked God Doc never heard about them.

Wyatt made his way through the crowd to pick up what Mattie asked for. While he was doing so, he got a glimse of a figure up on a balcony in the distance. No one had to tell him who it was; he knew. He just knew. It was strange how he could do it, pick him out of a crowd like that. But he could. It was innate. He didn't question it. Blamed it on his lawman nature.

He hadn't noticed that he took a turn and was now heading towards the figure. His body moving before his mind caught up. He wasn't thinking about laudanum anymore. He headed toward the Cosmopolitan Hotel. The place where Doc was staying.

On that balcony. Like Juliet in that Shakespeare play. And he understood something.

He wanted to see him.

Sometimes, Wyatt would get these strong urges. They only ever came in passing, and if he didn't take care of them right away, they would itch at his brain for hours to come. Like he was being repremanded.

There were simple urges. Like wanting to see someone. Or if they were there, then to be near them. Sometimes there was an urge to touch someone. Just some kind of contact, like a hand on a shoulder. Or arm. To shake a hand. Those sorts of things.

Then there were the more aggressive urges. Those were more frequent than he was comfortable with, but he had a pretty good self control over it. They came with wanting to hit something or someone. Feel the break of bone against his fists, the buffaloeing of an enemy. Firing a gun into a target. Violent things.

Of course, he had passionate urges. But those these days had to be kept under wraps. His his fantasies and a hand were mighty helpful to dowse those. Other than that, for all the world and his place in it, that well was as good as dried up. He would sigh at the memory of what it used to be, though.

He did have strange urges. Ones he wasn't quite sure what to make of. And they nearly all involved his friend, Doc. Like what Doc's blonde hair felt like. If he ever would let him shave him. What would happen if he stared into his blue eyes for too long. Now that he's sick, did his sweaty skin feel clammy or chilled? Was it overheated? Feverish? If he held him tight would it make the smaller man feel better? Like a transfer of pain? Odd things.

These were Wyatt's various urges.

And he had an urge now.

Wyatt stopped at the front of the building, observing the man up above. "Hey, Doc. Whatcha doin' up there?"

Doc didn't answer him. He was hunched over, arms on the railing. From what Wyatt could see from where he was standing, it appeared Doc was so absorbed with something in his hands he didn't notice the rest of the world going by. He called his friend's name again but got the same result.

Wyatt huffed out his nose, nettled at being ignored. He marched right up to the building, swung the front door open and went inside. He took to the stairs - his spurs clinking on the steps as he went - till he made it to Doc's room, which was the first one at the top. He knocked on the door then let himself inside.

He had heard that the Cosmopolitan Hotel was a fancy place, but he had never been there himself. It didn't surprise him Doc would pick it as his homestead. It was quite a sight to behold.

The bed was the main focus in the room. It was luxurious; solid cherry wooden bedframe, decorated pillows with stitched images on them, quilted blankets of high quality, and it was a double. Too big for one person alone, he absently thought.

The rest of the room was just as lush. There were fancy empty vases on a nightstand next to the bed. Beaded fringed oil lamps - one on the nightstand, one by the door - sat handsomely in the chamber. A fine caliber washbasin with a sturdy mirror attached stood in the corner of the room. A beautiful mahogany wooden wardrobe fit for a king stood proud. Two strong made chairs were against a wall, and just as a nice finishing touch, the floor was carpeted.

Wyatt knew that Doc sometimes had sophisticated tastes, but damn. This was nice. A little extavagant for his liking, but he could see the appeal.

Wyatt looked out an open window. He saw Doc, who had his back towards him. Wyatt couldn't see his face but he was able to see the clear sagging of the slight man's shoulders. Like he had the whole world weighing him down.

Wyatt crossed the room to the doorway which was left wide open onto the balcony. He walked up slowly to the other man, hesitant to disturb him. He flinched as the floor creaked as he stepped. But Doc didn't stir. When he got close enough to peer over the other's shoulder he stopped, and watched as Doc slowly twirled something in his hands, fingers tracing its edges.

Wyatt stood stock still. His mouth slightly open. Eyes trained on the delicate thing being lovingly handled.

It was a light purple flower. One that Wyatt recognised. Though it was much larger than he was familiar with. He smiled as old memories from long past came back to him.

"Violet Wood Sorrel." He stated.

Doc turned around, startled. Nearly tripping over his own feet. He seemed dazed, like he had been miles away. His eyes wide. He clung to the flower in his hand. He reminded Wyatt of a bird, trapped. Doc glanced to the flower then back to Wyatt. "What?"

Wyatt gestured to the gambler's hand. "That flower you got there. It's a Violet Wood Sorrel. They grow all over the place like weeds, and just so happen to be my favorite flower."

Doc's jaw stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line. Wyatt noticed this, but continued on anyway. "I used to pick them all the time when I was a kid back in Illinois. Thought they were one of the prettiest things I'd ever seen. Though I've never spot one quite this big before." He reached for the plant. "Didn't know they grew in Arizo--hey!"

To Wyatt's surprise, Doc started tearing the flower to pieces and threw the remains over the edge on the railing. He watched as the shreds fluttered down till they were out of sight.

Wyatt felt a sting in his chest. That hurt him more than it should have.

"What the Sam Hill did you do that for?"

Doc answered him with an intense glare, a whirl of emotions surging through those blue eyes of his. Wyatt knew not to push it anymore. Though the longer he looked, the more he wanted to know.

Doc said nothing as he pushed passed him, going back into the hotel room. Wyatt just followed. Confused.

"Okay. I give up. What did I do to receive your wrath?" Wyatt asked, hands at his hips. He watched as doc picked up his gun holster and strap it around himself.

"My ire is not aimed at you." Doc said low.

"Then who are you mad at?"

Doc didn't answer as he put his pistols in the holsters with more force than needed.

Wyatt nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He crossed his arms, widened his stance. "Jesus. You're just like Mattie."

That got Doc to rush at him. "Don't you dare compare me to her." he growled. A hand resting on the handle of his gun.

Wyatt flew his hands up in defense. "Okay, okay." What was it with these two?

Wyatt started to say something else when Doc's coughing stopped him. The blonde flew a handkerchief to his mouth, from where it came from Wyatt didn't even see. The cough sounded rough and wet, like he was trying to hack up his lungs. It made Wyatt wince. Doc turned away from him and moved to the nightstand. His walking looked like even that took effort. The cough sounding worse with every step. Doc reached a hand to the nightstand, missed, and collapsed to the floor on his knees. Wyatt rushed to his side. A hand on his back without thinking.

"I'm right here," Wyatt tried to reassure the other, rubbing his back. Doc was almost huddled into a ball, one hand holding himself up. The other still to his mouth. The coughing sounded like it switched to wretching. Wyatt was growing worried.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Go... away..." Gasped Doc when he could.

Wyatt frowned, he thought maybe he misheard him. "What?"

"Go away!" Doc shoved Wyatt hard, knocking him on his behind. He sat back, stunned.

Doc's breath turned into a wheeze. He sat with his back to the bed, looking utterly depleted. Wyatt studied him. He could see the man was still struggling to breathe. There was sweat on his shirt and covering his pale face. His eyes seemed distant. Wyatt gulped. His friend was fading in front of him, and he didn't know a goddamn thing he could do to help him.

"Just... go away, Wyatt." Doc whispered. He sounded defeated.

Wyatt clenched his teeth. A pang in his chest stung him at Doc's voice and order. It was worse than what Mattie's ever said, and this was only a few simple words.

He decided something then. A determination filling him with renewed strength. He straightened. Eyes focused. "No. I don't think I will."

He made to make a move. To touch him, shake him, anything to knock some hope into the other man. To get him to see that Wyatt wasn't going anywhere, that he would be there for him, at anytime, when he needed him to be.

But before he could move, Doc stood up slowly on shaky legs. Surprising Wyatt that he even had the energy to move. He wavered a bit but otherwise stood firm. Then looked on.

"If you won't, then I will."

With that Doc walked carefully to the other side, grabbed his hat, put it on his head and left the room. Closing the door behind him.

Wyatt scrambled to his feet. "Hey, wait a minute!" he yelled.

He stormed out the door and ran down the steps, Doc just ahead. "Doc! Wait just a second!" The other man didn't listen and soon exited the building. Wyatt chasing after him.

"Leave me alone, Wyatt." Doc said over his shoulder.

"Not until you talk to me, dammit!" He reached out a hand to grab his shoulder and spun the other man around. "Why are you running away?"

Doc glared at him. "I've never run from anything in my life."

"Then what do you call this?"

"...I call it 'needing some space'." Doc glanced to Wyatt's hand, which was still resting on his shoulder. "Take your hand off me."

"No."

"Wyatt..."

"Make me then."

Wyatt saw a strange flash cross Doc's eyes. It thrilled him. Which didn't feel as foreign as he thought it would. Doc reached up and grasped Wyatt's wrist and left it there. He didn't squeeze hard, but it wasn't gentle. Almost like he was desperate for a connection. He didn't proceed to remove Wyatt's hand from it's place on his shoulder. Interesting.

A strange urge kicked in then. Wyatt pressed the pads of his fingers harder through the vest. Then he reached out, grabbed Doc's other hand and stroked two fingers over his pulse point and massaged it with his thumb. Doc's body felt like fire under his touch. He never broke eye-contact.

Doc's lips parted. His eyes turned glossy. A lovely color rose to his cheeks. Wyatt felt a heat pool in his stomach. He had no idea what was passing between them, but a transference was taking place. He had no desire for it to stop. Wyatt wondered if he mirrored what Doc looked like right now. Doc tightened his grip. Wyatt wanted to get closer...

"And I thought Tombstone couldn't get any better."

Doc broke eye-contact first, turning to the voice that spoke up. Wyatt blinked and instantly let go of him, dropping his arms to his sides. What the hell just happened he wondered, slightly dazed. His hands tingled.

There was a man to Wyatt's left who looked like he might be a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. His clothes hung on him like hangers. He was as pale as a white bedsheet and sweaty as a dripping dog fresh out of a lake. His hands looked like claws. He had a cane with him which it seemed like he chronically depended on. His hair looked dark under his hat, and his mustache was wide. He had a broad smile, which looked harsh on his gaunt features. This man had to have been consumptive.

But the most important thing Wyatt noticed about him, was that he was wearing a red sash.

Wyatt leveled his eyes at the man, wary of him.

Doc's eyes went wide. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Which the man certainly resembled one. "Bill?" he asked quietly.

The stranger showed teeth and spread an arm out. "Hello, Doc."

The biggest smile Wyatt had ever seen spread on Doc's face, lighting him up. He ran to the stranger and clasped him by both forearms. Careful with the one holding the cane. The stranger didn't seem to mind, though. Doc roamed his eyes over him like the man was a lost treasure.

"I don't... I can't...What are you... I mean, how...?" Doc stuttered.

The stranger just laughed. "Now there's something I thought I'd never see. Old Doc Holliday, at a loss for words."

Doc laughed. Laughed. He openly laughed with someone with a red sash and that urked Wyatt the wrong way.

"I can't believe this is happening. With the passing of these few years, I assumed I'd seen the last of you." Doc said, still holding his arms.

" I feared the same as well, my friend." William clasped Doc on the shoulder. "Small and funny world we live in, isn't it?"

"Say Doc. Who's yer friend?" Wyatt butted in, stepping up next to the blonde. He pushed back his shoulders to try and broaden his chest, making sure to display the badge on his shirt. It was subtle, but it did the job. The stranger flicked his oddly alert eyes to the shiny metal.

Doc turned to Wyatt, as if noticing him for the fist time. The stranger and Doc turned side-by-side, with the former keeping his hand on latter's shoulder and Doc doing the same in kind. They stood close to each other.

"Wyatt, this is my good friend, William Leonard. He's a jeweller from Las Vegas. Bill, this is Wyatt Earp. The deputy sheriff of Pima County."

Wyatt frowned at not being called a friend let alone a good one. He was just Wyatt. Doc must be upset with him.

"Wyatt, Earp." The man named William gave Doc a knowing look. The corner of Doc's mouth twitched. Wyatt wasn't sure he wanted to know what any of that meant.

William held out a shockingly skeletal hand after resting his cane to his side. "I know of you, Sheriff. Doc here has told me much about you. In great detail too."

"Bill..." Doc said threateningly low. He slid his hand off the other man slowly. William just continued to smile at Wyatt.

Wyatt stared at the jeweller. He had a twinkle in his eyes that made the Sheriff unnerved. He took the handshake as a challenge.

Wyatt accepted the outstretched hand, squeezing a bit harder than was necessary. "Funny," Wyatt smirked, "he never mentioned you."

Doc closed his eyes. William grinned at Wyatt, letting out a weak cough through closed lips. "He didn't need to."

"So, how long you been a Cow-Boy?" Wyatt questioned after letting go of william's hand. He gestured to the sash for good measure.

"Wyatt..." Doc muttered under his breath.

"Why, you cut right to the chase, don't you Sheriff?" He questioned, while lightly scraping his nails on Doc's shoulder.

"Ive not been known to beat around the bush."

"Just for some people." William stared intensely.

"Alright, that's enough from you two." Doc shrugged William's hand off him. He reached for his pocket and pulled out a cigarillo. He put it to his mouth and started digging in more pockets. "Wyatt, you can go home now. Bill, why don't you take me to where you're staying and we can continue a more private conversation there."

Wyatt reached for his own matches and struck one, faintly aware he heard a second match flare. He brought his lit one up to Doc and was greeted by an identical lit match from William's hand. They both looked at each other.

"Sounds like an awfully good idea." Stated William, his smile turning wicked in the flickering glow.

Doc stood there, staring at the double flames.

"Well, why don't I come with you?" Wyatt added to both of them. Not lowering his increasingly burning match.

Doc's eyebrows shot up and his cigarillo hung loose. "Pardon?"

"I said, why don't I come--"

"I heard what you said," Doc snapped. "You are not coming along."

"I don't mind."

They both turned toward William, who was also still holding his burning match. Though, not much was left of it. There was a gentle wind in the air, which was just enough to aggravate the matches to a quicker doom. Wyatt could already feel the beginning heat from his. A warning sign to put it out soon.

"Bill. You don't have to do this." Doc stated firmly.

The jeweller shrugs. "It doesn't bother me. If the Sheriff wants to come, let him come. I've got nothing to hide. Besides, it might put his mind at rest seeing where the big, bad, Cow-Boy is staying. Right, Sheriff? Besides," he blows the burnt match out, causing himself to cough heavy as a reward. He clears his throat and continues, "now you can see what I do for a living first hand." He starts limping away, adding as he goes, "Unless of course, you want to investigate my roommate, Frank Marsh. Another jeweller. Never know what fowl deeds jewellers will get up to nowadays."

Wyatt watched the slowly retreating form, then hissed as his match got too close and burned the tips of his calloused fingers. He heard another strike and turned, watching Doc light his cigarillo from a third match, then whip the flame out and threw the burnt stick to the dirt. He blew out a tendril of smoke and pointed two fingers at the larger man's chest looking rightfully pissed.

"I don't know what you're up to, but you better hold yourself in check real quick."

Wyatt held up one hand. "I just want to get to know your friend, is all."

"That better be all it is, because Wyatt I swear. If you trouble that man with so much as a kicked-up rug, you're going to get a hornet's nest from me." And with that threat settled, Doc started following the sallow man.

Wyatt took long strides to follow next to the blonde and kept pace. "I swear on my mother, I have no ill intentions."

"Keep it that way."

Doc was definitely mad at him. He just wished he knew why.

They easily caught up to the hobbling jeweller, and continued on till they reached his boarding house which was further than Wyatt thought it would be. Wyatt and Doc didn't speak to each other the rest of the trip, but they stayed side-by-side. Everytime Doc would happen to step closer, Wyatt would flex his hands at the ghost of a tingle on his fingertips. William would fill the silence with an occasional anectdote, but otherwise they remained reticent. Each to their own thoughts.

When they got to the boarding house Wyatt wondered why they didn't just ride to it with their damn horses. His feet were tired and he can only imagine what his sick companions must be feeling. He already had uneasy suspicions about William and this wasn't helping.

Doc's cigarillo had reached its end. He threw the stump to the dirt and crushed it beneath his boot. Both of Wyatt's companions were wheezing slightly. William worse than Doc. Wyatt frowned at the blonde but the other ignored him.

He put his hands to his hips and observed the building. It was a small place. Just big enough for two. He hoped this visit was worth whatever fit was going to overtake his friend at some point.

"Well, gentlemen. Welcome to my abode." William said hoarsely, his voice getting worse as they stood there. He stepped forward and led the other two inside.

The interior was... simple. There was a couch near the entrance, a small one. The bed was a double with a worn out quilt adorned on top. Metal bed frame. A small kitchen through an arched doorway. Scattered furniture throughout with some jewellery and equipment for making it. Few wooden chairs. Hardwood floors. Rugs on top of them. A backdoor. Simple.

 No sign of his roommate.

William immediately made himself at home, taking off his hat and hanging it up on some hooks on the wall along with his coat. Without it, the man shrank even more before Wyatt's eyes. The jeweller gestered for the other men to do the same.

Doc hung his hat up, Wyatt took his off but just held it by the rim with one hand, the other clasping his wrist.

Doc sat down with William on the couch, and the two focused their attention on Wyatt, who remained standing by the door.

"Please, have a seat Sheriff." Said William.

"I much prefer to stand, thank you."

Doc gave him a look but said nothing.

"Alright. Does our humble abode pass your checklist?"

"On the surface, it does."

That response nearly shot Doc out of his seat but Wyatt saw William quickly place a hand on him and kept him still. He patted the firey blonde and Wyatt didn't much appreciate this control the jeweller had over his friend. Something foreboding swept through him at the thought and he shivered, blaming it at the chilling temperatures. Even though it wasn't that cold out yet.

"I can settle with that for now, if you can."

Wyatt wanted to give another comeback, but held his tongue when he looked at Doc. He was pleading with him, Wyatt could see it plain as day, and conceded.

"For now." And he left it there.

Doc gave him a quick nod of appreciation. Then his features changed drastically as he must have remembered something and he faced William. "I need to speak with you."

William nodded. "Okay--"

"In private."

William searched Doc's face, carefully. "I see." He glanced to Wyatt then back to Doc. He nodded his head to the back. "Outside."


The two got up - William with some effort - and as they moved Doc pointed at Wyatt and said "Stay."

"Where am I going to go?" Wyatt mumbled to himself as he watched the other two exit out the backdoor.

The backdoor had a window. The window was a screen. The screen had a curtain. The curtain was closed. This must've been unbeknownst to Doc. But Wyatt figured it out right away as soon as the two started talking, because he heard every word spoken as if they were directly in the room with him.

"So what did you need to talk to me about?" - William

"I figured it out." - Doc

"What out?" - William

"It's Violet Wood Sorrels."  - Doc

"What's a Violet Wood Sorr... oh... Oh my friend, my heart grieves for you." - William

There was a long pause after this. When they spoke up again, it sounded quieter this time. Wyatt had to strain his ears to hear them. Which he had to abscond himself for, knowing full well this was a private matter. But once the flower was brought up, well now he was just too curious.

"I don't know where to go from here." - Doc

"Have you told him yet?" - William

(Snort) "Like hell I will." - Doc

"Doc, it's a death sentence if you don't--" - William

"I'm dead either way, so what does it matter?" - Doc

That last one was said loud. Wyatt flinched at its meaning, wrapping tightly around his heart till it hurt. Reminding him of his friend's life expectancy.

"You don't know that, and you won't until you say something." - William

"You did, and look where it got you." - Doc

"Isabelle doesn't count. You know that. She's a fiend." - William

What the hell are they talking about? he questioned to himself, as one of them started a row of coughing. Sounded like Doc, and it sounded bad. Wet, and gutteral. It lasted about as long as the one earlier. Too long. Once it subsided, the conversation continued after a pause.

"It appears to have increased in speed." - Doc

"Jesus, Doc. How long for this stage?" - William

"Maybe... a week? Maybe more? I'm losing track now." - Doc

Another pause. Wyatt swallows thickly and it goes down hard.

"How much time would you say?" - Doc

"With this amount? I dare not make a guess. You must. Tell him." - William

"I want to, Bill. God, you have no idea how much. Sometimes, i-it's all I can think about--" - Doc

"Then what's stopping you?" - William

(Sigh) "... I don't know anymore." - Doc

"You won't make it if you stay silent." - William

"Like I said. Dead either way." - Doc

Should I tell them I can hear everything? Wyatt wonders as the conversation keeps going.

He can't help but ponder who the 'he' was they were talking about. He wondered if it was about him, but he figured it wasn't. Or at least he hoped it wasn't. Because he trusted Doc.

He told that man anything and everything about himself there ever was to tell. He believed the feeling was mutual. That's why they were as close as they were. The idea of keeping a secret from one another... was unthinkable. It was not a concept either of them understood.

Or so he thought.

An itch started to form in his brain. Different than when he'd ignore an urge. This one lingered. Lasting days, weeks. More. As time went on, this itch began to grow. When it did, it began to take shape. Its shape was that of an idea.

That idea was that this conversation here was more closely connected to Wyatt, than Wyatt was prepared for.


*****


It was Sunday night, October 10. Wyatt was on his way back from Bisbee when he heard the news from Virgil. Doc had been arrested for "shooting Milt Joyce in the hand" amongst other things. Virgil told him Marshal White and Officer Bennett had to grab Joyce off of Doc to get him to stop attacking him, and found Doc "covered in blood, most of it his own."

Wyatt didn't stay to hear the rest. The fear for his friend's safety becoming his top priority. He galloped to the jailhouse at full speed, barely hearing his brother shout to him that Doc most likely would still be drunk and out of it. He didn't care. He had to see him. An urge was kicking in.

He slid off his horse, haphazardly tying off the reigns to the hitching post and rushed inside. "Doc? Doc!" He called out his friend's name as he made his way in.

Bennett jumped at his intrusion but Wyatt ignored him and ran up to the bars of the cell.

There was only one lightsource in the whole jailhouse, and it was from an oil lamp sitting on the desk in front of Officer Bennett. Its flame dancing shadows on all the walls it could touch.

It was hard to see into the cell - the light not reaching as well -  but Wyatt could make out a lone figure stretched out onto the cot inside.

"Lower your voice, Wyatt! The man's asleep!" Bennett hissed.

"No, I'm not." Came a muffled voice from under a hat.

"Doc," Wyatt started, relieved to see the man in person, "you still with me?"

Doc raised a hand from under his head and waved it at Wyatt. "Still alive."

"Prove it."

The waving hand reached up and grabbed the top of the hat, lifting it just enough to let a shiny eye peek out. He stayed like that for a handful of seconds. Then with what sounded like effort he got up to a sitting position, his hat coming to sit far back on his head. He blinked wide, shook his head. Wyatt could see from where he stood the angry lump on the side of Doc's forehead. It looked like a cut had recently stopped bleeding.

Wyatt stuck his arm through the bars. "Come here."

Doc squinted at him. "Why should I?" His voice was slurred.

"Just get up here, you ornery drunk."

Doc swayed where he sat, as if contemplating his options. Then, to Wyatt's relief, Doc slid to his feet and like a baby learning to walk, stumbled his way over to the bars. Grumbling as he went.

When he got close enough Wyatt grabbed a fist of Doc's shirt and yanked him forward against the bars, causing the other man to throw his hands up against the iron. Before Doc could say anything Wyatt took his other hand and brought it up to knock the blonde's hat off. He grabbed the back of Doc's head and pulled him in closer to get a better look at the wound. He brushed the hair back gently so as not to inflict any more pain on him. Vaguely memorizing how soft his hair was.

The wound didn't seem that serious, but he'd have a hell of a lump, headache, and hangover the next day. Still, that didn't stop the unfettered rage that hit Wyatt at the idea that Milt Joyce, from what Virgil told him, was attacking Doc and most likely was the reason Doc had that wound on him now. He ground his teeth and combed his fingers through the blonde's hair at the thought of him getting hurt.

"Wyatt."

Wyatt looked at Doc. Through the drunken haze, there was something there. A sortof... longing in the blown-out pupils he couldn't discern what for. Or understand. Or perhaps he did, he wasn't sure. But whatever it was, it electrified him. Gave him life. He could feel it feeding into him.

But it also scared him. At such an idea and what it meant, if that's what it meant. His mind reeled at it, yet he couldn't get himself to run from those blue eyes. They were too honest, too raw, and everything they had to say without saying. Unfiltered.

That it was... the feeling was...

"Wyatt..." Doc whispered, reaching a hand out to touch Wyatt's face.

Wyatt recoiled back before contact could be made. Doc's hand froze mid-air, then slowly dropped back to the bars. Agony, sadness, then bitter acceptance flashed through Doc's pupils. Wyatt saw it all, and silently cursed himself for his reaction. He released his hold on Doc's shirt to try to make amends by doing... something. But the moment he let go of Doc the other man was turning away from him, his fingers sliding against the bars as he moved.

"What are you two doing over there?" Asked Bennett a little late.

"Nothing." Muttered Wyatt, as he watched Doc pick up his hat and return to his cot. He went back to lying down, hat over his face as if he had spent his whole time there.

"Nothing at all."

Chapter Text

Doc sobered up in jail. Just as Wyatt predicted, he had a doozy of a hangover mixed with a splitting headache. Wyatt, knowing he should be home with Mattie, instead chose to take care of his friend. The cold night in the cell was hard on Doc's body, and when Wyatt visited in the morning he looked pale and drawn. Yet still had enough strength to greet him at the bars when he was near.

Wyatt wondered if he remembered his visit last night, but Doc didn't treat him any differently. So perhaps not. Maybe that was for the best. Brush off a confusing confrontation and move on.

Wyatt had every intention of getting Doc out of that cell and into his hotel bed to rest as soon as possible. But, it would turn out that that would be delayed till yet another day. While Wyatt spent the day idling by Doc's side, waiting for the time for him to be released, Marshal White showed up with a warrant for the blonde. It was sworn out by Joyce on the charge of 'assault with a deadly weapon with intent to kill'. Thankfully, Doc's court date was only the next day. Unfortunately, he had to spend another night in the cell, and it was a cold one.

Wyatt worried about him all night, barely getting any sleep. He lay awake next to Mattie, intrusive thoughts getting the better of him: Doc alone, shivering, his shirt clinging to him from the sheer amount of sweat dripping off. Him coughing up blood. The racking it does to his body and soul replaying into his mind. The brief thought that he might die in there causing him to get up and pace the room.

He rubbed his face with his hands. He knew he was overthinking it. Doc was resilient, and would most likely be fine. Well, perhaps not fine, just not dead anyway. Yet he couldn't stop the racing thoughts from invading his mind. Such as what was going to happen at James Reilly's court in the morning. If the witnesses have their say Doc's sentencing could be quite severe. Wyatt worried if his friend's health could handle that.

Something needed to be done, but Wyatt couldn't think of anything besides a miracle to help out. That thought kept him pacing more until it was early enough for him to start his daily routine.

All the Earp brothers aside from Warren showed up to the courthouse for support. They sat together in a pew: Virgil in first, then Jim, followed by Morgan and finally Wyatt on the end.

Officer Bennett brought Doc in. The man looked haggard. Pale and sweaty skin, bags under his eyes, crumpled clothes, the stubble of a beard showing. Wyatt could feel the not-so-subtle fuming Doc emanated.

Wyatt felt better at seeing him, and chuckled.

"What's got your funny bone?" Morgan asked in a hushed tone, leaning into him.

"Doc's fit to be tied." He whispered back.

"Hell, I'd be too. If I were in his boots." Added Jim.

Virgil mumbled, "He should of thought of that before he wielded a loaded weapon at the Oriental."

"No, that ain't it." Wyatt countered.

"Then what is it?" Asked Virgil, doubtful.

Wyatt nodded at Doc's back as the blonde took his place in the front of the court. "He's mad as hell, because they wouldn't let him clean up before appearing."

His brothers all looked at him, frowning or eyebrows raised.

"And how the hell do you know that?" Asked Morgan.

"I can read his face." Wyatt looked back at his brothers, smug.

"Uh-huh," said Jim with a quirk of his lip. "You gleamed that from his face, did you?"

"I did." Wyatt laughed. "Ask him yourself if you don't believe me."

"We intend to." Said Virgil.

"How much?" Wyatt was ready to put there money where their mouth was.

"Five dollars."

"Make it ten and I'll hold you to it."

"Done."

"Hey fellas," added Morgan, frowning, "Weren't there supposed to be witnesses here today?"

Wyatt scanned over at the prosecutor's side and didn't recognise anyone of note. That was strange. Particularly that Milt Joyce wasn't there. He turned back to Morgan and gave a one-shoulder shrug. Though concerned, he had to admit he felt a light giddiness in his stomach at the thought no one was there to testify.

Perhaps, there was a miracle happening afterall.

Justice of the Peace James Reilly entered and everyone stood. He seemed to be in a clip mood. When he got to his table and the signal was given, everyone sat back down. As he got himself established Reilly looked up to the prosecutor's side and frowned, then glanced over at the defence. He fixed his glasses and made a gesture for both attorneys to step closer which they did. Wyatt started chewing the inner part of his cheek. The courtroom was quiet aside from the three men muttering low. Wyatt peered at Doc, who had his head tipped down, hat off. He wondered if the gambler was as tired as he was.

The three men broke up and went back to their respected areas. "Will the plaintiff please rise," the JP said sounding weary, like he hadn't had a proper cup of coffee yet.

Doc stood slow and stiff. "Since the witnesses on the prosecution side appear to be absent and I refuse to waste the rest of everone's time by waiting, we will move on to the lower charge of assault and battery. John Henry Holliday, how do you plead?"

Doc turned to his attorney, who nodded at him. "Guilty, your honor." He sounded quiet and hoarse.

Wyatt clenched his jaw.

"Then I fine you twenty dollars, and eleven dollars and fifty cents in court fees, which is to be paid immediately. Court is adjourned." Then he got up, and left in a hurry. The man clearly did not want to be there.

Everyone stood back up as Reilly exited. Wyatt released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. The rest of his brothers looked equally relieved. It happened so fast, he could hardly register it took place at all. All night's worry for nothing.

Doc dug in his back pocket and fished out the appropriate amount of money - receiving change, since he didn't have exact - to Officer Bennett. The two exchanged words, then Bennett gestured over to the door. Doc put his hat back on and nodded to the officer. He turned towards it and made his way, stopping once he reached the Earps awaiting him.

"You got off pretty easy there, didn't you?" Smirked Virgil.

Morgan laughed. "I thought they for sure were aimin' for your hide, but then the witnesses never showed. Wasn't that peculiar. Ended up bein' one of the quickest cases I've ever been to."

"Did you have anything to do with that, Wyatt?" Questioned Virgil, who gave him an accusing glare.

"Not me. I'm just as lost as the rest of you." He meant it, but he was certain Virgil if not the rest of his clan didn't believe him.

"Well, if not you, then what happened? How could three men - one who had a good reason to show - not be here?" Asked Jim.

"I believe your presence here, alone good sirs, most assuredly intimidated them into keeping a distance." Doc added with a gesture from his hand.

"Are you saying you have friends in high places, Doc?" Teased Wyatt.

"No. Only that one might come to suspect I live a charmed life."

Jim snorted. "Is that what you call it?"

"Have to give it some kind of label." Doc smiled in return. Then turned to leave and started walking away as he spoke. "Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen. I must amend the travesty that is my appearance. My temperament will not tolerate it any longer."

"Doc," Morgan looked distressed, "are you upset by how you look?"

"That is what I said, under no uncertain terms."

"Told you." Wyatt mouthed back at his brothers as he followed Doc outside, proudly. His brothers shuffled behind.

"Did you bet?" Doc muttered to him when he caught up.

"I did."

"How much?"

"Ten."

He tsked. "You should have bet more."

"It started at five."

Doc raised an eyebrow at him. He was about to say more when Warren ran up to them. "So, this is where you all are. I was starting to wonder if I'd made the wrong choice." He gave Doc a once over and frowned. He seemed confused.

Wyatt's body clenched. He heard Virgil mutter "Oh, hell," under his breath from behind him. Morgan huffed out a sigh. Jim stayed oddly silent.

Not including Warren to the courthouse was done on purpose. The brothers had agreed that, for as long as possible, they were going to do their damnedest to keep Warren from ever knowing about Doc. What with his 'wild ways' increasing, Wyatt hadn't wanted to rely on his family-tied friendship alone to be able to spare Doc from the hounding he could get once his crazed baby brother discovered him. Since he went after every new person he came across.

However. If Warren did try anything funny, he would need protection himself from the blonde at any rate. Wyatt knew Doc would not be subtle in his prickliness to Warren's advances. His temper would be agitated and then there would be no saving him.

So for the health and wellness of both parties they tried to keep them separated. They had succeeded for nearly a month, and were proud of that. Even though it was becoming hair-pullingly harder as time went on. Particularly since both kept gambling near the same haunts. Luckily, Doc had secured himself a job as a faro dealer at Alhambra early on, so keeping Warren away when the other was working was easy enough. Most of the time he stayed where Jim was, at Vogan & Flynn's. Until Warren would get kicked out only to meander to another. Turning him to any other saloon but where Doc was got harder the more wasted he was. When he wanted to go to the Alhambra, the little brat couldn't be deterred. Those nights got tricky.

Babysitting him had grown tiresome, and it mostly fell on Morgan. With Jim and Virgil being too busy, and Wyatt having as little contact with Warren as possible. Because he stayed with Doc. Or vice-versa. So he couldn't be with Warren. Therefore, the responsibility fell on poor Morgan. Whom seemed stressed as a coiled rattlesnake. Having to divide his attention between his job, his wife and his little brother was wearing on him. On days where Wells, Fargo needed him for something, Virgil would begrudgingly take up the reigns.

It was starting to get too complicated, however, when there were days when all of them were busy. So it was only a matter of time before the two men met. Turns out far sooner than the brothers hoped. When Warren showed up outside the courthouse, none of them were happy, but also not surprised.

Wyatt had never in his life been so thrilled that Doc looked like a heep of garbage on a hot day.

"Who's this?" Doc pointed at the man staring at him.

"Isn't that my question?" Warren countered, giving him the side-eye.

"Doc," Morgan stepped up clumsily, "this is Warren, our little brother. Warren, this is Doc Holliday. Wyatt's friend." He put an emphasis on 'Wyatt'. Eyes pleading for understanding.

Wyatt looked over at Warren, hands and mustache twitching.

Doc paled. "Another Earp? Jesus, how many of you are there?"

"Nine." Said Jim. Doc turned his head to him and must have given him a weary look, for he shrugged and added, "Well, there are. If you add our sisters."

Doc shook his head. "I have nothing to say to this; my family is monstrous."

"Aren't you an only child?" Wyatt asked with a tilt to his head.

"I grew up with my mother's siblings. They may as well have been my own."

"Question," said Warren, raising a hand. "If you're Wyatt's friend and I'm his brother, how come we've never heard about each other before today?"

Doc blinked, Wyatt tensed. He could see his brothers shifting on their feet. The strain in the air grew thicker as Warren flicked his eyes to each of his brothers's faces. When they rested back to Doc there was a curiosity there, but nothing more.

Doc sniffed. "Perhaps we weren't entertaining enough for discussion."

Warren looked him up and down again, as if trying to decide what species Doc was. "Where'd you say you were from, again?"

"I didn't." Doc smiled. "Again, if you'll excuse me gentlemen. I truly must be on my way. Till next time." He gave a quick nod of his head to the brothers, a wink to Warren and off he went.

Warren watched his retreating form for a while then turned back to his brothers. "Interesting fellow." He thumbed over his shoulder.

"That he is." Said Wyatt. Praying that would be the end of it. 

"Why was he at the courthouse?" Warren questioned.

The other brothers all passed a look amongst themselves. Virgil answered first. "Uh, long story. Care for a drink, Warren? I'll buy."

The youngest Earp readily accepted.

"Reminds me, you fellows owe me money." Wyatt added as they moved. His brothers grumbled as they dredged up their pay.

Warren wanted to go to the Alhambra to drink. They agreed except for Wyatt, who pulled Virgil aside saying Doc will be working today.

"He already saw him, what does it matter." Virgil said tiredly.

Wyatt tried to argue. "You know he's going to look different."

"Then you handle it. He's your friend. We'll be on hand if there's a scene."

Wyatt sighed and swiped a hand down his face. "If that's how you're going to be about it, fine."

Wyatt stuck to coffee. He wasn't a hard liquor drinker most days, let alone that early in the morning. Unlike Warren. Virgil took a beer, Morgan also got coffee. Jim didn't drink.

Their baby brother kept bringing up about Wyatt's new friend and how he didn't have any knowledge about him. He wanted to know how long Wyatt knew him. Warren nearly choked on his drink when he learned it was years. He couldn't understand the appeal of the man. Though he admitted the other did have a presence about him and a way with words, there wasn't much else going for him. Why hide him, which he insisted his brothers had done. They denied, of course. Which he saw through.

Wyatt didn't trust this brush off for a second. Which would soon turn out to be wise.

They were two or three drinks in when Warren's attention was drawn to a new visitor entering through the swinging doors. Wyatt was seated next to him and saw it unfold. His brother had a drink in hand lifted to his face to take a swig and froze, mouth open and slackened. Eyes transfixed on the man as he sauntered his way to a faro table.

It was Doc, and he had completely transformed from the mangy dog he was earlier to the preened swan that was present before them. His hat was off, so even Wyatt could see how shiny his blonde hair was. He was wearing a jacquard waistcoat of red, a striking contrast to his dark coat. A gold chain hung from his pocket to the buttons of his garment. His collar was newly starched. A sparkling squared diamond was pinned to his black tie. His face was freshly shaven with his mustache and slight beard nicely coiffed.

A feeling in Wyatt's chest danced at the sight of him. He moved towards the other as an unknown pull guided him.

A hand latched onto his arm with a deathgrip. "Is that Doc?" Asked Warren, eyes filled with wonder.

Oh right. Warren.

"Yes it is." Wyatt answered, surprised by how gruff he sounded. Warren was unphased, and moved with him as they settled over to the table Doc stationed himself at in the back.

Wyatt glanced at Warren before sitting down. "Flies will get in if you don't shut that trap of yours."

Warren snapped it shut and sat next to his brother, eyes never leaving the blonde. Once seated he asked, "Do you always look like this?"

Doc, for his part, gave Warren a cocked eyebrow. Being this close Wyatt could smell Doc's aftershave of lavender and musk.

Doc took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, answering with a quirked smile, "No. On Tuesdays I like to disquise myself as a horse and go trotting through the fields."

Wyatt rolled his eyes, Warren laughed harder than he should've and the other men at the table seemed confused.

Doc started dealing cards, flicking them with a quick hand only years of experience could teach. Warren asked another question as he did so, elbow propped up on the table edge, resting his head in his hand. "Why were you at the courthouse today?"

"I shot a man." Doc didn't hesitate in his answer. The unknown gamblers at the table shifted in their seat.

Warren's pupil's expanded. "Did you kill him?"

"No." Doc leaned closer to him, "Do you want me to?"

Wyatt wasn't sure he liked where this was going.

Warren placed his hand on the table, closer to Doc. "Would you do that for me?" His voice was quiet.

"For an Earp," Doc spun a card from one hand into the other and laid it face up; it was an ace, giving a toothy smile, "anything." He winked at Wyatt.

The deputy sheriff felt his chest tighten. He cleared his throat.

"Woah... You're somethin' else." Warren said a little husky. Eyes darkening.

"So they tell me. All for different reasons."

The day wore on. Nothing of note taking place. Warren got more to drink, asked more questions. Lost and gained money. Doc answered everything he threw at him, sometimes with straight answers, other times more cryptic. But always amiable. Wyatt figured it had to do with the positive outcome of his case earlier. Whatever the reason, he was grateful their first meeting was going as well as it could've.

Doc had a couple coughing attacks but always had a handkerchief on hand to catch it. Warren asked a few times about it, the second time because he got too drunk to remember he already asked once before. Doc didn't mind repeating it, much to Wyatt's relief.

When evening rolled around and Doc's shift was over, Wyatt offered to walk the blonde home. Warren had gotten too inebriated earlier in the day and had been kicked out some time before, and Wyatt didn't trust where the little shit would be next once they left the gambling house. Doc didn't turn him down.

"You handled Warren pretty well in there." Wyatt said once they were alone walking outside, the evening air holding a chill to it.

"I'm used to jabber like him. They're mostly all talk. You just have to know how to finesse them." Doc said, hands in his pockets of his coat against the cold.

"Ehh, not Warren. He can get aggressive."

"He's an Earp; of course he can. I'm not worried."

They took heel-to-toe, slow steps. Taking their sweet time just being in each other's company.

Wyatt nudged Doc's shoulder with his own. "All the same. Be careful around him, okay?"

Doc chuckled, "You worried about me, Sheriff? Think I can't handle my own?"

"No, I just don't want a repeat of what we had the last couple of days."

"Well, what if I promise to behave myself for a while?"

"That's hunky dory-- if I trusted it. But I still got Warren to worry about."

"You let me concern myself with him."

Wyatt turned to his companion and regarded him. His own hands were also in his pockets trying to stay warm. "You really mean that?"

"Which thing?"

"About behaving yourself."

Doc raised a hand over his heart. "I swear it."

"On what, God? Doesn't suit you."

"On you."

Wyatt fell silent. They stared at each other for a while, silently acknowledging the other. His heartbeat quickened. He nodded. "Alright then."

Doc smiled softly.

He never broke that promise.

**When Bennett returned to the jailhouse later in the day, he noticed something unsusual in the cell. Something out of place. He got up to take a closer look and found one purple flower nestled forgotten against the back wall, and another resting on the pillow of the cot. The pillow had blood on it. He picked both up and carried them over to his desk where they stayed as a permanent fixture. He thought they were pretty.**


*****


Much happened in the coming weeks.

Marshal Fred White died a slow and agonizing death - which took three days - thanks to being shot accidentally by a rowdy Curly Bill Brocius. Wyatt had wrapped his arms around Curly Bill from behind and White went for his gun. He jerked the pistol from his hand and it went off, tearing into the marshal's groin and into his intestines.

Curly Bill wasn't alone in his shenanigans, however, and along with Virgil and Morgan Wyatt arrested most of them. Some got away, and once the ones they had on hand were deposited in jail, Wyatt took Virgil, Turkey Creek Jack Johnson, and Doc to seek out the others. The night passed without another killing.

Most of them got off with just a ten dollar weapons charge. Too light for some people's tastes. Attitude against Brocius was building as White's condition deteriorated, so much so that Judge Michael Gray ordered the case transferred to the county seat at Tucson. Wyatt took charge of the transfer. With Virgil, Morgan, George 'Shotgun' Collins,  and of course, Doc, he took Brocius to Tucson.

On the day of the shooting, Virgil had been appointed assistant city marshal. Two days later White died, and Virgil became marshal temporarily until elections could be held in November.

On the trip to Tucson, Doc remembered Curly Bill from Fort Griffin and told Wyatt he had an unsavory reputation even then. Brocius himself admitted to being a fugitive from Texas. None of it mattered in the end, though. Because in December, Brocius got discharged in court based largely on White's deathbed statement that the shooting was an accident. It supported the testimonies of Wyatt and Jacob Gruber, a gunsmith who testified that Brocius's pistol was defective, allowing it to fire half-cocked. Others testified that Brocius had tried to quiet the merrymakers before the encounter with White occured.

Do to this shooting, an increase of law enforcement occured. The town council scheduled a special election for marshal on November 12, with Virgil Earp, James Flynn, and Ben Sippy as candidates.

In the general election that was held November 2, 1880, the race for sheriff of Pima County was closely watched. Charlie Shibell, a Democrat, had a spotless record. His Republican opponent, Robert H. 'Bob' Paul, had an imposing career as a law enforcement officer and Wells, Fargo detective. It seemed at first that Shibell had been reelected by a slim margin of forty-two votes, but when the results from Presinct No. twenty-seven showed one-hundred and three votes for Shibell and only one for Paul, the Republicans cried foul. Balloting had taken place at the home of a Texan named Joe Hill, who had a questionable reputation. His real name was Joseph Greaves Olney, and poll officials included Isaac Clanton and a man named Johnny Ringo.

Naturally, Paul challenged the outcome. Unfortunately, his suit would not be until January 1881. In the meantime, Shibell was sworn in for a second term. Because of this, Wyatt resigned as deputy sheriff on November 9, because he didn't think it was proper to work on Paul's behalf in the election dispute while serving under Shibell. The people mourned his loss. Others tried to say Wyatt was betraying the trust of a man who got him the job in the first place, which had been Shibell, who people rumored that the man guilted him into stepping down.

On November 12, Ben Sippy defeated Virgil in the special election for city marshal of Tombstone by a vote of three hundred eleven to two hundred fifty-nine, after James Flynn dropped out of the race to go into business at the Cosmopolitan Saloon. Virgil resigned as assistant marshal shortly thereafter.

These developments left the Earps without official credentials except for Virgil's role as a deputy U.S. marshal and Wyatt picking back up work with Wells, Fargo as a shotgun guard. Wyatt also elected to work on Paul's behalf in the election dispute. However, their election problems caused the Earps to sell some of their properties. Wyatt kept selling some of his mines for a undervalue price. But he didn't quit with surveying mines. In fact when he did, he would bring Doc along for the ride.

John H. Behan replaced Wyatt as Shibell's deputy sheriff. It was hardly a surprise. Behan was well connected, and he almost certainly took the position with full knowledge of the movement going on in Prescott to create new Arizona counties.

Behan knew something, though. He knew of Wyatt's reputation as the deputy sheriff was monumental to the people. He also knew that, should it become available, Wyatt would seek out the position of sheriff.

So he went to Wyatt with a proposition.

He proposed that if Wyatt did not apply for sheriff, he would appoint Wyatt as undersheriff. Wyatt would be the chief law enforcement officer, while Behan concentrated on tax collection and politics. The arrangement had great appeal to Wyatt, he couldn't deny, because it reminded him of when he was assistant marshal in Dodge City.

Great appeal, indeed...


*****


"Strike!"

"What, again? I just set them back up!"

"Too bad, those points are mine."

"Bull. You cheated."

"How?"

"How the hell should I know, but you did!"

Wyatt meandered away from the arguing bowling game and over to where a lone figure stood quietly in the dark by the large windows. His frame getting smaller everyday.

Wyatt stood next to him, shotgun nestled under his arm, saying nothing at first. He just stared off into the vast nothingness of the Arizona night. The moon large and full, casting ghostly light over the fields in front of them, and bleeding in through the window onto Wyatt and his silent companion. His own thoughts filled with the task that lay before them, and how well they were going to be able to pull it off if Warren didn't bring the horses in time.

Mobs had a funny way of changing plans.

Virgil told him he was just exercising one of Wyatt's horses when George McKelvey, the local constable of Charleston, started for Tombstone in a buggy with Michael O'Rourke - more commonly known as 'Johnny-behind-the-Deuce' - who shot and killed a prominent man named Richard Schneider during a card game. A crowd had formed which turned into a mob and McKelvey fled with O'Rourke. They ran into Virgil and explained the situation. Virgil took O'Rourke with him and made his way to Wells, Fargo where Wyatt happened to be.

Wyatt, for his part, took a shotgun and brought O'Rourke to Vogan's Bowling Alley to hold up in while Virgil went to get Marshal Sippy. Wyatt also went and collected some more men to assist when the mob finally caught up, those included Morgan, Fred Dodge, West Fuller, a few others, and of course, Doc. He sent Warren out to collect horses for all of them from his home.

Meanwhile the mob ever approached.

While they waited for the horses, Morgan thought of playing a little bowling to try and lighten the mood which was rather somber. O'Rourke's nerves couldn't handle it, so he stayed sitting at the bar. The others tried a bit and it seemed to help somewhat.

Wyatt didn't care. His mind was more focused on the task ahead and his companion next to him. Who let out a muffled cough every so often.

Doc had been quieter than usual the entire day, and Wyatt knew something was off. When he glanced at him, his eyes were distant. A cigarillo smouldering away between his lips. A coin absently flipping over the fingers of his right hand. Wyatt casually watched as Doc switched the coin flipping to his left fingers then fluidly to his right, then back again.

Wyatt dug in his front pocket and pulled out an indian head cent. He handed it over to Doc.

Doc stopped the flipping of his coin and stared at the penny. He blinked at it. "What's this for?" His voice sounded deeper than usual, like he hadn't used it in a while.

"A penny. For your thoughts." He turned his head to look at Doc, who didn't meet his gaze. But continued to stare at the penny. He eventually reached for it, the tips of his fingers brushing against Wyatt's palm. The ex-lawman's hand tingled from the contact.

Doc pocketed his own coin and held the new one, rubbing its sides with the pads of his fingers. He studied the penny, his face going soft. The moonlight shining through making Doc look even paler than usual. Like marble.

"I'm not an only child." Doc stated eventually, voice quiet.

Wyatt did a double-take. That's... not what he was expecting to hear from his friend. Especially right now, under the circumstances. "What?" He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I'm not an only child." He repeated, staring off into the distance, into the past. "I had an older sister. Two years my senior. She died before I was born. Only lived for six months. Her name was Martha Eleanora-- my mother made sure I'd never forget that name. She didn't want her to be forgotten. Talked about her all the time like she was there, even when she was dying. I thought her name would be the last breath she'd utter, but alas. It was that detestable man who reared me instead."

Doc pinched his cigarillo and inhaled deeply, the end brightening up and sizzling as he pulled it away and blew out a plume of smoke that swirled around his head. He looked at it, then let out a short, humorless laugh. "Guess my family was just meant to be weak in health."

Wyatt thought about what Doc had just told him. "I never knew you had a sister."

"I felt the need to divulge to you, before I never got the chance." Doc turned his head slightly towards Wyatt, eyes shining in the moonlight. "Wyatt. There's something else I need to disclose."

"What is it?" Wyatt was genuinely curious.

He didn't know what was happening or why it was taking place right now of all times, but if Doc wanted to share personal information about himself, Wyatt was more than happy to devour anything he could learn about his friend.

Doc fully turned his head to look at him, eyes alight with hope. Emanating a surge of emotions so forceful Wyatt felt punched in the chest. They were sudden, powerful. He could have easily been knocked over by them alone. It reminded Wyatt of the same intensity of when Doc was drunk in the cell.

"Wyatt, I..." His voice fragile.

Wyatt stood firm, waiting to hear the rest of what Doc had to say. He didn't know what could be so important that would constitute such raw feeling behind it, but whatever it was, he would be there for his friend to support him. He wouldn't judge.

Wyatt held Doc's gaze until he noticed the intensity softened.

"Nothing." Doc turned back to the window, put his cigarillo back in his mouth.

Wyatt frowned. "I thought you said you had something important to tell me?"

"Never said it was important."

It was clipped, and Wyatt didn't push. He knew if Doc wanted to really tell him, he would eventually. In his own time.

Though it pained him not to know what it was.

Soon enough, Wyatt saw Virgil return with Marshal Sippy. Not long after Warren arrived with a handful of horses and they all mounted up and off they went. Wyatt leading the way, shotgun sticking to his side. They ran into the mob, but by then it had mostly turned into curious onlookers. Wyatt announced to them that he was taking the prisoner to Tucson and didn't want any trouble. They seemed to understand, though some were a little testy about it. They let them pass nonetheless. Deputy Behan met them out there and traveled alongside, though how he learned about it Wyatt assumed Virgil or Sippy told.

The trip was uneventful, aside from Wyatt's troubled mind which was focused on his friend who remained silent the entire ride. The only reminders that he was there were his hovering presence near Wyatt, and the occasional cough that would rack his withering frame.

Chapter Text

Wyatt got Doc to venture in mining properties. He also got him to understand the important matters of water rights. The Huachuca Mountains west of the San Pedro River seemed filled with opportunity to gamble with such a thing. The two of them partnered with two other unlikely souls: Dick Clark and Jim Leavy. Clark was the 'boss gambler' of Tombstone and a partner in the Oriental's gambling operation. He was also well known throughout the mountain West and regarded as a man of high rank. Leavy, a gambler and gun handler, was called 'the top-notcher of them all except Wild Bill.' He had respect as a deliberate and honest man, whether handling cards, money, or weapons. Leavy was by far the most famous of the quartet for him being known far and wide as the man who killed Charles Harrison in Cheyenne.

On February 2, 1881, the four men staked out their first claim in Hayes and Turner's Canyon, naming it 'Wyatt Earp Water Right'. The following day, they staked out the 'Clark Water Right' in Mormon Canyon, and 'Holliday Water Right' about a mile and a half from the mouth of Ramsey. At each of the claims, they left a 'board of location' nailed to a tree. They didn't choose a fourth claim to bear Leavy's name, however, but each of the locations was to be jointly owned by all four partners. So it didn't matter in the long run. They headed back to Tombstone when they were finished.

Doc was abnormally quiet through the entire ordeal, which unsettled Wyatt. He kept stealing glances to the sickly man, hoping for some answers. A look, a reassurance. His familiar wink. But all he got was distance from the other. Doc seemed to be in his own head. Eyes lost to the endless road before them. A periodic cough rattled his lungs to the point they had to stop a few times for his own safety.

Doc changed after the O'Rourke incident. Wyatt's not sure what caused it, but a sadness settled on him like fresh snow, and just as lonely. It dumbfounded him because he wasn't alone. Wyatt was right there. But no matter how close he got, the other drifted farther away.

There were still some good days where Doc acted like his old self. But they were becoming fewer and farther between lately.


*****


On February 10, John Behan was appointed sheriff, surprising no one. Wyatt, naturally, believed he was going to make him undersheriff at some point. But that wouldn't be announced until well over a month later, and it wasn't what Wyatt thought it would be.

Bat Masterson had joined Wyatt in Tombstone on February 24, from Dodge City to spend the summer visiting him. From the moment he arrived, however, not only did his reputation preceed him at the Oriental but his presence was critically needed.

Luke Short was acting as lookout in the gambling room at the Oriental when a new gun hand, Charles S. Storms, showed up and wasted little time in causing trouble. Storms was a well-known gambler and gunman in both Colorado and the Black Hills country. A contemporary paper said about him, "He was what the men of the West call 'gritty,' and had been in a number of shooting affairs where he showed plenty of nerve. He had great confidence in his ability to cope with any antagonist."

On February 25, he got into a game at the Oriental. Louis Rickabaugh was dealing. Storms - who was wasted and itchin' for a fight - attempted to pick a quarrel. Short intervened, and Storms turned his wrath on him instead. The situation came to a header, but before pistols could be drawn, Bat Masterson - who knew Storms from Colorado and considered him a friend - stepped in and struggled to wrangle Storms off to his off to his room at the San Jose House. Bat went back to the Oriental to try and calm Short down outside when Storms returned at around noon.

Storms approched Short and demanded to know if he was 'every bit as good a man as he was this morning'. Short said yes, pulled his pistol out and shot him through the heart.

Games went on at the Oriental as if nothing happened, but two days later, another incident took place that was allegedly related. A slight ruckus occured, owing to some misunderstanding between a man named Lyons - better known as Dublin - who was a partner to the late Storms, and Wyatt. Dublin was ordered to leave town-- which he did.

Two more incidents happened, one occuring on March 1, which caused the death of a man named One-Armed Kelly. That was it for Milt Joyce, who closed the gaming room for a long while. The Oriental was officially labeled 'the Slaughterhouse'. Luke Short and Bat Masterson established a presence at the Oriental who tried their best to maintain order. Johnny Tyler remained in Tombstone, but stayed clear of the Oriental.

Wyatt noticed Joyce held resentment toward Rickabaugh and his group (which included Short and Masterson) whom he blamed for his troubles. But most importantly, he associated them with Doc, the man he loathed with his entire being.

This hate from Joyce for Doc would effect the blonde a lot sooner and deeper than Wyatt would be prepared for.


*****


Wyatt didn't like William Leonard.

He was shady, deviant. Kept crooked company, and was most likely being used for nefarious purposes. He didn't trust the dying man as far as he could throw him.

He had his reasons for disliking him. Some good, maybe some not as much. But he believed in his instincts, and he stuck to his guns concerning them. They hadn't failed him before.

The most irksome thing for Wyatt was how much Doc trusted William. How often he would go over to visit when he wasn't spending time with Wyatt himself. Even when rumors around town spread that Leonard was melting gold down and fencing stolen jewellery. Doc seemed to turn a blind eye to it, which bothered Wyatt to no end. He tried to reason with his friend, but that was like talking to a brick wall.

What made everything worse, was when William moved a few miles away to a house known as the Wells shared by three other Cow-Boys: Harry Head, Jim Crane, and Luther King. Their illegal activities intensified now that they were away from town, and yet Doc still made an effort to visit him. Wyatt's fears increased at the thought of Doc getting pulled into something they would be planning, and then the damage would be done and he wouldn't know how to save his friend.

If he could save him at all.

Wyatt's instincts never failed him. The nightmare was brewing.

Then it struck on March 15.

Wyatt was playing faro against Doc at the Alhambra. Both had finished eating dinner previously and had settled in for a good long game. Doc was in a better mood that evening-- acting more like his old self. The two were in a genial humor, uplifted by the spirits they drank and the company they kept. No one else played with them. They were comfortably alone.

It started as it usually did, Doc laying down the cards - starting with the hearts - from ace to king in two rows with seven slightly to the side. He waited patiently for Wyatt to bet - and for the hell of it, he did too - and once he did, Doc flipped over the first three cards of the deck. First went off to the side, second and third stayed in front of him. Neither one lost nor won the first round. Game swiftly continued.

It was quickly becoming apparent that neither one was particularly focusing on the outcome of the game. They instead were too involved in what the other one was saying or doing. Making the other bark out a laugh, talk about their day, confess their troubles.

As they played, Wyatt began to notice things about Doc he hadn't before. Such as how much Doc's clothes hung on him in different ways. Like how they were loose and baggy because of all the weight he'd lost, then were fitted in other places. Nicely fitted. He occasionally lingered a gaze on his long piano fingers that delicately handled the cards. Fiddled with the chips to keep his hands busy. Chest tightening at how musical his laugh was when not impeded with his grating cough. He caught himself holding his breath at one point, as Doc dabbed a kerchief to his face and neck. Watching intensely as a sweatdrop from his temple slid down the hollow of his cheekbone to over the edge of his chin. He followed its path as it slinked its way further down, passing his Adam's Apple to the curves of his neckline as Doc tipped his head back. It continued its trail downward only to disappear into his collar for places unseen. He exhaled a shuddery breath and met the blonde's curious gaze.

"What are you staring at?"

Wyatt froze. His mind blanked. His heartbeat quickened to an alarming speed. He tried to take a deep breath. His hands white-knuckled round the chips he was holding. His mind raced quickly for an answer because, quite frankly, he didn't know what exactly he was staring at or why.

"You're sweating." Was what blurted out of him, and he bit his cheek for the stupid answer he gave.

Doc blinked at him. "I'm always sweating. Even when it's cold out. What's your point?" He placed down his own bet and waited for Wyatt to do the same.

Wyatt shrugged, trying to act calm when he was falling apart on the inside. He placed a couple of chips down on the seven. "I don't have one. Just making an observation." Not the greatest recovery, but not the biggest lie.

Doc snorted. "Some observation. You see me almost everyday and not once was I unmoist."

Wyatt grimaced. "That's not the word I would have used."

"Immaterial."

He was getting frustrated. "Listen, I'm just trying to say you look--"

"I'm dying, Wyatt." Doc interrupted. Waving a hand at himself for emphasis. "I know what I look like. I gussy myself up, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm rotting on the inside. Anyone could have told you what my appearance is; permanent shambles dressed in nice clothes."

"Oh, knock it off. That's not what you are, you're--" He stopped himself from what he was about to say aloud.

His eyes skittered over the cards laid out in front of him, stunned at what he was just moments away from affirming to all within hearing distance. To Doc.

"I'm what?" Doc's pupils sparked with an interest. A finger tapped nervously on the table.

Beautiful. "Uhm..." His mind went blank again except for the one word that he nearly said about his friend. Something one doesn't say about their friend. Well, their male friend. He picked up a chip and started scratching its edge onto the tabletop. Trying with force to think of anything else to say.

"Just your usual, spunky self." Wyatt evenually summoned. He smirked at the other, digging the chip harder into the table.

"You can be a terrible liar when caught, Wyatt. Don't be above snakes with me." Doc squinted at him. "Finish what you were going to say."

Wyatt didn't/couldn't meet his gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Wyatt," Doc pointed a finger up from where his hand rested on the table. His voice was stern. "Don't play the fool. What were you going to say?"

"I wasn't going to say anything. Let's just move on. It's your turn to flip the cards."

"Not until you tell me." He crossed his arms.

Wyatt slouched. He just wanted to be off this subject more than anything. "Tell you what? There is nothing to tell."

"Are you afraid you'll insult me? Hurt my pride?"

"That's not it." Wyatt mumbled. <span;>Boy, that wasn't it.

"Then what is it?"

Wyatt huffed. "Would you lay off?"

Doc raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You're turning a mountain out of a molehill. I told you I don't remember, now let that be the end of it. Turn the cards over." The ex-lawman stated matter-of-factly.

Doc shook a finger. "Ah-ah. You said you weren't going to say anything, not that you don't recall. Don't try to confuse me, my elusive friend."

Wyatt stared at him, speechless. Damn him for paying attention. Why did he need to know so badly?

Doc gave him a lop-sided grin, folded his hands on the table, and continued. "Now. I promise I'll let sleeping dogs lie... once you tell me what you were going to say."

A light cough started.

Wyatt pinched the bridge of his nose. "Doc. Come on. We're going in circles here."

"Just say it." The cough grew rapidly. He brought a handkerchief to his mouth.

"Say. What?" Wyatt enunciated each word. He was going to avoid it forever. He would die on that hill.

"That I'm..." Doc struggled to get out as uncontrollable coughing made it near impossible to speak.

Wyatt moved before he knew he had done it. He got up and stood next to Doc, who had turned away from him and had practically folded over the arm of the chair, hacking into his kerchief. Wyatt put one hand on the armrest and the other on the blonde's back and rubbed it soothingly. He hovered over him. At the contact, Doc shot an arm out and gripped a fistful of Wyatt's shirt. But didn't shove him away. Just clung to him as he road it out.

Wyatt grimaced at how awful it sounded. He could only imagine what the other man was going through. It made his own throat hurt. He could feel Doc's body shake beneath his touch. Several chunky pieces sounded like they were crawling their way up Doc's esophagus, attempting to choke him on their way out. He could almost see the lumps moving up the man's throat from the bulge it gave. The coughing was stifled and turned into retching.

Alarm bells went off in his head when he saw and felt Doc's hand at his shirt slipping from its hold before the other was even done. Wyatt darted forward and caught the slumping form in his arms before the other fell out of the chair. In the back of his mind, he took note of how frail Doc felt as he sat the other back up in the chair, resting his head against the high upholstered back, gently. He brushed his sweaty hair from his face and noticed there still was blood dripping over his bottom lip. He grabbed the hanky from Doc's hand and wiped carefully at the blood.

As he held the handkerchief, he could feel a mass of something balled in it.  He stared at the form, and curiosity got the better of him. He began unfolding the cloth when he was interrupted by a pale, weak, shakey hand clutch at it, tearing it away from his loose grasp and shoving it to his heaving chest. Wyatt said nothing of the fact that he swears he saw, for a moment, a flash of purple stuffed inside. He could have easily been mistaken. The thought was too worrisome. He let it go for now.

Wyatt cupped Doc's face and turned it towards him when the other's eyes appeared half-open.

"Hey, Doc. Can you hear me?" Wyatt asked softly, brushing his thumb over the gambler's cheek.

He lifted his other palm to the man's forehead. He was feverish, and wheezing. Chest rising and falling too heavily for Wyatt's taste. He grieved for the state his friend was in.

Murmurs from nearby tables rose in the air. Wyatt could see from the corner of his eye some patrons pointing to something on the floor by Doc's chair and making excited talk about it. He brushed it off and continued to focus on the gambler.

Doc's eyes were glossy and unfocused. Wyatt's heart wrenched. He unconsciously brushed his fingers through the blonde's hair. "Are you still with me?"

A slow blink. Doc shifted his eyes to Wyatt's. There was no recognition there. But Wyatt continued to search his eyes. He was patient for him to come back. Finally, after what felt like aeons, he saw a small glimmer return to them. A slight nod from Doc's head, and he croaked, "Still alive."

Wyatt smiled faintly. "Tough old bastard."

"Mmm." Doc hummed as Wyatt continued to run his fingers through his locks. Wyatt watched as his breathing started to regulate. Doc winced as he swallowed hard. He closed his eyes. His one hand still clinging tightly to the kerchief.

Wyatt's hands moved to rest on his upper arms. He knew the best thing now was to get Doc back to his room and into his bed to rest. Times like this took the starch out of him. He had to get him to his feet or try to carry him out-- which Doc would most likely not appreciate. He couldn't rightly blame him. So. Feet it was. With everyone staring, sooner would be preferred than later.

"Hey Doc, come on. Time to get up. Let's go. On your feet." Wyatt changed position to snake an arm around Doc's thinning waist, firmly grabbing his wrist that was draped across Wyatt's shoulders and tried to lift Doc to a stand.

Although dead weight, he was shockingly light. This distressed the ex-lawman and he couldn't help but let it show in his actions. He clung to the man tighter. Brows furrowed.

Doc moaned as he was lifted. Wyatt could see from his lack of coordination that he was trying to stand, but his legs were an enemy. The attack had been too strong, and he was struck weak from it.

As Wyatt struggled to walk Doc to the front doors, his politician friend, Bob Paul, entered the saloon. He spotted Wyatt and made a beeline to where he was. A troubled look clouding his features.

"Wyatt, have you heard the news?" He asked when he reached him. His deep voice lower than usual.

"Hey Bob. I'm a little busy right now." He didn't need to be pestered while Doc strained to stay upright in his arms. "Why don't you come back later--"

"So you haven't heard." The man ignored his protests and just followed closely next to him.

"Heard what?"

Bob hesitated, looking around the room like he was afraid to say it out loud. He leaned into Wyatt, murmuring, "About the Kinnear & Company stagecoach being held up."

"What?" Wyatt looked at him, eyes wide.

"Yep, and two men were murdered in the process."

"What?" He nearly dropped Doc at this news. They finally busted through the doors and into the cool night air. "When did this happen?"

"Earlier today. Your brothers asked me to fetch you. They're meeting with Sheriff Behan and Marshall Williams in the middle of town to build up a posse and go a'huntin'. We're waiting for you to join. We need to hurry."

He carried Doc till he rested his back against the nearest pillar. The gambler's head fell on Wyatt's shoulder like it was a burden to carry. Wyatt wasn't even sure if Doc was conscious anymore. He huffed in frustration. "Well, everyone is either going to have to wait a while or go on ahead without me cause I have to take care of Doc first."

Bob gave Doc a thoughtful gaze, then offered, "Do you need my assistance?"

"I wouldn't turn it down." He readjusted his hold on the other man. "Make this go a lot faster then me dragging him."

"Of course. Is he roostered?" Bob moved to Doc's side and grabbed the sick man's handkerchief-clutched hand and draped the arm over his own shoulders to help lift him. Wyatt moved to the other.

Of course Bob thought Doc was drunk. If only it were that easy. Wyatt would have much preferred it to be that way.

He had hoped Bob would've grabbed Doc's legs to lift him since Doc seemed completely out of it. But unless Wyatt wanted to do the job himself, this will have to do. He answered in a gruff tone. "Not this time."

"Is he alright?" They quickly started to haul him down the boardwalk.

"No."

Bob didn't press further.

Wyatt made his way to Doc's hotel room with Bob helping, doing his best on filling him in with the details the shotgun guard knew. Which turned out to be a great deal, since he was riding next to the driver, Eli 'Bud' Philpott, when he was shot and killed by the bandits.

He said the stagecoach had been full, so a young man by the name of Peter Roerig was forced to sit on top of it. They had slowed the horses at around ten under the bright moon to go up an incline near Drew's Station beyond Contention. Nearing the top, a man had stepped out onto the road and shouted 'Hold!'

'By God, I hold for nobody!' Bob had thundered as he leveled his shotgun to fire. But suddenly, more men showed up on either side of the road. Bob fired and hit one of the would-be robbers and unfortunately, that triggered the group of bandits to open fire on the stagecoach. Philpott was hit right away and toppled off the stage, dead. Carrying the reigns with him as the horses bolted into a startled run. They dashed past Drew's Station like hell was at their heels for nearly a mile. All while Bob tried to get control of the chaos. He managed to finally apply the brake, gradually slowing the horses to a walk. Then he jumped down and recovered the reigns. Once the stage was stopped, he discovered that Roerig, the young man on top, was badly wounded. He drove as rapidly as possible back to Tombstone where he learned Roerig had died on the way. Now he was itchin' to go back to the scene of the attempted robbery, but Virgil - still being a deputy U.S. marshal - wouldn't leave until Wyatt joined.

As they reached the Cosmopolitan, Wyatt saw a small crowd gathering in the street closer to the sheriff's office. A stagecoach was stopped in front of it. The name 'Kinnear & Co.' written on its side. Six horses were hitched and tacked up close by. Morgan spotted him first and jogged his way over.

"'Bout time you showed up." His face fell when he looked at Doc. "Is he alright?"

"Just an episode; he needs rest. I have to get him up to his room, then we'll be over in a twinkling of a bedpost."

"Here, lemme help." Morgan reached for Doc's calves and hiked each one under his arms. "It'll go a hell of a lot faster if you're not draggin' him."

"Thanks, Morg." Wyatt breathed.

Morgan nodded a silent understanding.

Bob let go gingerly. "Do you still need my help, or..."

"No, we can take it from here. Thanks." Wyatt said. He repositioned himself to grab Doc from under his shoulders.

"Don't take too long." Bob glanced at Doc and shook his head sadly, then turned and made his way back over to the crowd.

"C'mon, Morg." The two brothers carried the unconscious gambler to his hotel room. His door was locked, so Morgan had to set his legs down to dig in his pockets and search for the right key. Once in they laid him down carefully, took off his boots, and quickly disrobed him down to his undergarments. All the while Doc kept an iron-clad grip on his bloodied kerchief. They gave up trying to pry it from him after a couple of attempts. Eventually, they made him comfortable under the covers. Wyatt picked a loose hair off Doc's brow and lingered longer than he should have. He made a vow to check on him later when he came back. After one last look at the still form, Wyatt closed the door and the two left.

Wyatt and Morgan caught up to the rest of the group. Sheriff Behan was there, of course, so was Virgil. As was Bat Masterson. Marshall Williams, the Wells, Fargo agent, was petting one of the horses. He nodded at Wyatt when he arrived. There were a few local townspeople Wyatt knew by face but not by name. They all looked impatient and ready for action.

"I got him, Virg." Said Morgan once they were close enough to hear.

Virgil heaved a sigh and gave a curt nod to them.

Behan turned and acknowledged Wyatt. Hands on his hips. "Good. You're here, finally. I assume you've been updated about the particulars of this case."

"I have. Benson stagecoach held up, two people died. Bob shot one of them before they took to the hills." Said Wyatt. "Who's all coming?"

Behan pointed as he spoke, "Agent Williams, myself, Bob Paul, and you fighting Earps. I don't want this to be a cluttered mess."

"Let me help!"

"No, me!"

"I can do it! I want to get those murderers!"

Many people in the crowed started shouting at Behan, about how they could be of use to the posse and why. But the sheriff would not be swayed. Instead, he tried to calm them down and slowly inch his way to the awaiting horses.

Bat grabbed Wyatt by the arm and walked him a few paces out of range while people tried to change the sheriff's mind.

He spoke low. "Wyatt, take me with you. You know what I'm capable of."

"I don't have a say in this. You know I don't hold that kind of power anymore."

"You don't understand." Bat stared at him intently. "I was on that stagecoach. I witnessed what happened. I saw some of the robbers and besides, you know I have manhunting experience. I could be a great asset. Let me help." He said the last part in earnest.

Wyatt paused, and looked over at Behan and his immediate shutdowns of anyone offering assistance. "I'll try." He relented, simply.

They walked back over and Wyatt dove right in, "Sheriff," Behan turned to him, "This is my good friend, Bat Masterson."

Behan shook his hand. "Nice to meet you. Sorry it's under such unfortunate circumstances."

"Well, about that, Sheriff. I would like to join you on your manhunt." Bat told him.

"No."

"No? Just like that, huh?" Questioned Wyatt, a little perturbed but frankly not surprised.

"I'm sorry Wyatt, but I'm not taking anyone else. Now we've lost enough time as it is, we need to get moving--"

Wyatt held up a hand. "Hear me out before you shut it down. I know Masterson very well, and I can vouch for him on his abilities as a manhunter. He's one of the finest I know. If we want a chance at catching them then we'll want him along."

Behan checked his pocket watch and huffed, "We don't have time for this."

"Then just say yes and we'll be on our way."

"Go on, Behan," chimed in Williams. "At least he has experience. We'll need it."

The sheriff glanced between them. "Manhunting, eh?"

"I was even sheriff myself in Dodge City, Kansas." Piped Masterson.

"Sheriff?" Behan's eyebrows shot up. He stood quiet for a moment, staring at Bat and Wyatt intermittently. "Fine." He finally caved. "He can come. we'll get him a horse from Dunbar then head out." He started for his ride. 

Behan got up on his horse and walked him over to Wyatt. Staring him down. "But not that other one. Holliday. He stays. I refuse to have him anywhere near this."

"He's not even here." Wyatt protested. A flare of annoyance tightening his jaw.

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

Wyatt exchanged a look with Morgan. Both seemed bothered by Behan's vehemence against Doc but kept their mouths shut. The rest mounted their horses; Wyatt giving Bat a lift to the stable to pick his up. Then they were off.

While they rode Wyatt was filled with troubled thoughts. Such as Behan's distaste for Doc. It didn't sit well with him. He recognized it, of course. Didn't mean he had to like it. But he understood the loyalty to a friend and what that meant. Behan was rather close with Milt Joyce, the same bartender Doc shot in the hand way back in October. Joyce never forgave Doc for what he'd done, instead his hatred grew like a wildfire which took no time at all for Behan to get influenced by its wrath as well. In fact, Behan was one of the few people who were going to testify against Doc at his trial simply because Joyce asked him to. Even though Behan was never there for the shooting itself. How they finagled the prosecutor into accepting Behan as a witness Wyatt couldn't fathom, but was grateful none of them bothered to show up that day.

Behan and Joyce's dislike for Doc never wavered, it only deepened for Joyce. As Wyatt was beginning to understand. But in the coming months, he would learn just how powerful it was.

Another troubling thought that plagued him as he rode was Doc himself, and the situation that Wyatt got himself into concerning him. Then the episode that followed after.

New adrenalin coursed through him, the wind whipping and playing with the ends of his hair from under his hat. He tried desperately to outrun the memory of what he nearly said to his friend earlier in the Alhambra. Clawing its way to the front of his mind. He tightened his grip on the reigns and fisted his loose hand.

How could he even think such a thing? This was Doc, his friend. His closest friend. A man, no less, who's done so much for him already. Comes to his aid at the drop of a hat, even if inconvenient for him. Which he never claims it is. But someone whom he trusts as much as his own family. Because he is family. As close to a brother a bond can make.

So, why beautiful?

Why that word, of all words? He knows he didn't mean it in the respect of one describing one's soul, or being. Because that didn't fit Doc. Or did it? Doc could be ugly. Dark. Shoot a man as soon as look at them if they angered him enough. He was wily when he was inebriated on good days, and vicious on bad ones. He drank liquor like a man forever parched, and it was rare to see him without a smoke between his teeth. But he was also soft-spoken. Smooth. Sharp as a tack with wit to match and always made Wyatt laugh. He never raised a hand to anyone unless absolutely needed, and was ever the consummate gentleman. So did it really fit?

Maybe he meant it towards his looks, Wyatt reasoned with himself. That could be it. Doc wasn't unattractive. He had fine hair and light eyes. His skin was unnaturally pale and almost glowed depending on the light, and he had a delicate bone structure which gave him near feline grace. He also kept his appearance well groomed and scented. True, he was too thin and sweat like a whore on a busy day, but that was hardly his fault under the circumstances. More importantly; Wyatt didn't mind. He liked Doc's faults or at the very least accepted them as being what made the man who he was.

His constantly changing skin temperature fascinated him to the point he'd find excuses to touch him. Always for curious purposes. One minute he's hot like the desert, next he's cold as a fish and just as wet. But touching Doc didn't happen often, and he had to be left with his imagination for most of it. Reveling in the moments when he got the opportunity.

Are you sure that's the only reason you touch him?

Wyatt startled out of his thoughts when his mind flashed with foreign images of Doc and his own hands all over him. Earning a moan. Receiving a caress. Bodies close. Exhilarating. That... was a new one. It made his face heat up and a warmth spread across his chest down to his groin. He glanced around at his companions to see if they noticed, but naturally they were too busy with either their own musings or the ride ahead.

What the hell was happening to him now? What kind of thought was that? Why did his brain even go there? Where did it stem from? The first thing - the word he thought - he might've been able to explain innocently away but that, that... he has no reasoning for. That was on a level he wasn't remotely prepared to unpack. Especially not for a brother, and Doc was just another brother to him. This would have to be stored in some kind of box, chained, and never allowed to see daylight. He filed it deep away in his darker thoughts' corner and decided that would be the end of it.

He rubbed his forehead with his fist and squeezed his legs to make the horse go faster. The mare got the command and soon he had inched his way to the front. He just needed to be away from the others for a little while. Just long enough to clear his head of... any more ideas.

His heart plummeted when he got to thinking: What would Doc do if he knew the truth? About these strange thoughts that were slowly plaguing him? Would he hit him? Shoot him? Try to help him snap out of it, or spit in his face and say he never wanted Wyatt near him again? To walk away and never come back... He didn't know if he could handle that. Not having Doc in his life was just... unfathomable.

It's true, they had been away from each other for as long as a year or so, but they always snapped back together eventually and it was nearly never Wyatt's doing to leave the other in the first place. Even in Fort Griffin where they first met, Wyatt stayed a month longer than was necessary to not only see the sights but to call on the blonde, to get to know him. He didn't know why then either.

Doc had always left first-- except, of course, Las Vegas. But that was meant to be a visit and he had brought family with him that time. He also begged Doc to follow him. Which in time, he did. Otherwise, everywhere else they met besides Vegas the gambler was the first to get up and leave. Doc couldn't sit still for too long in one place. Though sometimes - and there weren't many - Doc was forced to leave against his will. Such as Dodge City. That inevitably was the reason why Wyatt left as well.

So to have the notion that he had unwittingly just given Doc a reason to abandon him scared him worse than he cared to admit. More than the thought of Mattie threatening to clear out, which was happening more frequently lately. Course, if he got down to it, Doc was technically leaving him a little bit everyday regardless, so what did it matter?

Speaking of that...

Doc's episode earlier at the Alhambra lingered with Wyatt while he rode. Knowing that Doc was being eaten from the inside by a disease with no cure was terrifying. Wyatt's hands were tied. He couldn't save him, and by God he wanted to. If there was anything he could do he'd do it, be damned of the consequences. But all he was able to do was sit and watch as his friend deteriorated in front of him. Quite rapidly, with each passing day. It made him want to start drinking.

Wyatt festered in these infuriating thoughts about Doc until they eventually reached the scene of the attempted robbery. Philpott still laid crumpled in the sand, the large blood puddle that spread out from under him was black and ominous under the light of the moon. Hoofprints, wheel tracks, and footprints littered the ground in a wide radius, disturbing the otherwise peaceful landscape.

They dismounted and got to work. Scanning the ground, all the men together found a grand total of fifteen shell casings spread in an array. Bat, Williams, and Wyatt all discovered three wigs, and Morgan found a beard of rope yarn. Another dark splotch was detected several feet away. Bob explained that was most likely from the man he shot. It trailed off to the east and from the sheer amount of it, it was clear the sufferer was not fairing well. Aside from the blood spots, it was evident the bandits tried to cover their tracks. But Virgil and Bat were persistent, and eventually focused on the right trail.

They followed them for three days. As each day passed Wyatt's thoughts drifted to Doc. How he was doing from his latest attack. Was he taking care of himself, or did he go right back to his vices? Was he angry with Wyatt for going off without him. Hell, was he secretly trailing behind after learning about the attempted robbery? He wouldn't put it past him. He imagined he'd see him in the distance making his way towards the posse, filled with hellish fury for being forgotten.

But he never came. Instead, the group came across a ranch owned by Len Redfield, who was a Cow-Boy sympathizer. While roaming the ranch, Wyatt came across a man milking a cow. He was armed with two revolvers, a gunbelt, and a rifle. He was also wearing a red sash. He and Morgan didn't hesitate in arresting him. Wyatt insisted to Behan that under no uncertain terms should their prisoner - who turned out to be Luther King - should talk to either Len Redfield or his brother, Hank. But while Wyatt was discussing details with Bob, King talked freely with the Redfields, and one of them quickly rode off, presumably to warn King's associates. Wyatt was upset at Behan, but didn't voice it too heavily.

They interrogated King, and learned some enlightening news. He confessed that he was the one who held the horses for the robbers at Drew's Station. Under further pressure from Virgil, he eventually told them who the other robber's were. Which wasn't what Wyatt wanted to hear. They consisted of Henry Head, Jim Crane, and damn it to hell, William Leonard. The latter name drew ire from Wyatt. He kicked at the desert sand in frustration. Of course it was him. He knew the jeweler was bad news from the moment he set eyes on him. To make matters worse, King said that William was the one who had been shot by Bob's shotgun. Which means his well being was drastically on the decline.

He didn't mean to, but he made this hunt now into a personal vendetta. He had to get Leonard at all costs. They talked together and decided that it would be best if Behan and Marshall Williams would return to Tombstone with the Luther King. Then the rest of them would continue to pursue the fugitives, who with determination, had gotten close behind.

They found a campfire nearby, but it appeared by the scene left behind they had acquired fresh mounts - which they guessed were from the Redfields - and then headed further east once they were warned of the posse's approach. Wyatt, his brothers, Bob, and Masterson continued the hunt for another six more days before their horses were so worn out that Bob's mount actually died, and Wyatt and Bat Masterson had no choice but to walk back to Tombstone, defeated. Virgil promised to continue the hunt as best he could. He and the remaining group would head to Tres Alamos to wire Behan for fresh horses.

The walk ended up being for eighteen miles across the Arizona desert. They began hoofing it, and by evening they could see Tombstone in the distance. They brought their canteens along, Wyatt's being about half full to start. It felt like an endless trek, with everything around them starting to look the same. The heat had been tolerable with the sun mostly hidden behind thick white clouds. Now it had cooled to an invigorating chill that gave them both a second wind to finish the final stretch. Canteens had long been empty.

Only, Wyatt didn't want to get back home. He had been dreading most of the trip but especially the last half. His feet dragged till he hit a dead stop, like he had struck a wall. Tombstone a mile ahead.

Masterson, who was in the same low mood as Wyatt, was several steps ahead when he turned and noticed the other was behind him just standing there. His eyebrows shot up. "What are you doing? We're almost back, it's just a little further."

"I can't do it." Wyatt shook his head, eyes glued to the town ahead.

Masterson's eyebrows stayed up and he threw his arms out to his sides. "Now you tell me," he muttered, "we've been going at this for what, six hours and now that we've nearly made it back, now 'you can't do it'? Has the sun officially eaten your brain?"

"I just, I can't do it."

Masterson huffed, hands on his hips. He looked off at the near complete sunset, then his face softened. He turned back to Wyatt. "Does this have anything to do with Doc?"

Wyatt nodded once after hesitation. "I don't know how to tell him."

"About his friend?"

"... Yeah. I'm not sure how he'll take it. Especially since I didn't catch him. He might not even believe me." He mumbled the last part to himself. He rubbed his hands together and peered at them through the increasing darkness. There was no warmth there.

Masterson walked up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Listen. You can't control how he'll react, which with him can be admittedly unpredictable. But," he paused, "he deserves to know. You need to tell him. And it's better he find out from you than some newspaper or simpleton on the street. Because he will find out, sooner or later."

A pang hit Wyatt in the heart. "They were close." He said under his breath.

"And you're not?"

Wyatt didn't answer him.

Bat squeezed his shoulder. "Leonard is a criminal. He tried to rob a stage and got shot for his troubles. He's now wanted for murder. Don't you think Doc deserves to hear all this?"

"Of course he does."

"And you must see it'll be easier if it comes from you. From someone he cares about. Hell, do it in privacy. Somewhere you both feel safe. No need for busybodies sniffing about." He turned and started walking away, "And tell him the truth tonight to get it over with. Word spreads fast, as you know." He spun to Wyatt once more. "You coming? Or am I leaving you to sleep out here?"

Wyatt sighed. "Yeah. I'm coming... just wish I caught the bastard."

He started after Masterson, who chuckled as he waited for him to catch up. Then they made their way the rest of the mile.

Wyatt never did like William Leonard, and he was not looking forward to telling Doc about what his friend had done.

This was going to be a hard night.

Chapter Text

Wyatt sat in his living room as he waited for Doc to arrive. He sat back in the chair, bouncing a fist on the armrest. He stared at the front door, willing for them to arrive sooner. Stewing in his own thoughts. A leg bounced. He was itching to do something but unable to make up his mind as to what. He wanted this over already. William Leonard didn't deserve that much effort.

He should of gone to see Doc instead of having him brought to his house. The waiting was infuriating. He hadn't seen the gambler in over a week and the last time he saw him he was worse for wear. The ex-lawman had done nothing but ponder and worry for the blonde, ever since he left him in a bed to his own devices with no one to watch over him. Wyatt had abandoned him and took off while Doc's health was fragile, just to chase ghosts who evaded him and ultimately ended up being associates of the ex-dentist. One a good friend.

Word had most assuredly spread since his absence. Maybe even on who the criminal's were. He's sure the man is confused as to what was going on.

It was late, and Mattie had long since gone to sleep. When he had gotten home that evening, she was already tucked away in their bed, sleeping off another bender. Lately, he had been doubting his arrangement with her. All feelings of love long since dried up and exchanged with cold resentment. He knew she felt the same, based on the heartless looks she gave him. He didn't know why either of them stayed.

He had sent Warren to fetch Doc, who was only too eager for an excuse to see the gambler. That sat funny with Wyatt. But he let it slide and waited impatiently for the both of them to return. In the meantime, his mind ran circles around the notion of what he was about to do.

He wondered how he would tell him. Quick as a slap would be the best approach. Just get it over with, and brace himself for his reaction after. He understood he should be the bearer of bad news, but he didn't want to be on the recieving end of Doc's wrath.  Whatever it was, he imagined the worst and mentally steeled himself for just that.

His patience for waiting was wearing thin, and he got an urge to just grab his horse and meet them out there on the trail. But that died off when he heard the rhythmic thud of the hooves as they approached.

Thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump.

He stood up as he ran a hand through his hair. A burst of anxiety exploded in his chest. His heart raced at the nearness of the other. This always happened, he noticed, when they spent some time away from each other. He stepped up to a window and saw two dark shapes tie off the horses, one hurriedly made their way to the front door. Wyatt positioned himself to meet him head-on. The door swung open and Doc stepped inside. Wyatt was instantly drawn to the blonde's appearance. His shirt was wet with perspiration, face and neck waxen in the low light. He had deep dark circles under the eyes. There was concern emanating from them. A nearly spent cigarillo was stuck between his lips. His hat sat tilted on his head. He looked like he dressed in a hurry.

When their eyes met Doc stopped, his brow furrowing. He picked the cigarillo from his mouth and flicked it outside the front door before Warren had a chance to shut it. Warren glanced at him, then closed the door and moved off to stand to the side, watching Doc silently while fiddling with a ring on his finger.

"What is it?" The blonde asked. His voice eager but soft.

"I have some news for you. But you're not going to like it." Wyatt thought how the other looked worse than the last time he had seen him. Like the damned creature hadn't slept in days. He gestured at his appearance. "You alright?"

Doc glanced down at himself, swiping a hand at his front. "Don't concern yourself with me. I'll be fine."

Fine my ass thought Wyatt.

"What did you need to tell me?" Doc stared fixedly at the ex-lawman.

Wyatt sighed heavily. Fuck it, he thought, and dove right in. He rested his hands on his hips. "I'm sure you've heard by now about the Kinnear & Company stagecoach robbery?"

Doc's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes... So it was swindled then?"

"No. But they attempted it, which cost the lives of two men."

Doc paled to a ghostly hue. He swallowed. He stared intently at Wyatt. He said nothing, and reached inside his inner coat pocket and pulled out a flask. He twisted off the cap and took a deep swig. Wyatt watched him carefully.

"We know who the bandits are." Wyatt said. "We caught one of them already. Maybe you've heard of him; Luther King."

Doc's eye twitched. He slowly turned and took a few steps away. "Oh?" He sounded strained.

"Yeah," Wyatt frowned, following his movements, "King told us who the rest are. They're Harry Head, Jim Crane... and William Leonard. All Cow-Boys."

Wyatt held his breath. He didn't know what to expect from finally revealing the truth. An outburst, perhaps? Silent fuming? Or despair for his friend? He wasn't sure which reaction would win out, but he braced for any one of them.

The one he got was not what he was envisioning.

Doc just nodded absently. He was staring at something on the wall. He strummed his fingers on the flask, rotating it in his hands. One leg bounced a bit. He acted disinterested, but on edge.

Wyatt studied him. Something was off, he could feel it. He wracked his brain for what exactly that would be, and chose to repeat himself. "Didn't you hear me? I said your friend, William Leonard, was--"

"I heard you." Doc quietly interrupted.

This didn't make sense. Either Doc was handling the news extremely well, or the truth wasn't sinking in yet. Or maybe he just didn't care, or...

It hit Wyatt like a shot in the gut. He stood there, stunned. The realization sinking in so fast it rooted him to the spot. His eyes widened.

"You knew." Wyatt spoke low. Bewilderment hitting him hard. "My God, you knew the whole time, didn't you?"

Doc took another swig from his flask, then screwed the top back on and put it back in his pocket. He sauntered up to a small table and rested a fist on it. He shook his head. "That fool. That damned fool," He mumbled through gritted teeth.

A wave of anger kicked in, and Wyatt stormed over to the blonde and grabbed his elbow to force the other to face him. "What do you know?"

Doc stared back at him, eyes hardening. "Nothing."

"Bull. Don't lie to me-- not to me. Tell me what you know, all of it. Don't leave anything out."

"Take your hand off me." Doc tried to tug his arm out of Wyatt's grip, but the other held fast. "Wyatt, let go."

"Talk to me first."

"Don't do this." Doc warned.

"Do what? Find out the truth? Just be open with me, Doc. I know you know something. Were you there, is that it? Did you get dragged in it somehow?"

Rage flared up in Doc's eyes. "If you're insinuating that I had anything to do with--"

"I'm not insinuating anything," he tried to clarify, voice firm, "I'm asking. Did you? You left Tombstone that day, if I remember correctly. Where did you go? What did you do? Did they twist your arm into joining, or did you do it willingly?"

Doc's anger rose. "I will not stand here and be interrogated for something I had no involvement in." He ripped his arm from Wyatt's hold and moved past him.

"Than you better damn well have a good alibi." Wyatt followed closely.

Doc spun on him, shouting, "As a matter of fact, I do!"

"Then what is it?! Tell me! I'm not the enemy here!" Wyatt yelled, moving forward. Forcing Doc backwards.

"I'm aware of that!"

"Then talk to me, damnit!"

They ended up with Doc's back against a wall.

Doc flickered his eyes back and forth between Wyatt's, his stern gaze easing off. He huffed. "Alright. If you must know, I left that day at around four and rented a horse from Dunbar's stable. I left to go out to Charleston."

"Why?"

"For a high-stakes poker game I had heard about." Doc reached into a pocket and pulled out his case of cigarillos. He drew one out and brought it to his mouth. "Unfortunately,  by the time I arrived it had broken off."

"What time was this?"

"Sometime after five." Doc started searching his pockets.

"How do you know this?"

"The poker game closed at five, which I arrived there after. Good enough for you?" He dragged out some matches, lit one and brought it to the end of his smoke. He blew it out and tossed it to an ashtray he was near. He inhaled deeply, pulled the cigarillo out and blew the smoke away from Wyatt's face. He continued.

"Empty-handed and a smidgeon upset for having my time wasted, I made my way back to Tombstone and ran into Old Man Fuller, driving a water wagon along the way. We conversed a few pleasantries and with his permission I rode back home with him." Doc pushed past Wyatt and started to wander around the room. Cigarillo between his fingers. "I then proceeded to stable my horse, had dinner, and went to work operating my faro table when you came in. We started playing and well, you know the rest. That's all there is. Anything else?"

"Yeah. How fast did you travel with Fuller?"

"We traveled at a lazy walk. Took hours."

"How many?"

"I don't know." Doc's voice was gruff. He scratched his forehead with a thumb. "But definetly more than one."

"What time did you arrive back in Tombstone?"

Doc sighed, "I don't recall. It was late though, I'll hazard a guess... nine?"

Wyatt's jaw tightened. He moved towards the gambler while saying, "You forgot to mention the part where you knew about the robbery. How'd that come about?"

Doc's eyes glinted in the lamplight. He spoke through gritted teeth, "Let it go."

"Tell me, damnit!" He rushed at him until they were mere inches apart. "You're going to get pulled into this mess if you don't!"

Doc gave him a fixed stare. "I can't." He said quietly.

"Why not?"

Doc's eyes turned to pleading. "I beseech you, Wyatt. Don't ask anything more."

Wyatt deflated at Doc's defeated words. He brought his hands to rest on Doc's upper arms; they tingled on contact. The blonde's breath hitched at the touch, his gaze intensified.

Wyatt shook him gently. "Doc, I need to know everything if I'm to help you. If you're in trouble, if they're threatening you, please talk to me."

Doc regarded him silently, lips pressed together so tightly they were turning white. He suppressed a cough that was thankfully gentle. His eyes were filled with sorrow.

Wyatt squeezed him tighter - the touch thrilling him - and added the last nail in the coffin. "Leonard was shot. Bob Paul did it when they first attacked. It was with a shotgun."

He searched the blonde's face. His reaction was instant. Doc's eyes widened, his mouth opened slighty. He paled even more, and Wyatt could feel him start to tremble under his touch. His body temperature felt like it dropped several degrees. For a moment, he thought the other man was going to faint. He braced himself for the familiar dead weight, but it never came.

It was evident to the ex-lawman that Doc did <span;>not<span;> know about this.

"Did Bill... is he alright?" His voice was fragile.

Wyatt silently cursed Leonard for putting Doc in this position. He hated the man more than ever. He tightened his jaw at the suffering on Doc's face. "I don't know," He confessed softly, "We never caught them yet. But based on the blood trail left behind, it doesn't look good."

Doc closed his eyes for a brief moment, then touched Wyatt's arms and gave them a light squeeze. He shook his head, staring off to something over the ex-lawman's shoulder. He whispered, "That damned fool... I did not think that of him."

He peered back at Wyatt, right into his very soul. Speaking to him there in a voice so quiet the ex-lawman almost didn't catch it.

"I'm so tired, Wyatt. I'm tired of it all."

Wyatt's heart wrenched. A chill ran down his spine like the cold hand of death had stroked it. He felt a terror at those words so fierce he was afraid to look away from the other man, like he might vanish once he did. He got a sudden urge to pull him in tight, to not let go. To reassure him, let him know that Wyatt was there. The urge to crush Doc's body to his own was so potent, and he nearly acted on it.

Nearly.

However, his action was interrupted by Warren - who he had forgotten was there - as he stepped in and brushed Wyatt's hands off the blonde and proceeded to wrap an arm around him and pull him towards himself. He took a few steps back while holding the gambler, giving the two men space. When Wyatt blinked at him in surprise, his brother gave off a predatory stare.

"The man said ''let it go', Wyatt. You should honor his wishes, not press further."

Doc stared at Wyatt's collar, all sorrow being sucked back into him and replaced with a hardness. He shrugged his shoulders, like he was trying to shake the other man off. But Warren didn't get the hint and held tighter.

Warren touching Doc got on Wyatt's nerves. His hairs on his arms prickled up. "Remind me when I said you were a part of this conversation." He leveled his eyes at his brother.

Warren smirked at him, "What's wrong, Wyatt? Have I ruffled your feath--ow!" Warren cried out in pain and yanked his arm back from Doc, who had intentionally dumped hot ash on the young man's hand from his cigarillo.

"I don't recall saying you could paw at me, young Earp." Doc said, putting the smoke to his mouth. He and Wyatt exchanged a look.

Warren, still cradling his hand, frowned like a hurt puppy. He muttered, "I just thought, well under the circumstances--"

"You would be wrong." Doc cut him off. He waved at the younger brother. "Now, go on about your business. The adults are talking."

"We're practically the same age." Warren protested.

Doc knit his brows at Wyatt. "What year was this brother of yours born, again?"

"Eighteen fifty-five." Warren jumped in, not giving Wyatt a chance to answer.

Doc gave him a disapproving look. "I'm still your senior, and I had queried Wyatt, not you. Hush now." He flicked his cigarillo at the nearest ashtray.

Warren slumped a little and started mumbling under his breath as he made his way to the door. He spun and faced the blonde, "Can I at least escort you home?" He asked eagerly.

"Warren." Wyatt warned.

Doc gestured his smoke at him. "Wait outside, and we'll see."

Wyatt couldn't see Doc's face, but he assumes the gambler must have winked or smiled at his little brother based on Warren's brightening appearance.

"Sorry about him." Wyatt apologized once Warren had stepped outside.

Doc gave a barely perceptible shrug. "He's easily manageable."

"I'll make you eat those words when he becomes more aggressive."

Doc quirked a lip up. "I can handle him. Don't you worry about me."

I don't know how not to. The thought flittered in Wyatt's head. He eyed the other man. "How are you, really?"

"I am glorious." His southern drawl rolling the words out. A cough escaped him, reminding them both of the contrary.

"Yeah, sure Doc." Wyatt said calmly.

Did Doc think Wyatt was blind? Did he think he couldn't see the act he was putting up? The brave face?

Doc was slipping away with no control over it. Wyatt couldn't save him, and that thought was driving him crazy.

The two men gazed at the other, neither one disturbing the silence they shared. Wyatt wanted to say more-- he wasn't done with this conversation concerning Leonard. But he sensed the other was no longer in a talking mood. This would fester in him, he knew that, but for Doc's sake he let it end there.

They talked about other things, sitting down on the couch together. A laugh here, a series of coughs there. All the while Wyatt's eyes never left Doc. He observed the man tenderly, thinking now and then how completely the other had filled up his life.

The time drifted by till Warren stuck his head back in and wondered how long they were going to be. Wyatt looked at his watch and realized an hour and a half had past. Doc looked drained. He tilted his head to the door, "It's quite late. I suppose I should take my leave of you, now."

"You don't have to."

Doc's eyebrows shot up.

"You can stay here for the night, if you want." His face heated at the thought and he was grateful the candlelight was so low. He straightened and traced his fingers on the back of the sofa. "This couch is admittedly not like your bed, but it's better than sleeping on the ground. You can head back in the morning."

Doc regarded him, looking him up and down. His eyes danced with mischief despite the exhaustion. He held his cigarillo close to his lips but didn't take a drag from it. Wyatt shifted in his seat and cleared his throat from the scrutinizing gaze.

"So, why don't you stay the night?" His voice sounded pinched.

"What about Mattie?"

"What about her?"

Doc's irises darkened. He quirked an eyebrow. "Why, Wyatt Earp. Are you propositioning me?"

"No." Wyatt said louder than he meant to. "God no, Doc. That's not what I meant. I wasn't trying... It's just you're here now, you're clearly done in. I have a place for you to lay, and it would save you the long trip back."

"It's not that long." He dragged on his smoke.

"Well then, don't stay." He huffed, arms out. "Do whatever you want. I won't stop you, you ungrateful bastard."

Doc smirked. "Wyatt, it's alright. I was just pulling your leg." He briefly touched Wyatt's arm. The contact left a burning sensation through his shirt to his skin. Doc stood up with effort and Wyatt followed.

"Yeah, a barrel of laughs." The ex-lawman mumbled, hooking his thumbs on his belt. He shrugged nonchalantly. "So. Are you staying, or...?"

<span;>Doc gave him a small smile. His eyes filling with melancholy that struck Wyatt dumb. He wondered if maybe he was misinterpreting it. He couldn't understand why Doc would be sad after he invited him to stay over. Was it because of Mattie? She didn't shy away from her disdain of the gambler, so he guessed he couldn't blame him for being hurt.

"Maybe some other time." The statement struck a chord in Wyatt's chest. It ached. He frowned, he didn't understand it.

Doc took one more puff on his cigarillo, then snuffed it out on the ashtray. He blew out the smoke which billowed around his head like a halo. He gazed once more at Wyatt before tilting his hat at the other. "Goodnight, Wyatt. Thanks for telling me about Bill." He turned to leave.

"You're welcome." Wyatt sighed. Then muttered under his breath,  "Even though you already knew."

"Let it go." Doc said over his shoulder as he exited the house.

Wyatt rubbed his face with his hands when Doc stepped outside. He walked to the window and watched as the two men in his front exchanged words, speaking low enough he couldn't hear. It was dark enough he could barely distinguish who was who. Yet he instinctively knew which one was Doc. Soon enough, they both got on their mounts - Warren trying to help the gambler on his but was quickly smacked away - and trotted off in the same direction together. Wyatt noticed Doc turned his head to look back. He put a hand to the glass and watched until the two forms disappeared in the distance.


*****


The next day, March 24, the Tucson Star reported about the fugitives that upset Wyatt greatly. It said thus:

'The names of the three who are traveling are Bill Leonard, Jim Crane, and Harry Head. The fourth is at Tombstone and is well known and has been shadowed ever since his return. This party is suspected for the reasons, that on the afternoon of the attack he engaged a horse at about four o'clock, stating he might be gone seven or eight days, or he might return that night. He left at about four o'clock, armed with a Henry rifle and a six-shooter, he started toward Charleston and about a mile below Tombstone cut across to Contention, and when next seen it was ten and eleven o'clock, riding into the livery stable at Tombstone, his horse worn out. He at once called for another horse, which he hitched in the streets. Statements attributed him, if true, look very bad indeed, and which, if proven, are most conclusive as to his guilt either as a principle actor or an accessory before the fact.'

Wyatt threw the paper down. He was seeing red. The accusation was clear; they had found out about Doc and were already crucifying him before all the facts were laid out. The man had an alibi, though admittedly it wasn't foolproof. He had about a two hour gap that was unaccounted for. That wasn't good, especially since Wyatt questioned it as well. Riding with Old Man Fuller at a walk would not take four hours. Two, maybe three if they stopped a few times. Which left an hour or two unclaimed. Just enough for suspicion.

That gap is what Doc is tight-lipped about. Not even Wyatt could get it out of him. But he continued to try as time went on.

Billy Breakenridge - a close friend of Curly Bill Brocius - at one point spread a rumor that when the stage stopped at Watervale late on the afternoon of March 15, 'Doc Holliday was there on horseback and brought out a drink of whiskey and wanted Paul to take it. But Bob refused telling him he never drank while on duty. Then Doc got on his horse and road off while the stagecoach proceeded on its way to Benson.' Breakenridge believed the whiskey to be drugged and Paul lucky he did not take it. There was no basis for this story, not even Paul brought it up. If it did happen but Paul didn't think to mention it, then it wasn't important enough to tell. The drink certainly wouldn't be drugged. That was just prejudiced on Billy's part.

Rumors about Doc spread fast, and they disturbed Wyatt. He wanted to do all he could to clear his friend's name. So by representing Virgil as a federal posseman, and acting as a Wells, Fargo operative in Tombstone (since Marshall Williams was out of town), Wyatt did as much investigating of the case as he could. He had to stop when James P. Hume, the company's chief detective, arrived to act for the company. Reward posters were printed over Bob Paul's name as 'Special Officer of W.F. & Co.,' dated March 23, 1881, offering rewards amounting to thirty-six hundred dollars for Leonard, Head, and Crane. No reference was made for a fourth fugitive, especially not Doc. Hume investigated, and not once did he implicate Doc in anything.

But still the rumors spread.

Hume was convinced Luther King was the key to successful prosecution of the case. Williams also said that King had 'made a full confession to him and Sheriff Behan showing how the matter had been planned, and where the robbers were to camp after its commission.' King never mentioned Doc. If he had, Behan would have unquestionably arrested him as soon as he reached Tombstone. But the rumors continued to pile, going so far as to say there were nine men involved in the robbery. Hume and Williams, at least, were sure of King's story that the robbery was a four man job.

King was now in the care of the new undersheriff, who wasn't Wyatt. Much to his chagrin. He was Harry M. Woods, who was also the editor of the 'Tombstone Nugget', while Behan was on the never-ending chase for the other bandits.

Then, something alarming happened. On the evening of March 28, Luther King escaped by simply walking out the back door of the jail to a waiting horse. It was about 7:30 when Henry Jones, who came to the jailhouse to help King sell his horse to a Mr. Dunbar, was in the middle of talking to King while writing up a bill of sale. As he worked on it, King just quietly stepped out of the cell and through the back door, taking Deputy Campbell's pistol as he went. Jones was asking him questions and turned to him, noticing King was gone. The officers immediately rushed to the back door but alas, he had vanished. Searching was fruitless, and they had to acknowledge that King had escaped. Where he had gone or where to start looking for him, nobody knew.

What made this event particularly egregious was that Hume had that very afternoon warned the officers who were in charge of King to guard him very closely, as there could be an attempt made in the evening to release him from custody. Hume got Wyatt to go with him to the Sheriff's office to notify him and ask a favor of Undersheriff Woods to put King in irons. He promised to do so, and then fifteen minutes later King escaped.

Woods - to save his own tail - quickly concocted a most remarkable and frankly brazen newspaper article for the 'Nugget' that left people in the know speechless and Wyatt and Hume livid. He claimed that an Officer also named Leonard was gone only seconds when King could not be found, adding, 'It was a well planned job by outsiders to get him away. While there should have been more watchfulness on the part of those in charge of him, there had been a guard always watching him day and night. Except for the one unguarded moment when he had help to escape.'

The 'Nugget's' explanation stank to high heaven, along with Woods's negligence, and contempt rained on those who let it happen. Multiple articles complained about the lack of police care for a criminal who they had been warned in advance about escaping.

People were angered because of the seriousness of the crime involved. King had valuable information not just about the murders but on the extensive stock stealing now occuring in Southern Arizona.

Rumor spread that the Cow-Boys had helped him escape only to kill him later for believing he had exposed them.

By then, the pursuit of the other criminals had been abandoned. The posse after them - which included Virgil and Morgan - returned to Tombstone two weeks later, empty-handed. They endured considerable hardships, such as wearing out their horses, going over four days without food, and thirty-six hours without water. Local press praised them for their efforts, but were still disappointed.

Kings escape left unanswered questions and room for rumors to spread. The true friction between Wyatt and Behan started after that. Wyatt took Harry Woods as undersheriff to be a betrayal from Behan, who had promised him the position. He learned of Woods' new job when he returned to Tombstone with Bat, and the escape of King brought suspicions and resentment. To make matters worse, Behan refused to pay Virgil and Morgan for their part in the pursuit of the outlaws. He said it was because he didn't deputize them. Yet everybody but the Earps were paid. They didn't get a cent until Wells, Fargo found out and paid them for their efforts. But from that time forward their troubles were worse.

Behan played his hand, and any excuse he gave to Wyatt about not letting him be undersheriff was moot to Wyatt. Just to add insult to injury, Milt Joyce wasn't just Behan's friend but now a member of the Cochise County Board of Supervisors, nursing a grudge against Doc still, and supporting Behan's every dicision. Joyce was the main promoter of the rumors concerning Doc and the stagecoach attack. He had both motive and means to do it, and he used it to the best of his abilities. The rumors persisted, and there were those in town willing to feed them, either because of their distaste for Doc or because the gossip itself hurt the Earps. Wyatt was unfortunately blindsided by this combination of events.

Wyatt figured something out, and it left a bad taste in his mouth. If he was the real target for the rumors and had the most to lose politically, the man left most vulnerable by the developements was Doc. The blonde had a bull's-eye painted on his chest, and everyone in Tombstone knew it. Unfortunately, he was not a popular man to begin with. His relationship with Leonard was sadly well known, and many people - including ones close to the Earps - were willing to believe the worst.

**Earlier in April, Bat Masterson had gotten an urgent message from his brother back in Dodge City, and had no choice but to leave.**


*****


It was April on a particularly dry, hot day. Which was rare for this eary in the month. Yesterday was cooler, more tolerable and enjoyable. But today the sun was cruel. The heat was raging through Tombstone's streets, settling in like an unwanted blanket burning everything it came in contact with.

The thoroughfare was filled with residents, all wearing lighter fabrics to help them breathe the Arizona heat. They were misrable despite their efforts. It wasn't thanks to the warm weather, although it's effects didn't help. The growing hostility in the people had been building for nearly a month, and it began to show in their actions. They had resentment for certain people in town, and two of them were out amongst them on this hot day, making their way down the road.

Wyatt was walking idly down the street, making his way to the general store for a few goods. His body was sweltering from the heat. He was wearing the breeziest cotton shirt he owned and canvas pants. They didn't help much.

His mind envisioned himself jumping into a cool lake, naked as the day is long. The chilled water embracing every crevice of him, washing through his hair, dropping his body temperature to a comfortable degree. He fantasized about it, letting it take him to a better place.

"Wyatt."

"Huh?" He turned to the sound, his roasted brain slow to pick up it was Doc talking to him.

Doc gave him an irritated look. He had been walking with him to the store, needing to pick up more tobacco. It was one of those days where one couldn't tell the difference between Doc sweating because of the heat or his illness. He didn't seem to be as effected by the hot air as Wyatt was, though. His linen shirt was damp like Wyatt's. But his always was. His skin was pale and unblemished, not marked by the sun. How he did that Wyatt marveled at. It made him appear cadaverous, but that didn't take a lot these days. He had his cane with him, which he tried to hide how much he depended on it. It did not go unnoticed with Wyatt.

"It seems my words have escaped your notice." Muttered Doc.

Wyatt removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. It was damp thanks to his stetson. "I'm sorry, Doc. I was miles away." He lamented, putting it back on.

"I perceived as much."

"Are you mad at me?" Wyatt looked to his companion as they strolled along.

Doc clicked his tongue. "When have I ever been upset with you?"

"I don't think there's enough time in the day to list that answer." He chuckled.

Doc gave him a half smile. "Fine then. You are forgiven."

"Good. Now we can start over. What were you talking about?" Wyatt fanned himself by flapping his shirt with his index and thumb. It did next to nothing.

"Oh, just the ramblings of a dying man. Nothing of interest."

Wyatt nudged him with his elbow. "Come on, Doc. Everything you say is interesting."

"Don't try and flatter me, Wyatt. It doesn't suit you." Doc said.

"I don't give a damn what suits me. It's the truth, and that's all there is to it." Wyatt anwered. He casually looked around, and noticed the occasional glare from passersby. He didn't know which of them it was aimed at, but he could hazard a guess.

"If you say so." Sighed Doc. He didn't seem partcularly interested in the conversation.

Wyatt turned his head back to Doc and saw behind him two people giving them a dirty look as they passed. It wasn't subtle. "What, that's it? No argument from you? Just complacency? Talk about not suiting someone."

Doc shrugged. "I'm not in the mood for a fight."

"What are you in the mood for?"

"Drinking until I forget what year it is."

"Your reasoning wouldn't be brought on by the friendly stares we're getting from the locals, would it?"

"Hardly. I've never cared what others think you me. Just you." He looked to Wyatt at that last part and gave him a heartfelt smile.

"I'm honored." He meant it.

Doc continued, "And yes, to answer your question. I am aware of the attenion I am receiving." He smiled friendly and gave a wave to a woman who had been scowling at him. She turned her head away in a snap like she had been shamed.

"We you mean. I'm getting it too."

"My dearest Wyatt, their ire is not aimed at you. Except by association."

"I think this is where we agree to disagree."

"We will do no such thing."

Wyatt stopped and turned to face him. "I thought you didn't want to argue?"

"I'm not." Doc stopped as well, "I'm stating the truth. You're just too bull-headed to see it." He pulled out his flask from a pocket.

"Now that sounds like the beginnings of a squabble."

Doc gave him a look as he took a swig of whiskey.

"Alright, fine. I'll leave it alone... for now." Wyatt said, hands up in defence. "But I'm telling you, it's--"

A loud crack! followed by Doc's head jerking back interrupted Wyatt. Wyatt saw a rock bounce a ways from where they stood. The gambler dropped his flask, the alcohol spilling onto the sand. His hand flew to his face as he hunched over his cane. Wyatt, startled by what just occured, moved to Doc's side and put as hand to the other's back. "Doc! Are you okay? What happened?"

A low moan came from the ex-dentist. "Let me see," Wyatt said, gently tugging on Doc's hand to get a look at what took place. The hand came freely and Wyatt saw a rush of blood streaming down the right side of Doc's face. Instant rage settled in as the ex-lawman put two and two together.

"Hey! Who threw that!?" He roared at the people moving about. Nobody answered him. A few stood and stared, talking amongst themselves at the now bloodied man. Most went about their business ignoring the scene.

"Impressive aim." Doc's voice was dull. "Didn't know Tombstone also did stonings. The more you learn about a place..." Doc wobbled, his legs suddenly giving out. Wyatt caught him before he fell.

"Come on, I gotcha." Wyatt helped drag Doc out of the street and away from prying eyes to the boardwalk, and rested him up against the wall of the Bucket of Blood Saloon. He helped to straighten Doc up so he could get a better look at the damage. He removed the other's hat. "Let me see it."

Doc tipped his head against the wall. "Did they get my eye?"

"Hang on." He dug his hand in Doc's pockets.

The blonde weakly grabbed at him, "What are you..."

"I'm just trying to find your handkerchief. There it is." Wyatt pulled the cloth out and began wiping Doc's blood-covered eye. As he cleared it, more came down from a spot above. "Looks like they missed it, but barely." He ground his teeth in anger. The thought of someone nearly blinding his friend made his blood boil. If I ever find the cur who threw the rock I'm going to kill them.

He pressed the kerchief to the wound which soon turned red. The blood flow just wouldn't stop. "Christ, Doc. We need to get you to the doctor."

"No, that's not necessary." He responded weakly. "Just take me to my room."

Wyatt shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'll be fine, it's only a scratch." He reached up to hold the cloth to his wound, swatting Wyatt away.

Wyatt wanted to fight him on it, insist that he go see Goodfellow just to be sure. He'd seen other men get hit in the head and they were never the same after. Some never woke up again. But it was futile to reason with Doc once he made up his mind. Sometimes Wyatt could get him to bend, but he had a feeling this was not one of those times. He caved with a huff. "Alright. It's your head."

"Damn right." Doc responded, voice almost slurred. He closed his eyes. "Now would you be so good as to retrieve my flask?"

"Sure Doc." Wyatt watched him for a moment, glared at an older man who was looking at them nervously. "What are you starin' at?" He threatened. The man blanched visibly and turned around, shuffling away. Wyatt then turned back to the street where the flask was lying forgotten. He stepped over and reached to touch it, yanking his hand away fast when the silver container was searing hot to the touch. The sun's rays were so potent the container was roasting in the dirt. He pulled his sleeve over his hand and tried again, this time succeeding in picking it up. He could still feel the heat through the fabric. He looked back over to Doc and watched as the blonde slid to the floor. "Shit!" He rushed over to him.

Wyatt dropped the flask next to them and crouched down. The arm holding the hanky had falling to Doc's side. The injury still bleeding. Wyatt touched the other's cheek which caused Doc to open his eyes. He met Wyatt's. "I apologize, my vision momentarily went dark."

"That's it. I'm taking you to Goodfellow." He stated firm, pocketing the warm flask and hawling Doc to his feet.

"I said no and I meant it." The gambler pushed Wyatt away with the arm holding the bloody cloth. He leaned against the wall, putting the hanky back to his head. "If you keep insisting I go to the doctor's I'll head to my quarters by myself." He started to move, taking a few steps, leaning on his cane with each effort.

Wyatt stepped forward and seized Doc's cane arm. "Fine, you surly son of a bitch," then wrapped his other arm around the thin waist and basically dragged the other back to the Cosmopolitan. Their bodies being so close made the heat more unbearable.

The hotel was only a few blocks away but it seemed so much farther. Onlookers continued to stare but refused to help. Wyatt didn't need them. He could take care of the gambler by himself.

He got Doc to the hotel without another incident. The stairs were a bit of a challenge, Doc having to take them with care. But eventually they reached the door. Wyatt took the key once Doc pulled it out. He unlocked the door, opened it, and was welcomed by a surprise.

The room was filled with wildflowers. Bouquets of various arrangements were in vases, resting in bundles on every flat surface, all over the room. Some even littered the carpet. They perfumed the space with a sweet aroma. All floral, all pleasant. Some were quite fresh, others were dried up and withered. Wyatt stared at them in surprise.

"I never took you as a flowers kind of guy." Said Wyatt as he brought Doc over to the bed.

"I'm not. I detest them."

Wyatt carefully sat the ex-dentist down on the edge of the bed, grabbed Doc's cane and rested it near the door. "Then why...?" He gestured to the plants.

"They're from your brother." Doc squeezed his eyes shut, hunching over. Still holding the bloody kerchief to his cut. It was soaked.

"Of course they are," Wyatt muttered to himself as he went for a whiskey bottle and fresh handkerchief from the table next to the bed. Of course it would be Warren, and of course he would get Doc bouquets of flowers. That irked Wyatt to no end. He put the kerchief over the mouth of the bottle and tipped it over quick. While he did this he asked, "If you don't like them, why do you keep them?"

Wyatt hung up Doc's hat on the back of a chair. He tilted the blonde's head up and pulled his cloth holding hand down from the injury. Doc spoke softly, "They're from an Earp. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not as heartless as they claim I am. I--" Doc flinched when the alcohol touched the tender area. He clenched his teeth, "don't have it in me to rid myself of gifts from an Earp."

The ex-lawman sat next to him, holding the cloth gently to the broken skin. "That's stupid. Just get rid of them if they bother you."

"I never said they bothered me. They're a gift."

Wyatt removed the cloth, throwing it to a table, and brushed Doc's hair away to examine the wound. It was starting to swell and turn purple. "Well, it looks like the bleeding stopped. But you're gonna have one hell of a lump for a while."

Wyatt went to the wash basin and picked up a small towel hanging on it. He poured some water over it to dampen the cloth, squeezed the residue out and made his way back over to the bed. He proceeded to wipe the dried blood off the other's face and neck.

"Mmm." Doc swayed where he sat, eyes still closed, and did nothing to stop the ex-lawman's ministrations.

It was a strange feeling for Wyatt; cleaning off the blood that had nothing to do with Doc's lungs. It was different but not wholly unwelcome. For some part of Wyatt was grateful that if he had to clean up any kind of blood, it was a forehead cut than the usual from the gambler's mouth.

He cleaned it meticulously and thoroughly. Getting into every crevice his life's blood leaked into. He followed the shape of his jaw and down the length of his neck. He ignored the clothes. "If it makes you feel any better," Wyatt brought up after a long pause of silence, "the scar it will most likely leave behind is covered by your eyebrow. Or nearly so."

"Marvelous," chuckled Doc, "my already haggard face now marred even more. Just what I needed to boost my ego."

"Nonsense." Wyatt countered. He finished wiping the remaining blood off and moved to kneel before Doc to remove his boots. "You're just as handsome as you always were. This simply gives you more character." He smiled up at the blonde, who gave him a crooked one in return.

Wyatt held the back of Doc's calf and pulled one boot off. He caught the gambler suck in air and grip the blanket he sat on when he touched him. He watched him as he did the same to the other foot.

Doc met Wyatt's eyes, a strange emotion in them. "I need more character?" He uttered.

"No, I suppose not. But you're getting it regardless. Comes naturally for you."

Wyatt picked up both of the blonde's legs and swung them on the bed. He reached up and held the back of Doc's head, helping him lay down. Doc didn't fight him, the ex-lawman noticed. Doc groaned with his mouth shut and closed his eyes once again. The room was stuffy hot, even though the windows were open and a breeze came through.

"I suppose you wish me to take that as a compliment?" Doc asked.

"I wouldn't mind it."

Wyatt walked back over to the washbasin, threw the dirty towel down and grabbed a fresh one. He wetted this one as well, squeezed it, and made his way over to Doc where he laid the cloth on top of the wound. The other man's hand flew up to touch it and their fingers brushed each other. Wyatt drew his hand back, flexing it. He met the gambler's half-lidded gaze who was watching him with interest.

Wyatt cleared his throat. "Now, keep that there for a spell. It may help with the swelling."

"Yes, doctor."

Wyatt sat down on the edge of the bed and a thought hit him. "Why do you hate flowers?"

"I have my reasons." Doc coughed with mouth closed. Wyatt could see the other straining against the effort to fight it.

He scanned the room. There really were quite a few bundles of flowers. "Just how long has Warren been doing this?" Wyatt grabbed the nearest bunch and grimaced at how dead the plants were.

"Since our first encounter outside the courthouse," Doc hummed.

Wyatt's jaw dropped. "But... that was four months ago!"

"Six, actually." Doc corrected with a finger raised.

Wyatt rubbed his forehead. "Ah hell, Doc. That makes it worse! How did I not notice?"

Doc shrugged one shoulder, "You rarely stop by my place of residency."

"Apparently." Wyatt grumbled. He examined the dried flowers once more, was about to toss them when Doc snapped a hand up and removed them from the other's hold. He laid them down on his stomach and began picking off the dead petals. Wyatt observed him, irritation crawling up his back. "I would have nipped this in the bud sooner if I had known." He uttered under his breath.

"Oh, leave him alone. He's only young once. Besides," Doc smirked, "I find it charming he desires to court me with such endurance and insistence. The man does not take 'no' for an answer."

That's not like Doc pondered Wyatt. Normally if someone pushed him for anything the gambler would spit fire back. This was highly unusual. "You're only tolerating it because he's my baby brother." He quessed.

"Hmm, perhaps." Doc closed his eyes. His accent kicking in thicker, "But you have to admit; there hasn't been another incident concerning him since he started this conquest."

Wyatt frowned. "How did you know he was a problem?"

"Wyatt... You've told me." Doc's voice slurred extra syrupy, "warned me, even."

"Oh right." Wyatt looked at all the plants again and sighed through his nose. His gaze went back to Doc and observed the man relax, his breathing even out. A streak of panic struck him. Wyatt flew to the blonde's face and gently tapped it. "Doc? Wake up. Stay with me. You can't go to sleep with your head all banged up like it is."

Doc grunted. "I was just resting my eyes."

"Sure you were, and I'm the president of the United States."

Doc peeked at him, cracked a grin. "Well. Good day, Mister President."

Wyat huffed. He stared at the various flowers again littering the room. They were starting to bother him. "Doc, you sure you don't want me to get rid of some of these plants? How about we throw out the dead ones at least?"

"I'm sure. Stop fussing over them, they don't concern you." He waved a hand at Wyatt.

"I just think it would be better to get rid of some of them. Maybe all." He got up and started counting them. He got angrier when the number got higher than forty.

Doc cautiously sat up on his elbows, lowering the cloth from his bruising forehead. He stared at the ex-lawman in earnest. "Mr. Earp. Are you jealous?"

"No." Wyatt laughed a little more barky than intended. He put his hands on his hips. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Doc lowered his eyes. "What indeed."

Suddenly, Wyatt felt heated under his shirt. It had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He inched his way to the door. "Well, I still got errands to run and you still need more tobacco. I'll pick it up for you."

As Wyatt passed the bed a hand shot out and gripped his wrist tightly. He turned, Doc's eyes wide and vulnerable. How strange. "Stay with me. Please." Doc whispered.

There was something in those blue eyes that locked Wyatt in place. He wanted to see more of it, but that thought alarmed him.

"Sorry," Wyatt breathed, and he pulled the hand off him and stormed out the door.


*****


Doc was his own worst enemy.

On April 13, 1881, he found himself - again - in Justice A.O. Wallace's court facing charges of 'threat against life'. Apparently, the incident arose from accusations linking him to the Benson robbery attempt and Philpott's murder. The arrest came after yet another altercation between Doc and Milt Joyce. Joyce saw Doc come into the Oriental - why he did Wyatt doesn't know - and remarked, 'Well, here comes the stage robber.' Doc, in turn, explained to Joyce under no uncertain terms what he intended to do to him, but before a situation would arise, Sheriff Behan arrested them both. Joyce then swore out the warrent for 'threats against life' that took Doc back to Wallace's court on April 13.

In May, the charges against Luke Short for the killing of Charlie Storms were dismissed, and Short then departed Tombstone. Rickabaugh was left without a partner or protector, and it was at this time that the partners offered a one-quarter interest in the Oriental game room to Wyatt, much to the chagrin of Joyce.

Doc could still not free himself from the past or his nemesis, Joyce. On May 30, Doc was indicted by the Grand Jury on account of 'participation in a shooting affray some time since.' He was released on bonds thanks to Wyatt. The charges did not derive from the Benson stage robbery attempt, but from his fight with Joyce the previous fall. Though the case had been dismissed in Justice Wallace's court, Joyce had pressed the matter with his friend Sheriff Behan, and with his clout as a county supervisor, he was able to get the indictment.

Curiously, the charge against Doc was listed simply as 'indictment for felony.' The original warrant was sworn out under the case title 'Territory of Arizona v. Doc Holliday.' It's because when he first appeared before Judge H. Stilwell on June 2, he was asked if Doc Holliday was his true name. He replied that his name was 'J.H. Holliday,' and the judge ordered the indictment be amended. On June 3, Doc's attorney, A.G.P. George, asked the court to dismiss the case 'on the ground it was found by a Grand Jury illegally impaneled.' The motion was denied. On June 4, George asked for a 'demurrer to the indictment and a change of venue.' But Stilwell scheduled the trial for June 6.

Doc's health took a dip during these cases, which worried Wyatt to no end. He spent more time being bedridden than working his job at Alhambra. The cough got worse, and his strength weakened. Wyatt was struck with the truth that he was most likely going ot lose him sooner than later. He'd never been so scared of a concept more than that one.

He also spent considerable energy simmering on Behan's betrayal, and made a point to challenge Behan for the office of sheriff in the next election. He also still had a burr under his saddle about the escape of King and the failure to catch Leonard, Head, and Crane, which he saw as a viable issue to use against Behan. Not only that, but he wanted to stop the persistant rumors about Doc's involvement. He came up with a risky plan, one that would haunt him afterwards for some time to come.


*****


Wyatt waited behind the Oriental in the dark. He chewed on the end of his cigar as he leaned against the back of the Saloon, strumming his fingers against his leg. He checked his watch. The son of a bitch was late, which shouldn't surprise him. He briefly pondered if what he was about to do was a good idea, which he knew it wasn't. But as long as no one found out, he should be clear as rain to follow through with it. His heart raced all the same.

Any other doubts that flittered into his mind were pushed away when he saw a dark silhouette approach him. He stood firm, convictions cemented, and waited till the figure was closer to speak to it.

"It's about time you got here. Was starting to think you turned yellow."

Wyatt silently cursed the man for wearing his typical red shirt to a secret meeting. It made him easy to spot and twice as easy to recognize. They had both agreed to do this in secrecy, and the dumb weasel was practically announcing to the world what he was doing and with whom. At least he came alone as agreed upon.

Curly Bill sauntered up, eyes surveying the area nervously. "Hardly. It was difficult to get away from prying eyes. Specially Ringo." He chuckled low. "That man is as alert as a hawk. Wouldn't be surprised if he followed me here."

"You better pray that's not the case." Wyatt's eyes hardened.

Brocius's eyebrows flew up, a smirk spreading wide. "Oh? What are ya gonna do about it if it is the case?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."

Brocius faked a shiver. "How thrilling." He gave a once over to their surroundings, "Now are ya gonna explain to me why we're meeting like this you do I have to buy you a drink first?"

"Don't get cute with me."

"Parish the thought."

Wyatt stood straighter. "You already know what I want; information. And you're gonna give it to me."

Curly Bill eyed him. "Am I now? Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Color me intrigued." Brocius looked behind. He spoke low, "Now, what information do you want?"

"I need you to tell me where Leonard, Head, and Crane are."

Curly Bill turned back, lip curling up, eyes sharp. "Sell my own men out? Are you crazy?" He started to laugh. "It's bad enough I'm meeting a law-dog like you in secret. If they found out they'd have my head." He rested his palms on the butts of his pistols, looking Wyatt up and down. "So why should I do this? What do I get out of this deal? And it better be a good one."

"It's simple. Tell me where they are, I bring them in, you get the reward money." Wyatt pulled his cigar from his mouth.

Brocius studied him, eyes leveled. "How much?"

"Thirty-six hundred."

"Dead or alive?"

Wyatt shrugged. "That I don't know."

"Well you better figure that out fast. Might influence my decision." He smirked.

"I will, don't you worry."

"Oh I will. I'm risking my hide here." Brocius thumbed at his chest.

"So am I."

Curly Bill leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest. He studied the ex-lawman. "Tell me. What do you get out of this?"

"That's my business." Wyatt answered, eyes cold as steel.

Brocius's eyes danced. "Tell me, or no deal."

"What do you care?" Wyatt lowered his stare.

"Call it a, 'spring of curiosity.'" He said, using his hands for emphasis.

Wyatt shook his head. Putting his cigar back in his mouth. "That's not a good enough reason." He inhaled and blew out the smoke in Curly Bill's direction.

"Humor me then." Curly Bill winked at him.

Wyatt sighed. He looked to his right, then his left. He didn't want anyone else to hear his reason. He took the cigar out again, and responded in a hush tone. "Clout to be sheriff. I bring them in, I get the accolades, better shoe-in to be the new lawman of this county."

Brocius raised an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

"That's all you'll hear of it." Wyatt said with finality. There was no way he was going to tell this outlaw about Doc and clearing his name. It wasn't his place to know. Better leave the blonde out of more trouble.

Curly Bill regarded him for a while. His smile showing teeth. "Alright, law-dog," he finally said, "you got yourself a deal." He held out a hand.

Wyatt took it and yanked the man closer to him till they were inches apart. He stared him down. Spoke through gritted teeth. "If you spill this to a single soul, I'll hunt you down. Understand me?"

Curly Bill raised a hand up, eyes intense. "Mum's the word." He whispered.


*****


Brocius lied.

Although he was almost obsessive in his secrecy with Wyatt, Curly Bill spilled the beans right away to, of all people, Virgil Earp. Virgil was less than pleased. He asked Brocius why he didn't go and hunt down the trio himself. Brocius said 'the rest of the gang would think I killed them for the reward and then would kill me.'

Wyatt found out more about the reward, and told Brocius on another visit that Wells, Fargo would take the criminals 'dead or alive'. So that gave the Cow-Boy leader some more room to work.

In all, Wyatt had about four conversations with Curly Bill trying to convince him of his commitment to absolute secrecy. The fifth visit would end up being the last, and it didn't end well. For either man.

Curly Bill had reached out to Wyatt through a letter that he needed to see him. He had urgent news. Wyatt went to their usual rendevous and when he arrived, Brocius was waiting for him. Smoking a quirly. He was staring at the ground, one hand wrapped across his stomach and the other holding the hand-rolled cigarette. A leg was bouncing.

Brocius looked up as Wyatt approached and took a few steps closer to him. He pointed with his quirly, "I have some news for you, and it ain't good." He told the ex-lawman with a grave face.

Wyatt stood before him with his arms crossed. His stomach churned at the thought of bad news. "Well, what is it? Spit it out."

Curly Bill huffed out his nose. "Head and Leonard are dead."

Wyatt's heart plummeted. He swallowed hard. "Shit," he cursed.    

Not William. That's not what he wanted to hear. Of all the people to die, why did it have to be him? He hated the man for what he put Doc through, but death was not the answer. Not because he cared about the well-being of the jeweller, or even that the man had died. But for how the news would effect Doc. The blonde's health had declined considerably in the past few months, and this news would surely harm him further. Doc cared about William. Wyatt didn't understand why. But he gave a damn what happened to Doc and his welfare, and this news would surely be devastating.

"What happened?" Wyatt said low, his voice laced with rage.

Curly Bill puffed on his quirly, blowing the smoke out his nose. "Apparently they were lookin' to gain control of the Haslett ranch by killin' the brothers there on site. The Hasletts somehow found out about this and didn't take too kindly to the news. They hunted my boys' down and shot them near the New Mexico line. From what I heard, Bill begged for death. Guess suffering with two holes in yer belly will do that to a man." He took another drag on his quirly, the smoke drifting off into the wind. "I got there too late and learned about the situation after the fact. You don't have to worry about the Hasletts though. Ike took twenty men, hunted them down and riddled them with bulletts."

"And Crane? What about him?" Wyatt asked eagerly.

Brocius shook his head. "Vanished. If he's smart he'll stay that way." He smothered his finished quirly under his boot.

Wyatt started pacing. "That's great. That's just great. Two of the fugitives bit the dust and the third can't be found. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"You think I like this any better?" Fumed Brocius, still managing to keep his voice down. "If this is what my men do to ones who have killed their own kind, what do you think they'll do if they find out I was plannin' on turning them in for money?!"

 Wyatt glared at him. "I don't give a damn what troubles you're facing."

"Well you better! Because we're both in this up to our necks!" Brocius hissed.

"I'm aware of that!" Wyatt nearly yelled.

This was bad, everything was falling apart. He felt his chances for becoming sheriff and protecting Doc were slipping through his fingers. He was shaking. He walked over to the Oriental, pressed his back against it. "There goes my chance for becoming sheriff." He rubbed his forehead.

Curly Bill watched him. He sighed and leaned back up against the wall. He pulled out another quirly, brought it to his mouth then withdrew a matchbox from a front pocket. He took out a match, struck it against the bricks of the saloon and it fired to life. He lit the end of his quirly, blew out the match and tossed it to the sand. He drew on the smoke a few times then handed it to Wyatt. The ex-lawman hesitated before he took it. Brocius lazily slapped his upper arm. "Cheer up. At least you don't have the risk of dying from your part in this." The outlaw looked up at the stars. "I reckon this will be our last meeting."

"Yep. No point in carrying it further." Wyatt blew out the smoke from his lungs. He handed the quirly back to Brocius.

The two men didn't say anything as they shared the quirly. Both locked in their own thoughts. When the hand-made cigarette was down to its end, Brocius dropped it to the ground and ground it under his boot. He tipped his hat to Wyatt. "See ya on the battlefield," and started to saunter away. He spun around walking backwards, adding, "And don't you dare tell a soul about this, or you won't see the last of me."

"Same to you," Wyatt called out. There was no threat to it, he was too defeated. 

Wyatt stared as Curly Bill disappeared around the side of the building. He rubbed a hand down his face and slid to a crouch. His whole plan had gone to ruin and now he was left with a secret he had no choice but to keep to himself. It could never get out, because not only would his career be in jeopardy but he'd be a target to the Cow-Boys.

Then there was Doc.

He could never find out that Wyatt had intended to bring William in to face justice. It would be a betrayal of trust for them. Especially by the means he had planned to do it. It was for ambition, not caring for Leonard's well-being which he admittedly thought little of. And now...

Well.

Now he had to inform the blonde that his friend was dead. But can't tell him how he found out. This would be tricky.

What the hell was he going to do now?

Chapter Text

It was the afternoon, and Wyatt was standing at the foot of the stairs inside the Cosmopolitan Hotel, one boot on the first step. He had been there for some time, unable to get himself to climb the rest of the stairs to the top. When other people passed him by they either ignored his presence or gave him quizzical looks as they ascended. No one bothered to inquire if he needed assistance, which he didn't. At least, not the kind they could help him with.

Informing Doc that Leonard was part of the attempted stagecoach robbery was one thing-- especially at the enlightening news that the gambler already knew about it. But to tell him that the jeweller was dead... well.

That was something he didn't want to do. Was struggling to do. But Doc deserved to know, so he didn't have a choice.

His mind was filled with various thoughts of Doc: his failing health, his apathetic view on everything, and how he would react to the news of his good friend, William. None of these things were a sound combination to each other.

Doc's constitution had crumbled drastically in the past months. So much that Wyatt would have to be blind not to see the change in him. He knew the court cases had drained him considerably, and with that, Doc's outlook on life. He had stopped caring about many things, one of which was his appearance in front of others. It had slipped in quality and effort, where there were even some days he'd show up to a barroom with what appeared to be his undershirt and disheveled hair. When Wyatt saw that for the first time, he knew the inevitable was coming.

Wyatt sighed heavily as he looked up at Doc's door. He  climbed the stairs with effort as if he had a great weight on his shoulders. His hand slid up the rail feeling its overly smooth surface, hanging onto it for strength till he reached Doc's room. He stood there for a time being idle, then finally knocked on the door. As he waited for Doc to answer he steeled his nerves. Sucking in a breath and doing his best to calm his rapidly beating heart.

It felt like an eternity for Doc to finally answer the door, and when he did, Wyatt was greeted with a sight that was less than comforting. Doc was gaunt, with sickly pale skin that was so translucent Wyatt could see his veins clear as day. He had tired eyes that spoke of days without sleep. A sheen of sweat covered his body and soaked into his shirt. When they landed on Wyatt, a small spark of fire lit up in the pupils. It made butterflies in the ex-lawman's stomach. Doc was dressed in his trousers and undershirt and he was holding a book in his hand, one finger trapped inside.

"Well, hello Wyatt," his voice was gruff from unuse, "what brings you to my humble abode?"

"Doc," Wyatt took his hat off. "Can I come in first?" His voice a bit higher from the strain of what he was about to do.

Doc stepped to the side and gestured for Wyatt to come in. He did and the blonde shut the door behind him. Wyatt turned back to the other man as Doc was moving to sit back down on his bed. Wyatt observed t<span;>he flowers in the room had increased in quantity since he was last there. "I see Warren's been at it again," Wyatt mumbled, scanning the room with an irritated eye.

"He never stopped." Doc motioned for Wyatt to take a seat on one of the chairs. Wyatt moved past them to sit on the bed next to Doc instead. The gambler's eyebrows shot up in surprise, looking the other man up and down out of curiosity.

"I'll just cut right to the chase. I came here because I need to tell you something," Wyatt started, playing with his hat.

At those words, Wyatt noticed Doc's demeanor changed. The ex-dentist's breath hitched in his throat, pupils dilated, his mouth opened slightly. He stared intently at Wyatt as his hands curled at the fabric of the blanket. His back stiffened. There was anticipation and a rare vulnerability in those eyes that made Wyatt's head spin in interest and confusion, like he was trying to decipher an intricate code he knew held the key to everything, but whose meaning remained just out of reach.

He felt like he was missing something. Something important. For there was no way this reaction had anything to do with the news he had.

"What is it?" Doc's voice was barely above a whisper.

Wyatt huffed looking in those expressive blue eyes and his heart sank. There was hope there for reasons unknown to him, and he was about to break it. "William Leonard is dead."

Doc's face fell. He seemed stunned, his eyes a whirlwind of emotions, which Wyatt didn't know why, but had a sneaking suspicion it had nothing to do with Leonard's demise. Wyatt studied the gambler's face, noticing as Doc's head turned away their was a flicker of pain in the depths of his eyes. He breathed a laugh. "I thought, you were going to..." he trailed off, voice soft and delicate.

Wyatt frowned, "Going to what?"

"Nothing," he closed his eyes briefly. Wyatt felt a pang to his very core. Somehow, he made a mistake. He reached to lay a hand on Doc's shoulder for comfort, but second guessed it.

"How did he die?" Doc asked, still facing forward.

Wyatt cleared his throat, "He and Harry Head were shot by Ike and Bill Haslett near the Mexican boarder. Allegedly, they had planned to kill the Haslett brothers and take over their ranch for a hideout, and somehow word got out to the brothers of what they planned. Both Leonard and Head didn't survive."

He bit his tongue on telling Doc about the part where William begged for death. It wasn't the time.

Doc nodded, his leg bouncing. His book lay discarded next to him while his hands were folded into each other. "And Crane?" Doc asked, voice flat.

"Gone. No one knows where he went. My money is on him heading to the border."

Doc was silent for a while. He took a deep inhale and released it through his nose, then turned his attention back to Wyatt. "Alright. I'll tell you everything you want to know about the attempted stage robbery."

Wyatt studied his face, a silent understanding sinking in. "Alright," he said low and gentle, "How about we start at the beginning?"

Doc gave a quick nod, eyes wandering to something behind Wyatt. "Everything I conveyed to you before was the truth," he started. "Though I intentionally omitted certain aspects. Things that I couldn't repeat... until now." He looks to the ex-lawman, "I wanted to tell you, but..." Pain flickered in his eyes, then he turned away once again. Doc looked down at his hands. "Anyway. I don't recall the specific time I left that day, but I'm sure it was in the afternoon. I acquired a horse from Dunbar's stable and made my way to the poker game in Charleston. That you already know." He paused. Wyatt watched him carefully, waiting for him to continue.

His voice was quiet when he spoke next. "What I never divulged was, I went to stop at the Wells first to see Bill, since it was on the way. I thought nothing of it, believing it was just another visit. When I arrived there I tied my steed off and leisurely made my way inside. I didn't knock-- didn't need to as I had done that many a time before." Doc's leg bounce increased. "Bill wasn't in the main room, so I decided to make myself comfortable until he arrived."

Doc looked at something on the wall and his eyes never wavered from it. Wyatt knew Doc wasn't staring at it, but had slipped into the past. The gambler flinched. "Then I heard the voices. It was coming from one of the rooms. The door wasn't fully shut. I didn't want to intrude, but I fancied it would be best to alert whoever was in there that I was in the other room, or the very least shut their door for privacy sake. I walked up to the room and that's when I heard it--"

Doc's hands reached for his book and started fumbling with it. "Bill and the others discussing about holding up the Kinnear and Company stagecoach. Wyatt I heard everything, everything. All their plans concerning it. What they were going to wear, who would do what, and how much they planned on stealing. Eighty-thousand dollars. I heard it all. I didn't know what to do or how long I stood there till it occured to me that this was something I was not supposed to be privy to. I turned to leave as quietly as I could, but fuck my luck, if I didn't step on the loudest floorboard in existence."

Doc absently fanned through the pages of the book over and over again with his thumb. "The room instantly silenced, and quick as a whip they poured out of the room to see who had intruded. Needless to say they were furious when they laid eyes on me. Harry wanted to know how long ago I arrived, then asked me how much I heard-- not if I heard anything in the first place. I lied and told them I didn't hear a thing. They naturally didn't believe me. Then, all of them except Bill advanced toward me at the same time. They cornered me and tried to threaten violence if I ever told another soul."

The corner of Doc's lip twitched. "Well, naturally I didn't take kindly to their blundering threats and gave it right back at them. I was outnumbered, but that hardly deterred me. In fact, it spurred me on. I stood my ground, growing more indignant with each intimidation they attempted. In time they came to their senses when they noticed their threats had no effect, and instead changed tactics.

"Jim, Harry, and Luther tried to persuade me to join them, to indulge in their wills and riches, promising me a portion of the money. I told them under no uncertain terms where they could stick it, but they refused to take 'no' for an answer."

Wyatt's teeth ground into each other at the thought of someone - let alone three of them - daring to threaten brutality to Doc. Particularly that he was alone and outnumbered. If he had known, he would have broken King's nose or worse the moment he ran into him on the Redfield's ranch. He regrets not doing it now.

Doc continued, blind to Wyatt's simmering rage. "All the while Bill stood quietly to the side, watching what his companions were doing. He never tried to pressure me, but he also never interfered to stop them." Doc's voice got softer, more offended. "I would look to him, but he intentionally avoided my gaze. I was left to defend myself, alone. Which is nothing new to me."

Wyatt balled his hands into tight fists around the rim of his stetson till his nails dug deep into the felt. His hatred for William went up another notch. That mudsill of a man was lucky he was already dead for what Wyatt wanted to do to him if he ever got his hands on him. Which was unfortunately too late now.

"After a while of failed convincing," Doc proceeded with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, "Luther, Harry, and Jim went back to promising to jeopardize my existence. It dawned on me at that point that I was not going to leave that house alive. When it began to escalate with increasingly raised voices, them slowly pushing me into the corner further and my hand readied on Hell Bitch, Bill finally moved to extradite me from the situation. He reached in and yanked me away from them, hurrying me to the front door while telling me to forget everything I overheard. Saying it was nothing but talk." Doc snorted, shaking his head at the memory.

"He pushed me out the door and told me to go about my business." Doc paused, thoughtful. He was chewing on his bottom lip when he finally added, "The last thing he ever said to me was, 'run'."

The word hung in the air between Wyatt and Doc like a heavy cloak. Wyatt let the implication of it sink in. No matter what he thought of the man - and he deeply loathed him - Leonard did still try to protect Doc in the end. Wyatt's hands played with his hat in front of him, trying to fix the dent he made earlier.

Doc looked back down at his hands holding the book. "I left before you could say Jack Robinson, with the other three watching me closely through the window. I then went to Charleston and naturally was late to the game. But all the while, I couldn't help myself and thought about the stagecoach. So although I did meet up with Old Man Fuller, I also made an effort to find the stage. I presume I wanted to convince myself if there was any truth to what they allegedly planned.

"To my utter dismay, I ran into it in Watervale. It was a stab to my soul knowing it was true." Doc rubbed his temple, his shoulder's slumped. "Knowing everything I heard was factual. I was disgusted, but held my tongue.

"However, because I made an effort to find the stage, I had to have a reason to be there, to give myself an alibi. Knowing full well what was coming, and due to my relationship with Bill, my hands were tied to say anything. Therefore I trotted my mount up to the side of the stage and offered Bob Paul a sip of whiskey. Billy Breakenridge was right; I did, in fact, do that." Doc hit a fist to his knee, "But I'll swear on my mother's memory that it wasn't drugged. I'd never waste good whiskey like that."

Wyatt suppressed a smile at that last statement. No thought for the wellfare of Paul, but concern for the destruction of one of his favorite vices. How very like him.

"When he turned me down, I went back to Old Man Fuller and the two of us made it back to Tombstone."

Doc turned back to Wyatt with a desperate expression, "Wyatt, I swear to you, if I had known Bat was in that stage I would have said something sooner."

"I know you would, Doc." Wyatt tried to reassure him, but a crestfallen look clouded the blonde's features anyway. He looked down at the edge of Wyatt's tucked in shirt. "However, I never uttered a syllable concerning it. For Bill's sake. I never knew he was capable..." Doc's voice faded away. He closed his eyes. "I was so disillusioned by him."

Doc opened his eyes and met Wyatt's gaze. "Now you know everything. I'm sorry I kept it from you," his voice was barely above a whisper.

Wyatt nodded. Letting the new knowledge sink in. "I get it, Doc. Loyalty means a lot to you. I just thought that you trusted me enough to tell me sooner." Wyatt sighed.

Doc reached out a hand and placed it over Wyatt's. "But I do trust you, Wyatt. I trust you with my life."

"Do you?" He eyed the other, not really in doubt but still hurt that Doc never told him the complete truth.

Doc searched the ex-lawman's face. "Don't you know?"

"What?"

Doc leaned in close and tightened his grip on Wyatt's hand. He whispered, voice barely audible, "I'd do anything for you, Wyatt. I'd lay waste to a town for you. Anything you ask of me is at your disposal. You have all of me."

A shiver ran down Wyatt's spine. The rawness of Doc's confession was overwhelming. He knew Doc meant every word. A warmth spread through him, reaching deep to his core, and his pulse quickened the longer he stared into those soft blue eyes. The intensity shining from them was drawing him in like a siren's song. He didn't know what was happening, but frankly, he didn't care.

Doc's hand on his felt like fire, sending a tingling sensation up his arm and causing his blood to rush to unexpected places. Unable to stop himself, Wyatt brushed his thumb over one of Doc's fingers. His gaze remained fixed on the blonde’s face, and he noticed how Doc's breath hitched in his throat at the touch. This exhilaration was unlike anything he had ever felt before—or at least not in a long time. His heart burned with a feeling he had long denied and suppressed.

Doc's face was close to his now. He could feel the other's breath on his skin. The gambler's eyes flicked to Wyatt's mouth. He licked his bottom lip. Wyatt followed that tongue and swallowed, noticing for the first time just how pretty Doc's mouth was. How his small, neatly trimmed mustache and pointed goatee framed the shapely lips perfectly. He briefly wondered what it would taste like...

Doc's eyes snapped wide. He tore his head away, flying a hand up to his mouth and bent over as the most aggressive coughing took hold of his trembling form. Wyatt blinked away the intrusive thoughts that had taken over his mind. He took several deep, subtle breaths to calm his excited body. Without thinking, he brought up a comforting hand to rub at Doc's back. Wanting to do all he could to soothe the other from his affliction. As he sat there, he saw Doc retching with his hand over his mouth as his other hand searched desperately for his handkerchief on his person. But he wasn't fast enough, and suddenly his hand over his mouth became overwhelmed when after one huge, wet cough, a cascade of purple flowers overfload his hand and fell to the carpet.

Wyatt shot up and stepped back in shock and repulsion, his hat falling to the floor, "What in the hell?!"

But more flowers came out with each horrid cough the blonde discharged. Some of them were bloody clumps and others were too large to be normal for that plant. Doc removed his hand for a moment and a bundle of them rained from his mouth, his eyes watering.

When he'd finished minutes later he remained hunched over, gasping for breath as spittle mixed with blood dribbled out of his mouth. Taking big gulpfulls of precious air that had been denied him during his episode. Wyatt was horrified by what he'd seen, eyes wide with disbelief and something akin to betrayal. He himself started panting, his fists clenched.

When Doc's coughing came to a wheeze, he wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve and looked up at Wyatt with terrified eyes. He stood slowly on shaky legs. He held a hand up to the ex-lawman. "Wyatt, calm down."

"Calm down?" Wyatt fumed, "Calm down? I just caught you puking up Wood Sorrels and you want me to calm down?!"

"Just let me explain--"

"Damn right you better explain!" Wyatt roared, his voice getting more emotional as he spoke. "Since when did consumption cause someone to regurgitate flowers?!" He pointed at the pile of them for emphasis.

Doc sighed, defeat written all over him. "It's not consumption."

"Well, I can see that!" Wyatt was shaking, his fists clenching till they showed white knuckles. "What is it, then? And don't you lie." He threatened low.

"It's Hanahaki disease."

Wyatt blinked with a frown, the name ringing a bell but not sure if he heard it correctly. "Hana what?"

"Hanahaki." Doc's voice was filled with a sadness that reached his eyes.

Wyatt's mind raced with whispers of that name that he had heard in passing conversations and murmured in dark corners. He knew of its myserious existence but thought it was an old wive's tale.

"I've heard of that," his spoke with a shocking calm that not only was a switch to what he was acting like moments ago but belied his current feelings, "doesn't it have something to do with a spurned lover?"

Doc flinched, his outstretched hand curling back to play with the collar of his undershirt. "Not exactly."

Wyatt's fists remained clenched at his sides. His jaw tightened. "I thought it was a myth."

"Well, as plainly displayed, I can assure you it's quite real."

"So it is."

Doc furrowed his brow, "Why are you so upset?"

"Because you lied to me!" Wyatt's fist flew out and hit the wall, the bang thundering in the room. "You told me it was consumption! And I was inclined to believe you!"

Doc's eyes hardened, "I never said it was consumption. Not once. You did. Because of the inconceivable alternative, I played along."

"But you should've still told me the truth! I thought all this time your were dying on me! Christ!" Wyatt's anger was boiling inside him, but so was a pain in his chest he could only describe as treachery. He ran a hand down his face and through his hair, trying and failing to calm himself. He narrowed his eyes at doc, "Is this disease fatal as well or is that all a lie too?" he said with a dangerously low tone.

Doc straightened, his gaze bubbling with growing vexation. "It is, indeed."

"Color me surprised," Wyatt ground out. "Tell me, how long have you had this, 'disease'?"

Doc's jaw clenched and his gaze turned icey, his voice was cold, "That's none of your business."

"I'm making it my business." Wyatt threw right back. The lying hurt him more than he could comprehend. It struck him deep down to his core and shook his very soul. He honestly didn't know why he was so upset by the news, it didn't change anything. Doc was still dying and his hands were still tied to save him.

However, looking into Doc's fierce eyes made him question if this particular disease was any different from consumption, and if it was, did a cure exist? "Tell me," Wyatt said with a steady determination, "how alike is this with consumption?"

Doc wrinkled his brow, seeming confused. "What exactly are you asking?"

"I want to know if there's a cure."

Those words changed Doc's demeanor drastically. He paled, shifting on his feet. Eyes holding a primal fear in them. He radiated apprehension that Wyatt could feel seeping into his bones. Wyatt watched him swallow thickly. "There is one," Doc's voice was gruff.

"What is it, and how come you haven't done anything about it yet?" Wyatt demanded. "If there's a cure, you should have sought it out by now!"

"I can't," Doc confessed after a pause, then a small cough started. His voice was soft and filled with a pain. It struck a chord in Wyatt that rang through his body. His anger started to dissipate.

"Why not?" Wyatt asked, genuinely desperate for an answer.

Doc started to tremble though Wyatt could see he was fighting it. The coughing escalated. "Because..."

The cough grew rapidly to something more fierce. It racked his frail frame, causing the blonde to bend over. Doc dry heaved over and over again, but no flowers came out this time. He was gagging on something that was caught in his throat. His eyes started to grow bloodshot and water. Wyatt's first instinct was to run to Doc's side and try to comfort him, but he was rooted to the spot when he saw a woody tendril slither its way passed Doc's lips. Wyatt stood in horror as the gambler grasped the invading strand and pulled. Leaves were attached as it started coming out of his throat, long and thin the more Doc tugged on it with both his hands. His gagging increased, his eyes wide and following it with what he was doing. Blood poured over his bottom lip and down his chin as well as covering the vine as he continued to draw it out. It seemed endless, the long woody thing pooling on the floor until the pulling stopped and Doc winced as it appeared to be stuck. He retched as he tugged on it but it refused to budge. With one, final Rip! of a yank, Wyatt saw Doc's throat bulge as a tangle of crimson roots exited his mouth. A spurt of blood followed.

"What the hell...?" Wyatt breathed.

Doc swayed where he stood, his eyes unfocused. He stared at the vine and roots in his hand with a curious stare as red droplets dripped to the floor. "Well, that's certainly unprecedented," he croaked out. Then suddenly, Doc's eyes rolled back, his head lolled and his knees buckled. He crumbled to the floor like a lost discarded doll. The vine falling out of his open grip.

"Doc!" Wyatt shouted as he rushed to Doc's side and kneeled beside him. He turned Doc towards him and touched his face. The blonde's eyes were closed, his body covered in a new sheen of sweat. His skin was heated but Wyatt didn't pay it any attention. He was too focused on making sure Doc was still breathing. He layed Doc out flat and splayed a hand to the man's chest, trying to find a heartbeat. He lowered his ear onto the other's chest and listened, gaze falling onto the bloody vine. He cursed when he couldn't hear anything. He got up and moved to Doc's wardrobe, throwing the doors open and searched intently through Doc's toiletries for a mirror. He found a small one, and brought it back to place under Doc's nose. He waited for the mirror to fog - if it would at all - which it did ever so slightly in gentle puffs. Wyatt, washed in a wave of relief, scooped the blonde into his arms and carried him over to the bed. He layed him down carefully like Doc was the most treasured thing in the world, and sat on the edge of the bed next to him. His hands rested on the gambler's bloodied chest, every once in a while brushing his fingers through his dark blonde hair.

Wyatt didn't know what to do now. That last fit was so extreme he could see it took a toll on the other. His pallid appearance seemed almost cadaverous, his thin frame becoming more skeletal with each frail breath he took.

Wyatt's gaze fell again on the long, thin, leafy vine. With a growl he stood and picked up the offending greenery, coiling it in his hands, and started snapping it to pieces. He wanted to destroy that which hurt his friend. Once there was nothing left to rip, Wyatt threw the remains off the balcony. He wiped off his hands on his dark vest that were stained in the gambler's blood, and sat back down on the bed next to the ex-dentist.

Wyatt kept bringing the mirror up to reassure himself the blonde was still alive. He also went and got a wet cloth and did his best to wipe off the blood from his neck, chin and lips. His facial hair was a little trickier and a smidge of it remained when he finished. 

There was no way he was going to leave Doc alone for the rest of the day and night, but he had to get the doctor, Goodfellow, to check on him. "I promise to come back," he vowed, touching Doc's hand and giving it a tender squeeze. Then he stood, picking up his hat from the floor and putting it back on and exited the room to collect the doctor.

He fled down the stairs and out into the sunlight, unhitching his steed and swinging his leg over while commanding the horse to move. He rode at a gallop to where Goodfellow was stationed, which thankfully wasn't far. He dismounted as the horse was still moving and with swift hands he wrapped the reigns to the post and jogged to the door. He banged the door open which startled the doctor with its ferocity, causing the poor older man to jump in his seat.

"I need you, it's Doc." He implored. Eyes begging for the doctor to follow.

Goodfellow relaxed. He nodded an understanding to Wyatt, and gathered his medical bag. "Lead the way," he said with resolve.

Wyatt helped Goodfellow get behind him on his horse and then made his way to the Cosmopolitan. As they moved, Goodfellow asked, "How much has it progressed? I've only seen him a handful of times since he's been here."

"It's bad, doctor. Boy you don't know how bad." Wyatt mumbled the last part to himself.

They dismounted, Wyatt tied the reigns, and they rushed inside. For being an older man, Goodfellow was surprisingly agile. He took the stairs at a quickened pace. Wyatt assumed it was because of his nessecity to be somewhere at a moment's notice. Hurrying to a patient was as normal to the doctor as breathing.

Wyatt held the door open for Goodfellow and followed behind him inside, shutting it closed. Doc hadn't moved from where he lay. Goodfellow took his appearence in, shaking his head. "My God, why didn't anyone call me sooner?"

The doctor took a seat on the edge of the bed and began to work. Wyatt watched him pull out his stethoscope and hooked it into his ears. Wyatt stood by the door not wanting to be in the way. "It's Hanahaki," Wyatt added though the doctor never asked.

He was anwered with a hard stare from Goodfellow. "I know." He glanced down at the bloodied flowers by his feet. He sighed. "Stubborn man should have come to me sooner."

Wyatt was floored, "Wait. You knew he had Hanahaki?"

Goodfellow raised an eyebrow at him like he had just asked the most idiodic question. "Of course I did. I'm a doctor afterall. I've seen my fair share of this disease take many a life, and when I first set eyes on Mr. Holliday here I had my suspicions, until I saw him playing with a Wood Sorrel on the balcony up here some months back. Then I knew for certain." As he spoke he lifted Doc's red stained shirt, the man's ribs visible beneath the skin. He frowned at what he saw. "I knew that haunted, familiar look anywhere. Tragic, really. Several unfortunates have had the same disease as him when it could all be so easily avoided." He puffed hot breath on the end of his stethoscope and proceeded to listen to his heart.

Wyatt held his breath as his gaze rarely left the blonde's. Doc's eyes remained closed and he didn't so much as twitch while the doctor moved the chest piece to different points on Doc's chest. His face grew grave, the frown ever deepening as he listened. The room was still as Goodfellow went about his routine. The only sounds were the outside noise of denizens chatter and carriages creaking. Normal life.

He withdrew the stethoscope, wrapped it around the back of his neck and pulled Doc's shirt back down with careful hands. He then leaned over Doc as he lifted each eyelid and felt his forehead. "He has a fever," the doctor muttered out loud. He picked up the gambler's wrist and rested his fingers over the pulse point, pulling out his pocket watch to count the pulse's rate, rhythm, and strength. His face stiffened as he listened. He let out a hum as he put his watch away and laid the wrist back down gently. He focused on Doc's face.

The silence was killing Wyatt, and with his heartbeat in his throat, he couldn't take the suspence of it anymore. "Well?" His voice was strained.

Goodfellow shook his head and studied the blonde's face. "It's progressed significantly since I last saw him. I'm afraid if he doesn't get it cured soon, he won't live to see the end of July."

Wyatt felt his vision suddenly blur as his heart plummeted and his blood ran cold. "But, July is over a week away. You're telling me he only has a month left?"

"Hard to say. Could be sooner. Could be a few days. But I feel no longer then the end of next month," Goodfellow said solemnly as he put his effects away. "His body is shutting down. It's a miracle he's made it this long. His will must be what's keeping him here. I knew he was stubborn, but I didn't realize to what extent. Who knows? Maybe he'll surprise us all and live past my prediction. But I have my doubts." The doctor dug in his bag for a tincture and handed it to Wyatt. "For his pain."

The bottle had 'Laudanum' written on it. Wyatt physically winced. He didn't want to be around anymore laudanum if he could help it. "How often do I give it to him?"

Goodfellow picked up his bag and nodded at Doc. "He knows. Now, someone should be at his bedside till his fever breaks--"

"I will," Wyatt cut in faster than he meant to, his gaze determined. "You can count on it."

The doctor's features softened, "Yes of course." His eyes drifted back to the gambler on the bed. He sighed again, "I wish I could be of more help. Unfortunately, there's little I can do for him. It's up to fate now." He turned his attention back to Wyatt and the bottle, "Try and make him comfortable. I'll be back to check on him tomorrow, though I'm sure he won't appreciate it."

"Thanks doctor." Wyatt watched him leave. Then something dawned on him and he chased after the doctor. "One more thing!" He shouted, which caused Goodfellow to turn around on the stairs. "You mentioned something about it being cured."

"I did."

"Did..." Wyatt was afraid to ask, scared of the answer he would get. His voice was quiet, "Did you really mean that? Like a real cure?"

Goodfellow's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, most assuredly."

"Do you know what it is?" Wyatt asked in earnest, blue eyes sparkling in the sconce light of the hallway.

"Of course."

The ex-lawman stared at him, bewilderment settling in. He raised an arm for emphasis, "Then, why don't you just cure him and be done with it? If it saves him, isn't he worth that?"

The doctor raised a hand to stop the other man. "It's out of my hands, Mr. Earp. I cannot be the one to cure him of this ailment."

"If not you, than who? With what?" Wyatt's voice was barely above a whisper.

Goodfellow gave Wyatt a knowing look, which spoke of a knowledge beyond the ex-lawman. "Why don't you ask him that?"

With that, Goodfellow finished his descent down the stairs and made his way out into the street. But, he won't tell me thought Wyatt as he stood at the top step for a while, watching the good doctor's retreating form. With heavy feet he made his way back to Doc's room. He stood in the doorway and just stared at the sleeping form, his chest tightening at the news he'd learned. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, picked up one of the chairs and settled it next to the bed. He slumped in it, removed his hat to rest on the bed and put his head in his hands.

"Why won't anyone tell me the cure?" he mourned to himself. He stabbed his knuckles into his eyes to try and will himself not to give in to despair. He lifted his head to Doc's serene face, unshed tears in his eyes. "To the end of July... give or take." Wyatt repeated to no one.

It was just unfathomable at the idea that Wyatt was about to lose Doc, forever. That his time had practically run out. He knew the day was coming but it was different when he pretended everything was fine and he didn't know the time limit. All the signs were there, too, that Doc had declined drastically in the past month. But no matter how it had glared in his face a part of him still denied it was a thing. Now, there was no time left. This, 'disease' was killing him, and he didn't know the damn remedy to make it better. To heal him. To save him from this fate that was chugging at him faster than a train. Wyatt felt so utterly helpless.

The ex-lawman stood up and while trying not to wake him, he pulled the blankets back and covered them over Doc's body, even though it had been a sultry day outside. The night was fast approaching, and with it chilled air. With Doc's fevered skin he was going to be damned to let his friend get any worse than he already was. Wyatt placed a hand on Doc's forehead then on his exposed arms. He sighed out his nose. He was so hot to the touch that it was a miracle the man wasn't moaning in his sleep. Wyatt fell back into the chair and stood guard over Doc till sleep finally claimed himself well into the night.

He had horrid dreams. Nightmares about Doc dying in his arms and him being too helpless to save him. The cure was before him, dangling like a lifeline. He tried grabbing it but it always managed to slip away from him. Forever out of reach. A maniacal laugh echoed in his head from his failure, taunting him on how 'he couldn't save him'. He woke with a start in the early morning light and had to get his bearings as to where he was. He reached out and placed a hand on Doc's chest, feeling the rise and fall of it. He sighed in relief, knowing Doc was still with him. Not for long, but at least for now. He touched his forehead and was pleased to feel the fever was less intense.

When the dawn's early light started to fill the room, Wyatt was shaken from his thoughts when he noticed something peculiar about Doc. He frowned, and stood up to sit on the bed's edge and leaned in close to the gambler's face. He thought perhaps it was a trick of the light, but as the sun rose the evidence was clear as crystal:

On Doc's left side of his parted bangs, a streak of white had marred the dark blonde locks.

Wyatt frowned at it, reaching up to feel it with his fingers. "What in the blazes...?" He said low and with a hint of curiosity. It was such a stark contrast to his usual color and hue that it would be hard not to notice it there. His jaw clenched. He wasn't sure how he was going to tell the blonde about it when he eventually awoken, but he had a sinking feeling that Doc wasn't going to care so much anymore.


*****


That same day, June 28, Virgil Earp was permanently sworn in as marshal when it appeared Sippy was not coming back from his trip. That was the only good thing that happened in the coming week. The rest was a storm Wyatt was not prepared for.

On July 5, Behan arrested Doc on the charge of attempting to rob the stagecoach and for the murder of Bud Philpott. He was too weak to go to jail, but Behan didn't care about Doc's health, in fact he seemed to revel in Doc's frailty.

Virgil had come to Wyatt's house and told him the devastating news. "Doc's been arrested," Virgil told him with steely eyes.

Wyatt thought he had been punched in the gut. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. "What? Why? On what grounds did they have to do that?" Wyatt demanded.

"For the attempted robbery of the U.S. Mail and the murder of Philpott." Virgil stated. He put his hands on his hips as he stood by the door, watching as his brother's fury started to rise.

"How?" Wyatt narrowed his gaze. "He was never connected to the crimes before, what changed now?"

Virgil shook his head, "You're never going to believe this."

"Try me. I need to know, Virg."

Wyatt could sense Virgil's temper burn like a short fuse. He didn't blink as he stared at Wyatt. "It was Warren. He got Doc arrested."

Wyatt's mind reeled. He blinked at his older brother in dismay, not wanting to believe his own family would hurt Doc. It was unfathomable. Especially how crazy Warren is about Doc. It didn't make any sense. "Warren? How could War get Doc arrested?"

Virgil pulled out a cigar. He bit off the end and spat it out. "Apparently, he signed an affidavit accusing Doc of the robbery and murders of Philpott and Roerig."

"What affidavit?" Wyatt's voice was rising, his anger evident "How could he, when he wasn't even with Doc that day?!"

"He claims he was," Virgil rumbled, grabbing a box of matches from a table by the couch. He lit it as he spoke, "before and after the crime. He says Doc acted suspiciously afterward and wanted Warren to hide a six-shooter he had. Said Doc was adamant in 'gettin' rid of the evidence', including a wig he wore." He tossed the burnt match into an ashtray.

Wyatt's mind was swirling with too many thoughts, too many feelings of how this went horribly wrong. "We need to talk to War. Have to get him to change his story, get him to say Doc is innocent." A determined resolve settled in him. His fists clenched. "But first we have to bail Doc out, get him home safely."

"I agree with you on the first part, the second part may not be so easy." Virgil told him, blowing out a breath of smoke.

Wyatt frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Justice Spicer has set Doc's bail to five-thousand dollars."

"Five-thousand?!" Wyatt felt like someone had slapped him across the face.

Virgil nodded his head in understanding. "Figure he and Behan really want to hang onto him, make sure he doesn't get out."

That stirred Wyatt's fury. The thought of Doc in his current state having to spend any kind of time in jail made his blood boil. "I'm not letting him spend the night there. I'll get him out from that cell, whatever it takes."

"Legally, you mean?" Virgil questioned with a brow raised.

That's not what he meant. But Virgil's badge stuck out against his black vest, catching Wyatt's eye. He knew his older brother would not hesitate to arrest him if he broke a law. He'd done it before. Wyatt forced himself to calm down and spoke clearly, "With your help, it will be."

Virgil studied him with calculating eyes. He eventually nodded when it seemed he understood what the ex-lawman was saying. "I'll get Morg and Jim to pitch in. We should have the money by tomorrow." He sighed, putting his cigar back in his mouth. "But that won't matter none, as on account the sheriff and his deputy are out of town and one of them has to be the one to release him."

Wyatt groaned, sitting down in a chair. An oppressive presence bearing down on him. "Of course they would be gone," he mumbled to himself, running a hand threw his hair. He hated Behan for what he'd done to him, and this wasn't helping his feelings change. "Do you know when the bastards will be back?"

"No. Well, not Behan. He'll be back whenever he gets back. Woods returns I believe late tonight but won't be so inclined to offer bonds by that time."

Wyatt huffed in defeat, knowing his hands were tied to get Doc out of his cell any sooner. The despair that fell upon him at the thought that Doc's health taking a turn for the worse suffocated him. The gambler was running out of time, and this would only aggravate it. "Well, I'll at least help you collect the money," he said, defeated.

The rest of the day was spent getting the bank notes together. All the Earps except Warren pitched in, only too eager to speed up the process of getting Doc released. Wyatt could've gotten the money himself - would have done it without question - but the assistance was welcome.

He was furious that the judge made the bond so pricey, but he had a suspicion it wasn't his idea but Behan's via Joyce. The crime itself would have brought the bond up high, Wyatt knew that, but he's sure Joyce somehow had a hand in it. That man had a grudge against Doc so passionately that he knew the hole it made in the Supervisor's soul would never be filled. Could never be filled, until Doc was dead and buried. Even then, he'd curse his name.

That night was a rough one for Wyatt. He couldn't sleep, tossing and turning on his couch. Mattie and he had reached a point in their relationship where they didn't want to sleep in the same bed any longer. As a gentleman, he let her have the bed. Which gave him no choice but to stay on the sofa. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't a luxury. He'd had worse sleeping outside using his tack and saddle as a pillow. So he wasn't one to complain.

He turned to lay on his back looking up at the white ceiling. An arm draped over his forehead. Images swirled into existence on the blank canvas above him, forming into shapes of Doc suffering in the cell. Coughing up more Wood Sorrels, another vine slinking its way out, wrapping a tendril around his slender throat. Choking him. Strangling the life from his eyes. His hair somehow turning white because of it. It was unbearable.

He sqeezed his eyes shut to try and erase the thoughts that invaded his mind. It drifted to Warren and his betrayal. Images flashed behind his eyelids of Warren in the same room with Doc on that fateful day of the attempted robbery. Was he really there at some point? If he was, what was he doing with Doc in his room? Was he cordial, or did something else happen? Knowing Warren, he may have tried to make a move and Doc spurned him. Or at least he hoped he did.

New, more provacative images swarmed Wyatt's imagination. Warren touching him, caressing his face and chest. Trying to lay claim to something that wasn't his. He brought his palms to press into his eyes as Doc reciprocated Warren's advances. Breath hitching at the touch. Them kissing. Hands roaming around, sliding down lower. Warren pressing Doc into the bed. The blonde gasping, arching up at the feel of him. Them moaning--

Wyatt roared and pushed himself up to stand. He began pacing the room and forced himself to think of something - anything - besides that scenario. Ideas of him taking Doc away to a place only he knew of filled his mind. But even those were no match to the coupling he saw behind his eyes. He pulled at his hair and grumbled, arguing with himself that what Warren and Doc did could never happen. He'd never allow it.

He didn't know why it bothered him so. Doc was his own man and who he chose to spend his time with, in whatever capacity that was, was his business. Not only that, but he couldn't fathom why he was imagining two men kissing and more in the first place. But the image refused to leave. It made his anger bubble to the surface. A possessiveness pulsing through his veins. It was drowning him. Leaving him gasping for air. With a Bang! of the front door flinging open - he didn't care if it woke Mattie up - Wyatt stormed outside.

He stood in his front yard staring off at the horizon. Taking deep, cleansing breaths of the night air. The smell of sage, dry dirt, and horses filled his lungs. He closed his eyes and breathed it all in. Held it in for a few heartbeats, then released it to the vastness of the night. His mind slowly but surely emptied of all thoughts except his breathing. The silence of the desert was calming him down, slowing his rapid beating heart. It was a balm to his tightly coiled nerves. The gentle wind playing with his hair. His body releasing the tension that had wound it's hold on him so tightly earlier.

Eventually he sat on the porch for the rest of the night and watched when the sun rose. It's blinding beauty peeking over the horizon. His mind had calmed, but the thoughts remained. He was filled with a new determination to get Doc out of that cell and back in his room where he'd be safe. So he waited, and waited. Till he couldn't any longer and got ready for the day then made his way into town.

Wyatt loitered outside the sheriff's office, watching closely for Behan to show up. His saddle bag with the correct amount of bank notes was heavy over his shoulder. The weight of it reminding him what was at stake. He forced himself to relax, placing one boot against the building and keeping one hand hooked on his belt loop and the other busy with a cigar. 

Many cigars later, and Wyatt was getting hungry and tired of shifting on his feet. But just when he thought he might take a break from his watchful post, Behan arrived on his stallion. He caught Wyatt with a wary expression as he approached.

"How long have you been here?" Behan asked after dismounting and walking towards Wyatt.

"Does it matter?" Wyatt questioned back.

"It does. It depends on whether or not I charge you with vagrancy."

Wyatt shrugged one shoulder, trying to be as cordial as he could with a man he despised, "Haven't been idle; been waiting for you."

"Me? What for?" Behan leveled his gaze at the ex-lawman.

"You know why." Wyatt said, staring the sheriff down. "You have something I want. I've come to claim him."

Behan's lip curled up, "It'll cost an arm and a leg."

Wyatt pointed to the saddle bags, "I'm not wearing this to look pretty."

The sheriff's lips pressed into a thin line. "Fine. Let's get this over with. You could have just done this with my deputy, you know."

He made his way inside with Wyatt at his heels. I wanted to see the look on your face when I take him from you thought Wyatt.

Upon entry to the sheriff's office, deputy sheriff Woods was sitting behind the desk looking worse for wear. He was skittish like he had seen a ghost. Once he laid eyes on Behan he jumped up to stand and reached out to him, "Sheriff, I'm so glad you're here. Listen, their's something wrong with our prisoner--"

"What do you mean?" Behan interrupted, glaring at his subordinate. He made a beeline to the cell. "If another prisoner got out, I swear to God Woods--"

Behan stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth fell open and his gaze was transfixed on something in the cell. "Sweet Jesus, when did this happen?" his voice barely above a  whisper.

Wyatt felt a chill run down his spine as a shot of ice took hold of his heart. He rushed to stand next to Behan, fearing the worst and peered into the cell.

Purple flowers littered the floor, a smattering of red coated them. The bars and walls of the cell were covered from floor to ceiling in bloody, woody vines with a vibrancy that bordered on unnatural. The leaves were heart shaped and came in threes with a purplish tinge. Attached to the tendrils were delicate, fully bloomed purple flowers with dried red splotches on them, which Wyatt recognized as Violet Wood Sorrels covered in blood. 

He stared in wondering dread as he recalled that Wood Sorrels don't have vines.

The scene was captivating in its misplacement, the crimson greenery jarring with the harsh and empty room of the cell. Like it was an abandoned room taken back by violent nature. With the bright sun outside beaming shafts of light through the tiny window in the back, the image presented a complete scene of macabre beauty.

But in the middle of the cell, laying prone on the cot that was untouched by the plants around it, was a lone figure. His disheveled blonde hair plastered to his forehead from his body's constant flux in temperature. His breath was shallow and even with dried blood painting his lips and down his chin. He was in a fetal position with his arms hugging his torso. Eyes closed. Hat laying forgotten on the ground amongst the flowers.

"Doc," Wyatt breathed, the scene entrancing him to the spot. He knew where the plants came from, but it still surprised him upon seeing it to this extent. Something deep down screamed at him that this was a very bad sign, and he clung to that voice to help him snap out of the spell it seemed to have over him. He turned to Behan, who had a mix of awe and horror in his features.

"See? That's what I need to talk to you about," said Woods with a trembling voice, "It started last night with him coughing and it turned into... well, what you see here."

"Coughing?" Behan echoed, still looking into the cell.

"Yes Sir. Really bad coughing. I thought the prisoner was going to keel over from it, but instead... out of his mouth..." Woods drifted off, his face haunted by the memory of what he witnessed.

"Out of his mouth?" Behan pointed to Doc, disbelief in his voice.

Woods gave a small nod, one hand planted on the desk in front of him as his eyes darted between the sheriff and the cell.


Behan's eyes widened. He took a small step back, "Hanahaki," his voice barely audible.

Wyatt snapped his head to him at the word he was now familiar with. "You know of it, too?"

Behan's gaze hardened at Wyatt. "Take him off our hands. I don't want any of this weirdness in my jail cell."

Wyatt studied him, then gave him a quick nod. He bristled at the notion of calling what was wrong with Doc 'weird', though he felt the same when he first witnessed it, so he couldn't verbally criticize.

He moved to the desk and dropped the saddle bags on the surface. "I've come to bail Doc out. There's five-thousand, paid in full. Now run up that Surety and hand him over."

Woods was hesitant. He looked to Behan who gave him a curt nod. He sighed and picked up the bags, opening them and peering inside. He rummaged around in it, then eyed Wyatt with a raised eyebrow. "You know you could have just brought a bank draft."

"Would take too long and you know it," Wyatt said with a slight growl.

The deputy was about to say something in protest, but glanced back over at the cell and his face fell. "Fair enough," he mumbled, accepting the money by starting to count it. Wyatt strummed his fingers on the wall as he waited for Woods to finish. When he was done, he pulled out a bail bond and started filling it out. "I've never seen anything like it," Woods muttered low, shaking his head.

"And you won't anymore, when I get him out of here. Hand over his cane."

The deputy worked on the paperwork first, occasionally glancing over at the cells with unsteady hands. When finished, he set the pen down and leaned back in his chair and reached for the walking stick which was resting in a plain, wooden stand off to the side near the jail's storage room. He plucked it out and handed it over to Wyatt. The ex-lawman snached it from his hand with a strong grip. "Much abliged."

He walked over to the door of the cell and waited for Behan to open it. The sheriff pulled out his keys, sliding each one around the silver ring until he found the right one, and slid it into the lock. He turned it till there was a loud Click! then swung the door open, the keys jingling as he did so, "Make it quick. I have a mess to clean up."

Wyatt didn't have to be told twice. He bolted in and hovered over the gambler, laying a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. The man's pale skin was a counter to the rich green around him.

"Doc? Doc, can you hear me?" Wyatt spoke gently, shaking the other ever so slightly.

It took a couple of prompts, but eventually Doc stirred, eyes fluttering open. His eyes darted around, seeming confused to where he was. They soon fell on Wyatt and stayed there. His breath continued to rattle in his chest.

"Are you still with me?" he asked the blonde with a soft tone, rubbing his hand soothingly down the smaller man's back.

Doc swallowed thickly and winced, like it took great effort to keep whatever was inside down. "Still alive," he croaked, his voice coming out raw from his destroyed throat.

Wyatt's smile was genuine. "Come on, old Rep. Let's get you out of here."

But Doc protested. "You can't. The bail--"

"Already paid for."

Doc stared up at Wyatt in surprise, eyes wide. "You... paid the five-thousand? For me?"

"Of course I did," Wyatt chuckled, "Someone had to, and I wanted to be your surety. Also, couldn't have you stay here longer than was nessecary."

"You're my surety?" Doc's voice was quiet, like he was afraid to speak the words aloud.

"I will be, once we get you out of here." Wyatt tucked Doc's white streak of hair back off his forehead.

Doc's eyes were bright and hopeful staring up at Wyatt. It caught him off guard, causing stirrings in him that he was starting to slowly acknowledge more and more lately. He brushed a thumb across the blonde's cheek which caused the other to blink, then a sudden shift in his countenance. The light in his eyes diminished and his face twisted in a grimace. He hugged his torso tighter as he turned his face away from Wyatt's hand, "What... what are you doing to me, Wyatt?" His blue eyes started brimming with tears, "Why are you torturing me so?"

Wyatt frowned, not understanding the change or what he meant. "What are you talking about?"

"This back-and-forth treatment you display. I, I don't know where I stand with you."

"I'm not... I don't understand what you mean." He stared at the gambler confused.

"No. You wouldn't, would you." Doc's voice dropped, his accent getting thicker. He pushed himself up to a sitting position with strained effort and swatted Wyatt's hands away everytime he tried to help. "Forget I said anything. Just the ramblings of a dying man."

Doc leaned back against the wall once he was upright, his labored breathing intensifying from the effort. He rested in that position for a moment. He avoided looking at Wyatt and instead chose to stare at the ground then Behan who was giving him a disgusted glare. He held out his hand to the sheriff, "My cane. If you would be so kind," he said with a raspy voice. He never once bothered to wipe the dried blood away from his mouth.

Wyatt handed it to him but Doc didn't acknowledge him, just grasped it without taking his eye off the sheriff. "Thank you."

Doc stood up with a groan using the cane for all of the assist. Wyatt hovered nearby but didn't touch him. The gambler, with most of his weight on the cane, reached down to swoop up his hat and limped heavily out of the cell and over to the desk where Woods handed back Doc's knife. He hadn't been wearing his pistols lately. "Sign here," the deputy said as he eyed Doc warily and pointed to a line, handing over the pen. Doc tucked his hat under his arm and took the offered pen. He dipped it in the inkwell and signed his name with a flourish. He set it down instead of handing it to Wyatt, who picked it up and signed where he needed to. But as he did so, Doc was already limping his way out the door putting his hat back on.

"Doc, hey, wait a minute! Wait for me!" Wyatt finished up and grabbed his saddle bags off the table, bolting his way out the door.

Though quite frail, Doc surprised Wyatt by how much distance he gained on the other. He had to jog to catch up to him. "I get that you don't want to be in there any longer but damn are you fast today."

Doc didn't answer him.

"Okay," Wyatt said when the silence between them stretched on.

The noise outside was full of life. Horses' hooves clomping on the ground, some of them neighing and snorting. Wheels from wagons and carriages squeaking and grinding into the crusty dirt. A cacophony of people's voices mixing into each other as a crowd moved about to do their daily errands and other such activities. Saloon laughter and music trickled in to add to the sea of noise. Glass breaking and shouting came from behind one of the bars as they passed on their way to the Cosmopolitan.

They didn't say anything for most of the journey, but Wyatt was used to that. Just content to be in the other's company.

After a while, Doc broke the silence, "Stop following me."

"I'm not following you, I'm walkin' beside you." Wyatt countered, a tad bristly.

"Then stop walking beside me." Doc snapped. "I don't need an escort home like I'm some damn invalid."

Wyatt sighed, voice firm. "That's not why I'm doing it."

"Then why are you?" Doc whirled on Wyatt.

"I'm, just..." Wyatt was at a loss for words seeing the anger and pain in Doc's eyes. He couldn't figure where it stemmed from. He'd just bailed Doc out with a hefty price, and this was the thanks he got?  "Say why are you being so ornery?" Wyatt put his hands on his hips.

Doc looked somewhere to his right. He chewed on his inner cheek. "Had an epiphany, made me understand something." He uttered, stern.

"Oh? And what's that?"

Doc didn't answer him. Just stood silent, eyes still off in the distance. A soft cough escaped him, though Wyatt could see the strain he put into suppressing it. He finally glanced at the ex-lawman, resolution in those blue depths. He started moving again with great effort, hobbling in the direction the Cosmopolitan was. Wyatt, as ever, stayed next to him.

They once again fell into an uncomfortable silence. Doc's wheezing increased as if his lungs were shutting down. When they were steps away from their destination, Doc spoke up again, voice resolute. "I said stop following, and I mean it."

"I'm just making sure you get home in one piece." That was one truth. The other was Wyatt just wanted to spend as much time with the ex-dentist as he could before it was too late.

"Why do you care?"

Wyatt was taken back by this. "I've always cared about you, Doc."

The blonde scoffed. He clicked his tongue and mumbled something under his breath.

They reached the front of the hotel, Wyatt holdng the door open for Doc as he limped in. He followed closely behind as Doc started up the steps with difficulty, but once he set foot on the bottom stair Doc spun swiftly to face him, faster than what his frail frame would believe it capable of. Wyatt felt something poking his belly. He looked down and saw Hell Bitch, Doc's knife pressed into him. "You take one more step up these stairs, and I promise you, I'll gut your stomach." Doc's threat a low rumble in his throat.

Wyatt stared at Doc's stony face then down at the kife and back again. Shock catching him off guard. His eyes betraying how calm he was acting. His heart clenched in his chest as the sharp blade pressed further in, drilling his point home. Doc's icy stare never leaving him. Wyatt blinked and took a step back, confusion and hurt running circles inside him.

Doc stared him down, voice low, "Stay away from me, Wyatt. It's best if we don't see each other, anymore." He slid the knife back, cutting Wyatt's shirt in the process. Showing just how sharp it really was. Doc turned around and ascended the staircase, huffing with exertion as he went along, as if each step was a mountain draining all his energy to climb. It took him a long while to reach the top. "Many thanks for the bail." The gambler wheezed as he reached his room. Wyatt's eyes were glued to the other. Doc's words were a knife to the ex-lawman's heart, twisting cruelly. A sudden desperation to go to the other was vibrating inside him. But he stayed where he was, watching the other as if trying to memorize him. He watched Doc until he slipped into his room. Then he left.


*****


The Earp brothers found Warren getting plastered at a bar in the Crystal Palace. They ignored his drunken protests of being taken away from his drink as they manhandled him out of the saloon and hauled him back to Wyatt's house. They threw him in a chair and stood around him, staring him down. Everytime he drifted off, Wyatt splashed a bucket of cold water in his face.

"Change your story, War. I'm not going to ask another time," Wyatt announced while holding an empty bucket he had just used on his brother. Again.

Warren sat there like a wet dog; miserable and cold. With each dump of water he sobered up, but wasn't too happy about it. He wiped some remnants off his face and shook his hand out, the droplets going flying. He glared back at Wyatt, defiance in his eyes. "No, and you can't make me."

"Why are ya doing this?" Virgil asked, arms crossed.

Warren shrugged. "Maybe I feel like it."

His baby brother's reluctance to coopreate was grating on Wyatt. "This is Doc we're talking about! Someone I thought you cared for!" he yelled, frustrated.

"I do. I have my reasons for doing this." He settled further in the chair.

"But, what are they? This don't make a lick of sense." puzzled Morgan, as he pushed his hat up with his thumb.

Virgil spat in a spittoon then asked, "Why would you lie in that affidavit? And don't say ya didn't cause everyone here knows ya did."

Warren didn't respond. Just crossed his arms over his chest in disregard, his sleeves squishing more water out as he did so.

Wyatt's distress was rising. He thought of Doc and how much time he had left. How Wyatt had been desperate to find the 'cure' that could save him, but worrying over his health while he was in the cell and now the coming trial that would decide his fate - thanks to his stubborn brother - had put a massive damper on that. If this truly was Doc's final days, he didn't deserve to be treated like this.

That was when Wyatt's patience snapped. He ground his teeth and spoke in a growl, "Tell me why, Warren. Or I'll snap your arm like a twig."

"Wyatt." Virgil warned.

Jim raised his hands up. "I think that's going too far."

Warren's eyes widened at first, then leveled at his older brother. "You wouldn't dare." But Wyatt's steely glare never altered. The tension in the air was a living thing that could be felt with each passing second. Warren paled, his eyes darting to each brother. "I-I'm your brother, for Pete's sake! Have a care!"

With an anger he rarely felt except on extreme occasions, Wyatt lunged at Warren, grabbing and twisting his arm in a vice grip. He couldn't see, couldn't think. All that mattered was to get the reason out of his waste of space baby brother.

Warren's eyes widened, genuine fear in his eyes. He protested, flailing with his other arm at Wyatt to get him to let go, but to no avail. Virgil and Morgan tried to pull him off Warren, shouting at him, but there was a raging beast inside him that screamed for him to protect Doc, and nothing else mattered.

Wyatt twisted harder, causing Warren to cry out, "Wait-wait! Stop! Alright! I'll tell! I did it to get him away from you!"

Wyatt loosened his grip, staring bewildered at his brother. Unsure he heard him right. "What?"

Warren yanked his arm away and rubbed his shoulder. "I did it so he wouldn't be around you anymore."

"What the hell would drive you to do that?" Asked Wyatt in disbelief.

Warren snapped his eyes at him, a seething anger emanating from deep within. "Don't you get it? Or are you too stubborn and thick?" He gestured at him. "I've seen the way he looks at you when you ain't lookin'. He's sweet on you! And that fact drives me up the wall. It explains why he hasn't accepted any of my advances yet. Just leading me on, the dupe that I was. So I did this."

Wyatt was too stunned to respond, a storm of feelings raging inside him. He couldn't breathe, the news knocking the wind out of him. He took several steps back, putting a hand to the wall to hold him up. His brother's voices faded in the background as if he was under water. His vision blurred as he heard his heart pounding loudly in his chest, the only thing he could hear. Then, his mind was flooded with visions of Doc, and every scenario that gave himself away. Him saving his life in Dodge. Their interactions in Vegas. The way he reacted to his touch before meeting William for the first time. The promise he gave Wyatt in late June in his hotel room when he went to tell him about Leonard being dead.

Mattie hating him.

Doc, his dearest friend, was in love with him. But how? Why? For how long? And how had he never noticed before? It seemed too impossible to believe real. He was a man, how could Doc be in love with him? And why him? He didn't think Doc's sofisticated tastes would fall for someone as common as Wyatt was. Though Wyatt would admit he himself wasn't ordinary, he was common. Sometimes too rough for most folk's palate. He just couldn't wrap his mind around it. And yet the fact remained.

Doc loved him. But not as a friend. As something more. And Wyatt...

His brothers continued to argue the point with Warren. Which at one juncture caught Wyatt's ear and snapped him out of his new understanding of Doc and back to the room like a whip crack.

"But, how is this an answer?" Questioned Morgan, unphased by the news of Doc's feelings for Wyatt. "If he's found guilty, they'll string him up."

The last line seized Wyatt's full, unadulterated attention and he moved forward to stand with his other brothers.

Warren gave a uninterested shrug, but it was clear the news bothered him. His brothers continued to press him but he refused to budge.

"Your reasons aren't adding up." Jim added, "What really happened to get you to sign it?"

"Just what I said."

"Warren." Wyatt rumbled from deep in his bowels. His eyes a death glare that now had new resolve in it.

A vengeful passion was bubbling from Wyatt. He slowly approached Warren, like a predator stalking its prey. Hands in tight fists. He was seeing red and could taste copper from biting his own tongue in fury.

Warren cowered under Wyatt's withering stare. Everything about Wyatt threatened violence, and being his baby brother would not save him from his wrath.

Warren lifted his arms up in defence, "Okay, okay fine. Here's the truth of it, if you want to know so badly." Warren sighed in defeat. Arms still up protectively. "I was drinkin', gettin' bent, wallowing in my sorrows concerning Doc's most recent spurn. Milt Joyce and Sheriff Behan happen to approach me." Wyatt tensed at those names.

"They were very understandin' about my love troubles," Warren continued, "buyin' me drinks and whatnot. I found it nice to have somebody listen, though it was makin' me spittin' mad when they got me to see how many attempts I made and it didn't make a lick of difference. The result was always the same. I thought he was playin' hard to get, but they had me see that instead, he was just playin' me like a fiddle. The talk shifted eventually to an affidavit, and well..."

The brothers shared a look.  This confession was eye-opening. Not only did it tell them that Behan and Joyce had struck again in their never-ending attack on Doc, but that they had done it by using their baby brother when he was most vulnerable.

Be that as it may, Warren still filled an affidavit out and signed it, and now refused to retract it.

"Do you realize what you've done?" Wyatt boomed, "Take it back."

"Never," Warren snarled at him, eyes wild, "If it means you can't have him, then my lips are sealed."

Wyatt took another step towards him, "I said take it back."

"Over my dead body." Warren said with venom, leaning forward in the chair.

That was the last nail in the coffin for Wyatt. He charged at Warren and grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt, yanking him so hard to his feet the chair fell backwards and pulled him flush to his body. "I think it's about time you go home," he said, his voice a low rumble.

Warren gave his older brother a cruel smile, thinking he had won. But when Wyatt didn't loosen his grip and the looks on his other brothers' were just as stern, he swallowed uncomfortably.

'Going home' did not mean going back to his hotel room. His brothers had every intention of having him leave Tombstone for real. And Warren didn't have a say in it.


*****


Doc's hearing was set for nine o'clock in the morning of July 9, 1881, four days after he was arrested. Wyatt was of course there, he wouldn't miss it for the world. But he also had to be there, as Doc's surety, to vouch for the blonde and make sure he would show up in the first place. Morgan also showed for support. Virgil and Jim were otherwise engaged, but wished to be updated on how it went.

Doc was sitting next to his attorney at the front. He was a shell of his formal self, slumping in his seat with an air about him that was apathetic to his surroundings. Like he had finally given up on life and accepted his fate, whatever that was to be. 

Just seeing how weak Doc had gotten was like a twist to Wyatt's soul. The gambler's back was to him, yet he could still tell how emaciated he was, how his clothes hung on him like an unstuffed scarecrow, and how his coughs were now punctuated by a violent, echoing rattle that seemed to claw its way up from deep within his lungs. He knew that each cough meant that Doc was one step closer to the end, and Wyatt would wince whenever he heard it because of that knowledge.

He tapped his fingers on his knee out of nervousness for the upcoming hearing. He had no doubt that Doc had nothing to do with the robbery and murders, but he knew his belief wasn't strong enough to help the sickly man. It was for the court to decide. And everytime Wyatt glanced over at the prosecutor's side and laid eyes on Milt Joyce - who, of course, showed up for this hearing - he was reminded of how many people were against Doc to begin with. His bile rose just looking at Joyce, but so did his fear for how far this man was willing to go to completely destroy Doc, and just because of an altercation they had some time ago.

Wyatt was yanked back to reality when Justice Wells Spicer entered the room and everyone stood. It was starting, and he felt sick to his stomach with worry. He must have looked a sight, because Morgan rested a comforting hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. He was glad to have Morgan there beside him.

Spicer sat down in his chair and everyone followed suit, though Wyatt could see the struggle Doc went through just to stand and sit. It pained him to see it, and he had to will himself to stay where he was and not help him. Doc would have resented him for it. Not to mention it would have been frowned upon in the courtroom for him to go up to where the blonde was.

Justice Spicer started to list off the charges, which demanded that Doc stand back up for it. The sheer effort it took for the ex-dentist to do that simple act was gut-wrenching for Wyatt to witness. It seemed everytime they needed Doc to stand, it took all his energy to achieve it. He relied solely on his cane for every attempt. It was like the weight of his frail body was too much to lift.

As Spicer was reading off the charges, the prosecutor, Lyttleton Price, stood and interrupted, "Excuse me, your Honor, but may I have permission to speak?"

Spicer leveled his eyes at him, "It better be a good reason."

"It is. I need to state something." Price cleared his throat, folded his hands in front of himself, and continued, "Your Honor, may it please the court. I have examined all the witnesses summoned for the prosecution, and from their statements I am satisfied that there is not the slightest evidence to show the guilt of the defendant; that the statements of the witnesses did not even amount to a suspicion of the guilt of the defendant, and am therefore asking that the complaint be withdrawn and the case be dismissed."

Rumbles started spreading in the courtroom. Wyatt couldn't believe what he had just heard and stared at Morgan, stupified. Morgan was just as stunned. Even the defence attorney seemed at a loss for words. Spicer slammed his gavel down to get control of the room. "Everyone, quiet down. Mr. Price, this is a serious declaration. Are you sure about this?"

"I am, you Honor. I've been investigating this case and can thoroughly say there is no other conclusion to come to than this."

Spicer studied Price carefully, mulling over his words while he chewed on his upper lip. He looked over his papers for a moment as Wyatt held his breath for the justice's reply. He eventually nodded and threw his arms up. "Then why are we even here? If the Counsil agrees..."

"I-I do, your Honor."

"Then there is no need to continue this. I will grant the dismissal. Court is adjourned." Spicer smashed the gavel down and got up with everyone trying to catch up and stand with him as he left the room.

"Thank God," breathed Wyatt. Feeling a rush of relief wash over him.

"Well, that was the briefest hearing I've ever been to," said Morgan while scratching his head. "I've never even heard of a prosecutor doing that, have you?"

"Not before today," answered Wyatt as he stared at Joyce who was giving the most hateful glare to Doc. If looks could kill, Doc would've been dead on the floor.

That didn't go the way Joyce wanted, and Wyatt feared what else he would try to pull to harm his friend in the future.

Wyatt watched as Doc and his attorney shook hands. Doc put his hat back on and went to stand, his lawyer reaching out to help him this time. But Doc waved him away. The gambler turned to leave, taking great effort to get his body to move the way it used to. Wyatt stayed sitting and looked someplace off in front of him, trying to pretend he wasn't watching Doc like a hawk the whole time. He remained that way and didn't move as Doc limped past him, neither one acknowledging the other. It took every strength he had not to reach out to the blonde as he went by, but Wyatt stayed his hand. Doc wanted nothing more to do with him, and Wyatt had to respect his space. Though everything in him fought it on every possible level.

Morgan was saying something to him, but he couldn't hear it. His mind was buzzing with thoughts of Doc and how he could feel the pull to be near him as he moved out the door. No one had to tell him, he just knew Doc was out of sight. He spun his head towards the door of the courtroom, panic kicking in, and stood and rushed to it. He swung the door open and took several steps forward then stopped, just watching with bated breath as Doc limped away from him into the busy street. He stared for as long as possible at the retreating form until Doc was out of his sight.

Wyatt couldn't explain it, but he knew. Somewhere in his soul, he just knew this was the last time he'd ever see Doc again.

And the thought scared him to his very core, making him feel cold inside.


*****


"So, where's your little lamb that's always following you around?" taunted Curly Bill as he sat at the faro table where Wyatt was playing as dealer. Ike Clanton and Johnny Ringo sat on either side of him, each one giving him a mocking sneer.

It had been three days, six hours and thirty-four minutes since the last time Wyatt had seen Doc, and his absence was dearly felt by the ex-lawman. Wyatt had done his best to keep himself busy so as not to think about the one person who plagued his mind lately. But nothing he did worked. He couldn't stop his dark thoughts from invading about where Doc was now and what was happening to him. If the man was getting enough sleep, enough fluids. Had any more vines come out of him. If his health had taken a turn for the worse. Though how much worse could it get than it already was Wyatt didn't want to think about.

Wyatt was down at the Oriental to get his mind off Doc when he somehow got hornswaggled into becoming a dealer for faro at one of the tables. Things were going smooth for a while with the easy atmosphere of chips clacking and low murmurs of other patrons mingling about. The scent of smoke, sweat, and bitterness filling the air. It was a nice distraction.

Until those three Cow-Boys came in and sat at his table. For the first few rounds all was cordial and distant. Each person not needing to say more than was absolutely necessary to each other. But it didn't last long. Curly Bill kept glancing up at him from his cards, a smirk growing on his lips, until he finally broke the silence between them all. Wyatt didn't appreciate the question.

He bristled internally but otherwise sat as stoic as ever. "I'd never use the word 'lamb' to describe Doc, and I don't believe it's any of your concern," he stated matter-of-factly.

Ike picked up on the hostility. "He was just askin' a question," his voice was as low as distant thunder.

"And I was just answering a question. Now are you going to place your chips or sit there all day wasting my time?" Wyatt said with a growing short temper.

Ringo watched him carefully, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he played with his chips. "Did he strike a nerve, Earp?"

"He's just upset, that's all." Curly Bill's gaze was unwavering. "Hell, if I found out my good friend had Hanahaki I'd be riled too."

That snapped Wyatt to look Curly Bill in the eye. "What did you say?"

"What, Hanahaki?" Curly Bill smiled enunciating the word with extra care.

Wyatt frowned at him. "How do you know about that?" Does everybody know of this disease besides me? Wyatt's brain wondered.

Curly Bill snickered, "Unlike some, attention is paid." He starts to organize his cards, not looking at Wyatt. "Speaking of which, a little birdy told me you don't know what causes it, do you?"

Wyatt's body stiffened, one hand flattening on the table, the other clenching into a fist. He's not sure how they found out that he didn't know, but he began to wonder how much they knew. "What makes you say that?"

"Questions like that. Give you away." Curly Bill flicked his eyes up to the ex-lawman.

Wyatt strummed his fingers on the table with his flat hand, trying to seem uninterested when in reality he felt a streak of anticipation shoot through him. "Suppose you tell me what it is, then." He held is breath, hoping he'd get his answer.

Curly Bill leaned back in his chair, eyes dancing with delight. "Unrequited love," he purred. He looked at his companions, each one sharing a look. Then nearly at the same time they reach into their own pockets and pull out a perfectly preserved Violet Wood Sorrel each. "Isn't that the pits?" Curly Bill winked at him.

Wyatt's face fell as he stared at the flowers. The accursed things he'd been so fond of that were now haunting his dreams were now in the hands of three men he wouldn't turn his back to. His heartbeat quickened, thumping in his ears. "Where did you get those?" he growled.

"Johnny found 'em. Didn't you, Johnny?" Curly Bill said, smiling at Ringo.

"I certainly did." Ringo's eyes burned holes into him, with malicious intent.

Wyatt tightened his fist, the knuckles turning white from the pressure. "Where?"

"What you really should be asking yourself, is 'when'."

"When then?" Wyatt's patience was wearing thin while his anger rose. The very idea that Ringo was close enough to Doc to get the flowers made his stomach turn. Doc was becoming too vulnerable, and if Ringo chose to do something, Doc wouldn't be able to defend himself.

Ringo's eyes were two pools of a bottomless pit of hate. They were alight with a hunger for a challenge that could never be sated. "Like I'd tell you."

Wyatt leaned in. He clenched his teeth to hold back the mounting rage that was boiling to the surface. "I swear to you, if you've laid a finger on him--"

"Easy, law dog. Don't start somethin' you can't finish." Ike cut in, reaching for his six-shooter.

"Oh I'll finish it alright. And you ain't gonna like what comes next." Wyatt threatened to all three of them, his gaze never leaving Ringo's. He wanted to tear the man's throat out, wanted to know if he hurt Doc, but he was desperate for the answer to his next question, and he would always regret it if he never asked. "I know there's a cure," he started, determination fuelling him forward,  "Suppose you tell me what it is and we can leave this table all friends."

Curly Bill opened his mouth to answer but Ringo cut him off. "There isn't one. A shame really," he said, focusing on the flower in his hand. He twirled it slowly, admiring it like it was a work of the finest art. "What a waste," he murmured, then brought the purple flower to his mouth, having it trace his lips. He popped the flower into his mouth and began to chew it, savoring its flavor. "Mmm. Spicy," he breathed.

Curly Bill chuckled at Ringo, amused by the man's actions. Wyatt felt his chest clench up, a fear striking through him at Ringo's words and actions.

"You're lying," said Wyatt. His steely gaze hardening in defiance.

"If I'm lying, I'm dying. And as you can see; healthy as a horse."

Wyatt looked between the three of them, a foreboding sense of dread shivering up his spine. He didn't believe them-- couldn't believe them. The doctor said there was a cure and so did Doc himself. He had to hold on to that hope. They were just trying to get him all riled up, which wasn't taking much. When it came to Doc, Wyatt easily could get stimulated in nearly every emotion concerning that man. Including...

"Love," Wyatt breathed, realization striking him like a freight train, stealing his breath away.

"What?" questioned Curly Bill with a raised eyebrow.

"You said it was unrequited love."

"Yeah," said Curly Bill with disinterest, "And?"

Wyatt looked at the outlaw. "It isn't."

Wyatt loved Doc.

He loved Doc.

The floodgates had finally opened, the dam of denial came crumbling to ruin beneath his feet. All that remained in that moment was the hammering of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears, and the undeniable truth that he craved Doc Holliday in a way that went beyond friendship. It was a passion that was as wild and untamed as the frontier itself, a love that had grown roots deep into the very fabric of his being without him ever truly noticing until now. It was so simple. Acknowledging it was a balm to his soul and he marveled at how he hadn't realized it till now, in front of these outlaws. He was in love with Doc. It was a love that had been simmering below the surface, unacknowledged and unspoken, but now it surfaced with the force of a stampede, pounding through his veins like the hooves of a thousand wild horses.

But Doc didn't know this, and he's dying because of it. If what Warren said was true, and Doc really loves him in return and has loved him, than this illness that he's been suffering from is Wyatt's fault. Completely and utterly his fault.

And now Wyatt was going to lose him if he didn't do something about it and fast.

Unless he was too late already.

He looked at the flowers the outlaws were holding and his heart got caught in his throat. He didn't know what Ringo did to get those flowers but he knew damn well he was going to do whatever possible to put an end to the existence of those things here and now.

With renewed determination, Wyatt shot up abruptly, causing the chair he was sitting on to scooch backward with a screech. He swiftly moved around the table and weeved through the crowd to the exit.

As he made his way, Ike called out to him in a mocking tone:

"Tick tock, Earp. Time ain't on your side no more. In more ways than one."

He ignored him and continued his way out of the double doorway of the saloon and into a fast walk that quickly turned into a sprint as he rushed to the Cosmopolitan Hotel. His heart pounding in his chest.

I'm comin' Doc.

When he neared the hotel, a chill ran down his spine as a fear creeped up on him that he refused to give into. Something was wrong. Doc was in trouble, he could feel it. He couldn't explain why, he just knew. His heart clenched and was pounding in his ears as if screaming at him to hurry up. Horrible thoughts swirled in his brain, blinding his vision and causing him to almost miss his destination.

He opened the front door of the hotel and dashed inside, sprinting up the stairs taking them three at a time. His spurs clinking on the steps, echoing in the empty hallway as he hurried to Doc's room. He stopped in front of it, panting. His chest burned from a fear of what lay behind the door. He swallowed, the sound loud in the silence. Wyatt reached for the doorknob and turned, but met with resistance.

Doc's door was locked.

Wyatt rapped on the door instead, hands sweaty. "Doc?" Wyatt called out, "Are you in there? It's me."

No response.

He banged on the door this time, the wooden barrier shaking from the force of his effort. Other people peeked out from their rooms in curiosity of the pounding and loud noise that was disrupting their peace. Wyatt ignored their stares for his focus was on the one thing that was not changing. He huffed. Perhaps Doc wasn't home. Maybe that's all it was. He shifted on his feet, unsure of what to do now. His fists clenched and unclenched. He was bubbling with nervous energy. He turned to head for the stairs to start looking for Doc in other places but stopped after a few steps and looked back at the door. Everything in him was telling him something was off, and it all radiated from that room.

"Ah, to hell with this."

Wyatt charged back at the door and skipped formalities by raising his foot and slamming it near the doorknob. The door crashed open with a loud Bang! Wyatt stepped up to the entryway and peered in.

He was greeted with a waking nightmare.

A sea of bloodied Violet Wood Sorrels of varying sizes littered the carpet so completely it was near impossible to see the floor anymore. Red-soaked wooded vines covered every surface of the walls, ceiling, and furniture like ropes. They stretched in front of the doorway making it hard to see into the room.

But what he could see of the bed was the most distressing of all. The vines and blood were the thickest there, getting as bulky as the width of a small child's wrist. They spread out in a spiderweb-like fashion, covering it entirely.

"What in the ever-loving hell?"