Wyatt & Doc

by Nelson

Couple: Wyatt Earp/Doc Holliday played by Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer Movie: Tombstone Trailer: http://movies2.nytimes.com/gst/movies/trailer.html?v_id=119908




Wyatt stepped from the pouring rain onto the porch, and flicked the edge of his hat, dispersing heavy droplets off the brim. He had been gone for three days but one day less than he had planned, and he was anxious to be home, and yearning to see Doc. He was hopeful that the tension would be gone, Doc's bitterness placed firmly in the past. Wyatt had been determined not to back down over the latest drinking and gambling incident and had firmly stuck to his guns no matter what Doc thought about it. Punishment wasn't meant to make him happy. Still, Wyatt was hoping for a pleasant homecoming, one not overshadowed by three days of Doc's pent up frustration.

He took a deep breath as he opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit house, frowning as he took in the ravaged living room. Despite the disarray, the house was eerily quiet, the only sound that of the mantle clock ticking loudly over the fireplace. The paisley patterned chair he and Doc had picked out together was lying on its side, and broken knick-knacks from the small living room table were scattered over the braided rug covering the hardwood floors. Wyatt's hand went immediately to his holster, the feel of his palm on the butt of his ivory-handled gun granting him comfort in the face of the worry nagging him.

He and Doc had enemies, no doubt about it. Between Doc's gambling and Wyatt's profession, they had enough between them to make it difficult to ever fully relax. Being a lawman did its share in making instant enemies of some men, not to mention the enemies Wyatt gained in avenging his brother's death and the maiming of yet another brother. Wyatt was tense with apprehension as he searched the house while trying to remember who he or Doc could have ticked off lately.

Wyatt's breathing turned shallow as he peered into the kitchen and saw a sight similar to the living room: chairs overturned, dishes strewn about, cupboard doors left open. There were no signs of his partner amid the ransacked home he and Doc shared. Wyatt's eyes darted to the dark corners of the rooms as he searched for some answer as to what had transpired but he found nothing. He imagined a dead and bloody Doc, or even a kidnapped one.

His eyes settled on the partially opened doorway to their bedroom, the wall lamp casting just enough light to allow Wyatt to make out the shape of a sleeping form in their bed. His breath came rushing out in relief when he saw Doc lying there, then he immediately held it again. It was too early for Doc to be in bed. Too early indeed. He pulled his gun free and positioned it toward the ceiling where he could angle it quickly at any intruder that could be lurking beyond the door or any shadowed corner of their room.

"Doc?" he said thickly, his pulse quickening when the figure in the bed failed to move.

Wyatt rounded the doorway and his tightened muscles relaxed when he found no one behind the heavy oak door. Holstering the ten-inch barreled gun, he turned his attention to the back wall of the room where the bed was.

Moving to the side of the bed, he sat beside Doc and reached out to stroke his hair, hoping he would find warmth and not the cold of death. He frowned in confusion as he felt not the hearty, full hair of his partner, but hair that was silky fine, and far too thin to be Doc's. He sprang up from the bed as he pulled his gun once again.

"Get up!" Wyatt growled sharply but the man barely moved at the command.

Wyatt nudged the man with the barrel of his gun and growled, "Wake up and get your ass out of my bed."

The man rolled to one side, and the sheet shifted leaving the naked young man destitute of all covering, and Wyatt looked on in controlled surprise. The stranger held his head and moaned in pain, unconcerned with his nakedness - or unaware of it; Wyatt couldn't tell which.

"I'm going to kill you, Holliday!" he threatened as awareness reawakened and sleepy clouds dissipated.

"Open your eyes. I'm not Doc," Wyatt said. "Who the hell are you?"

"Wha'?" the man muttered as he squinted to see who had addressed him.

Wyatt slapped the man's face with his open palm and repeated, "Who the hell are you?"

The slap awoke the man enough to realize he was naked and he yanked the sheet over his pelvic region.

Wyatt said through gritted teeth, "I asked you a question."

"Who the hell are you?!" he retorted.

Having had enough, Wyatt gripped the man's ear and hauled him out of the bed. The young man struggled to keep his ear attached while trying to cover his crotch, and he followed the wicked tug Wyatt placed on his ear.

"Ow, ow ow!" the man griped as he swiped at Wyatt's hand, vainly attempting to bat the iron grip away.

Wyatt said, "You don't get to ask who I am when you're in my home uninvited."

The man straightened up as Wyatt released his ear and he rubbed his abused appendage. "I'm Johnny Tyler. That bastard Holliday cracked my head open with the butt of his gun."

It was only after Johnny pointed it out that Wyatt noticed the right side of his head tinged with blood, darkened from the time he had been passed out no doubt.

"What do you want with Doc?" Wyatt asked.

"He cheated me out of money and I'm here to collect. That son of a bitch owes me and I intend to collect my due!" Johnny declared angrily as he lunged for Wyatt. Wyatt flawlessly captured Johnny's wrist and wrenched it up the middle of his back.

"Lemme go, damn it! Let me go!" Johnny flailed his unpinned arm, swinging fruitlessly at Wyatt.

"Settle down!" Wyatt demanded.

Johnny stopped squirming enough that Wyatt released his grip. Johnny declared hotly, "It's Holliday I want! I got no gripe with you!"

Between the rush of adrenalin and relief, Wyatt found himself struggling to maintain his composure at this man who had come to get the best of his partner only to have his partner get the best of him instead. It was just like Doc to leave the man with no more clothes than God grants a babe at birth. His sense of humor was one of the things Wyatt loved about him, even when it was in poor taste or ill timed.

Wyatt cleared his throat to hide a chuckle and then set a stern look to his face. "You aren't collecting anything tonight but your clothes. You're going to dress and then I'm taking you to a cell to cool off. And from the smell, you need to dry out, too."

The man snarled at Wyatt and said, "You ain't taking me nowhere. Where the fuck's my clothes anyway?"

He stumbled rather than stepped and Wyatt caught him by the upper arm in time to keep him on his feet.

"That's a good question," Wyatt responded with a quick glance around the room. "My guess is Doc relieved you of them, and I doubt we'll find them here."

The man balked in drunken surprise. "I ain't goin' nowhere naked, much less jail. Who do you think you are?"

Wyatt pushed his black hat back toward his crown and stared icy blue eyes at Johnny. "I think I'm Wyatt Earp."

Johnny snorted and said, "You ain't-"

Wyatt lifted his chin and maintained his glare. Johnny's knees almost knocked audibly and Wyatt smelled fear intermingled with the body odor and ale.

"You were saying?" Wyatt asked.

"N-no--nothing."

"Good answer," Wyatt said. "Then let's get you dressed and out of my house."

On the way back from the jail, Wyatt walked straight down the center of town toward the Oriental Saloon he had owned since just after the OK Corral incident that drove one brother from town and ultimately another to his grave. He claimed Doc as a co-owner in title only, the ownership enough to keep the locals quiet about what kind of partners they might be, either ignoring or unknowing of the fact that their partnership went beyond that of a business nature.

The cold rain did nothing to cool Wyatt's temper as he walked against the wind toward the saloon. He knew before he stepped foot inside what he would find: his partner at a table playing poker and drinking despite the fact he had been told not to. Wyatt walked inside and saw a familiar dark blonde head fully engrossed in his game in the corner of the room.

Wyatt almost smiled at the irony. He had a feeling Doc might be in another corner before he was done with him, depending on how the evening went. He sidled up behind Doc and helped himself to a glance at the cards. A full house. Not bad, not bad at all. Doc was a natural at playing cards and better at playing his opponents, suckering many a man who knew no better until Doc was satisfied with his winnings or his opponent ran out of cash or patience. The only things he was better at were firing a gun and wielding a knife. He proved more successful at cards, guns and knives than he ever was at his profession as a dentist.

"I beg your pardon," Doc said sarcastically without turning his head. "Is there something I can help you -"

His sentence ended abruptly when he glanced over his shoulder to find Wyatt standing behind him, dripping a puddle in the floor.

"Why, Wyatt," he said sweetly. "I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow."

Wyatt awed at the smooth recovery as his partner never flinched at the surprise of seeing Wyatt a day early.

"I wasn't expecting to see you either."

"How nice," Doc said with a smile. "Pull up a chair. You're just in time to see this game's conclusion."

Wyatt felt his jaw tighten as he locked eyes with Doc. Doc slightly raised his eyebrows in appeal that only Wyatt recognized. "Just a few more minutes and I'll go with you" was what Wyatt saw in the expression. Wyatt discreetly checked the money in front of the last man standing and the significantly larger pile of money in the middle of the table.

"Good," Wyatt said, unwilling to disgrace his partner. "I'd like to talk to you about some business when you're finished."

"Of course, Wyatt," Doc said as Wyatt sat down. "You should get out of that wet coat and hat. I barely made it in here before it broke loose. Wouldn't be here otherwise."

Doc smiled pleasantly at Wyatt, his thin mustache angling up with the half-grin. Just talking about the weather as far as everyone else at the table was concerned. Wyatt heard it as a well-laid plan, the beginnings of a perfectly rational explanation as to why Doc had disobeyed. An excuse fired off before they even started a discussion.

"Too bad you left the house. Can't get caught in the rain if you aren't outside," Wyatt said returning the smile as he removed his wet hat.

"Shhhhh," Doc said with a finger to his lips, his face twisted in consternation. "I have to decide what this--- hand --- is worth." He glared at the cards he held as though they were worth nothing, when they would likely win him the pot.

He threw money on the table and declared, "I suppose I'm in."

His opponent grinned wickedly and tossed two more coins in the middle of the table. "That's five hundred."

Doc said, "Five hundred. Must be a peach of a hand. I suppose I'll have to call it."

The man's face lit up in victory and laid down a straight. "Show me what you've got, Holliday."

"Well, ain't that a daisy? A straight." Doc clucked loudly upon careful review of the cards. "Well, I'll be damned. I'll be damned to hell."

He looked at Wyatt and shook his head sadly. "It was close," he said. "So close."

The man across the table reached out for the stash in the middle of the table and Doc said, "Ah, ah." Lying his cards down on the table, he added, "Close, but not enough. A full house still beats a straight."

The other man's face turned bright red as he watched Doc sweep the winnings from the middle of the table to his side.

"God damn it, Holliday! You cheating son of a bitch!"

Doc casually leaned back in his chair and tapped the butt of his gun. "Now, that's no way to talk. I won this game fair and square."

"Nobody's that lucky," the man snarled.

"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you a chance to win some of it back. One more hand."

Doc picked up the cards and began to shuffle them until Wyatt's hand stopped the flipping cards.

"We have some business to talk about, remember?" Wyatt said.

Doc looked at him in feigned surprise. "Ah, yes, so we do. How rude of me to forget. Is it something that can wait?"

"I'm afraid not," Wyatt said, consciously keeping his teeth from grinding as he talked.

Doc looked around and found an unoccupied area of the crowded saloon and motioned toward it. "How about we step over here?"

Wyatt led the way then turned to his partner. "Say goodnight to your friends and let's go home."

"Wyatt, one more hand will get me -"

"The razor strop," Wyatt finished. "You're pushing it."

"Why, Wyatt. Are you cross?" Doc asked.

"Somehow finding you here drinking and playing poker set me off. Say goodnight to your friends and let's go home," Wyatt repeated.

"Is it still raining?" Doc asked. "I'd hate to get wet."

Wyatt's jaw tightened and he controlled the urge to grab his partner's ear much like he had done with the stranger earlier. It had worked so well.

"I have an idea," Doc said, reading Wyatt's body language. "Why don't I say goodnight to my friends so we can go home?"

"That's the best idea you've had all night."

Wyatt grabbed his hat and pulled it on as Doc offered his apologies and followed Wyatt home. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but Wyatt knew the rest of the night was going to be dreary no matter what the weather.

"Wyatt, I need to tell you something before we get home."

"I've been home. What did you do with his clothes?"

"I tossed them in the dirt where they belonged. The man dressed like beggar. Not at all cosmopolitan."

"Not anymore," Wyatt said.

Doc stopped in the muddy road and looked sharply at Wyatt. "You didn't."

"What?" Wyatt answered innocently.

"You gave him my clothes," Doc surmised with one look at Wyatt's face.

"It's only fair. You took his, I gave him yours."

Doc huffed bitterly. "Whatever you have planned for me should be forgotten. Giving that riffraff my clothes was punishment enough."

"Hardly," Wyatt said as he used Doc's elbow to turn him back toward home.

"I was going to find a deputy to lock old Johnny up and the rain set in. The saloon provided the perfect shelter."

"So you said," Wyatt replied grimly, his tone unforgiving.

"We should talk about this, Wyatt," Doc said as they neared home.

"What would you like to talk about?" Wyatt asked casually. "The fact that you were told not to drink or play poker for a week but that you decided on your own that you should? Or the fact that you need to watch your drinking and smoking for your health? Or perhaps we should talk about how you flaunted what you were doing by suggesting another hand while I sat there?"

"Well, now I'm sure of it," Doc said. "You are definitely cross."

"I am."

"And I'm in disgrace," Doc said. "Forgive me, Wyatt. It happened only this once and not the other days you were gone."

"I'm not going to punish you for those days, then," Wyatt said reaching for the door handle.

Wyatt picked up the overturned kitchen chair and righted it well away from any obstructions.

"No, Wyatt," Doc said. "Not like that. You know how I hate that."

And he did know it. He knew it as well as he knew his name was Wyatt Earp. Doc loathed being spanked over Wyatt's knee, which was the reason Wyatt did it that way. Doc was more a man than anyone he knew, stubborn with a will that was hard to break. Wyatt knew that the position was as important as the pain itself to be effective in creating the sense of vulnerability needed to get through to Doc.

"Take your jacket and vest off," Wyatt said as he removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

"Not this way, Wyatt."

Wyatt was unyielding and put his hands on his hips as he finished rolling up his sleeves. "John Henry. Now."

Doc's lips tightened as he looked back into his partner's determined eyes. He stripped off his coat and vest in short angry motions, but took time to lay them neatly on the kitchen table. He removed his tie from the heavily starched cotton collar of his shirt and folded the silky fabric to lie on top of the other clothes he had removed.

Wyatt consciously maintained his determination despite the feelings evoked from his dapper partner. He reminded himself of why he was doing this, purposely breaking down a man who meant more to him than anything. It was the only way to keep him in line, to make sure he lived longer than the doctors said he would if he didn't change his lifestyle. They had moved to a warmer and drier climate not only to make money in the mining town, but also for Doc's health. Wyatt would be damned if he let Doc die an early death. Damned to hell.

He had faltered less than a week ago when Doc overdid it at the poker table, opting to punish him by limiting his playing time rather than spanking him like he knew he needed to. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

"Drop your pants," Wyatt said sternly, his determination renewed as he thought over his mistake of a week ago.

"I didn't smoke," Doc offered.

"One less thing I need to deal with tonight. Hurry up with your pants."

Doc paused for a moment, finally reaching for the straps of his dark suspenders and lowering them off his shoulders. He didn't work his fly immediately, standing in front of Wyatt, his eyes strong yet asking for forgiveness. Wyatt saw the look in Doc's eyes, but resolutely stood his ground, not giving an inch. Finally, Doc's fingers pushed the pewter buttons in his pants through the buttonholes until his fly was free.

"Wyatt -"

"Make quick work of it, Doc. I'm not changing my mind."

Doc pushed his pants down his legs against the white cotton muslin of his long underwear bottoms.

"Take them off. Get your boots off, too," Wyatt said, unflinching.

Doc managed his balance while he pulled his boots and pants off, leaving him in his underwear and shirt.

"Unbutton your underwear," Wyatt said with a nod toward the wide waistband around Doc's middle.

Doc didn't bother another protest, but simply unbuttoned the last remaining vestige covering his lower half. Wyatt sat in the kitchen chair, satisfied that Doc was sufficiently undressed, then pulled him across his knees. Doc's body was stiff with stubborn defiance, which didn't relax one bit when Wyatt pushed the loosened underwear down Doc's legs. Wyatt knew better than to expect anything different. It would take some doing to get through to Doc, but he intended to do whatever it took. He reached for the hem of the crisp cotton shirt covering Doc's behind and pushed it and the undershirt toward the middle of Doc's back.

Wyatt brought his palm down against Doc's backside, popping it repeatedly while he paid attention to Doc and ignored the sting in his hand. As he methodically struck his target, he divided his attention between Doc's rear and his back, keeping a watch on his breathing. Finally after several minutes, Wyatt saw what he was looking for: rapid, shallow breaths as Doc began to let go of his emotions and strong will. As soon as he saw the signal, Wyatt increased the speed and intensity of the swats, concentrating them on the undercurves of Doc's rear end. The strategy had the desired effect and Doc's body relaxed as he gave way to silent tears, their only evidence in the hitching Wyatt could feel in his partner's body across his lap.

He took the opportunity to drive the message home with several final hard swats. His hand was on fire, and he shook it to lessen the sting while he used the other hand to stroke Doc's back. After several long minutes, Doc straightened up and wiped his face.

Wyatt reached for Doc's long underwear to pull them up and Doc's hands covered Wyatt's. "No, Wyatt," he said softly. "I can't."

Wyatt realized what Doc meant as he felt the stiff muslin in his hands. "Let's get these off of you then."

He pulled them down, slipping the stirrups off Doc's feet as he pulled the long drawers off, adding them to the pile of clothes on the table. He unbuttoned Doc's white shirt, wordlessly leaving him in stockings and his loose-fitting tank undershirt.

"Let's lie down now that our company isn't hogging the bed," Wyatt said.

They stretched out on the bed and Wyatt covered Doc with the same sheet that had recently covered a stranger's nakedness.

Wyatt held Doc to his chest and Doc draped an arm across Wyatt, and they lay together in silence as the rain began to pour once again, rapping wet fingertips against the glass panes of their bedroom window.

"That was harsh, Wyatt," Doc said quietly after some time had passed.

"Not as harsh as losing you. You saved my life before, and I look at this as my way of saving yours."

Doc chuckled and said, "Well, hell. A thank you would have done just fine."

Wyatt smiled and kissed the top of Doc's head. "But you would have forgotten about that a lot quicker."

"Nothing to worry about. Tuberculosis won't kill me. It'll be a bullet over a hand of poker, I'm sure."

"Maybe a week wasn't long enough. Maybe I should make a no poker rule until you don't want to play anymore," Wyatt said jokingly. "I'll keep you out of saloons all together."

"Wyatt, you are an oak. The strongest man I know, but you'll never keep me out of saloons for the rest of my life."

Wyatt knew Doc meant it as a compliment of sorts and he also knew Doc was right. Both were men to be reckoned with, but not equally. He couldn't make Doc do anything he didn't want to do. He could outshoot Wyatt and fought dirtier, yet he submitted his will to Wyatt's decisions and authority. That took more strength than any gunfight ever could, and he loved Doc all the more for it.

"Why don't we both try to die of old age instead?" Wyatt said.

"That's what I love about you, Wyatt. You're an intelligent man. Intelligent and high class. Very cosmopolitan, indeed."

Wyatt tightened his arms around Doc and savored him for every minute he could in this life.

The end