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It starts the way things always do with Doc Holliday, with half of his bloodstream being alcohol.
The saloon air’s thick with smoke, chairs scraping the wood floors, coins clinking, and the sound of cards slapping tables like the ticking of a clock. Wyatt steps in that mess with that easy, deliberate walk of his, eyes scanning every corner of the place, not for trouble this time, but for someone he’s learned not to admit he’s looking for.
Wyatt finds him slumped forward at a table near the back. Cards limp in his fingers, his chin dipped low and his hat fallen sideways, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth like he’s dreaming of some dancing lady.
Wyatt makes his way through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces until he stands by Doc’s side.
“Doc” he murmurs under his breath.
Doc stirs a little at the sound of his name, lifting his head a fraction before groaning and setting it back down with a soft thud.
“Ain’t a bed, pal” Wyatt says, affectionate despite himself. “You’re gonna wake up with a crick so bad you’ll shoot someone just for speakin’ sideways.”
Doc doesn’t answer, just lets out a half-snore and smacks his lips like he’s tasted something sweet in his sleep. Wyatt chuckles, low and warm, before gently slipping the cards from his hand and tucking them back into the deck.
He pats Doc’s shoulder slightly. “C’mon now. Let’s get you upright.”
Doc mumbles something incoherent, maybe “Wyatt” or maybe “whiskey,” and Wyatt sighs. He curls one of his arms under Doc's chest and lifts him, Doc slumping against him like he was made to fit there, and for a moment, Wyatt just… lets it be.
Outside the saloon, the night is soft and cool, and the scent of desert sage brushes against the heat still clinging to their clothes. Neither of them say a word while Wyatt drags Doc up the steps of his room, Doc only stirs when he’s tucked into bed.
“My hero.” he whispers, barely conscious.
Wyatt just shakes his head and pulls the quilt higher, leaving the room when Doc falls into Morpheus's arms.
The next time, it's in the afternoon, with the town being quieter than usual. Wyatt had just finished his patrol when he sees the familiar sprawl of long legs and boots kicked up on the edge of the jail porch.
He approaches cautiously, being greeted by the sight of Doc in a chair, his hat tipped over his eyes, one hand resting on his stomach, the other hanging limp over the side of the chair, fingers twitching occasionally like he’s chasing someone in his dreams with a pistol in it.
“You settin’ up residence here now?” he asks, crossing his arms, knowing damn well Doc ain’t awake to answer.
He leans against the post, watching the slow rise and fall of Doc’s chest. There’s something about seeing him that relaxed and loose in his bones that tugs something deep in Wyatt’s chest.
He never looks this calm when he’s conscious.
And it was a very beautiful view.
Wyatt kneels down after a moment, plucking the hat from Doc’s face, making Doc blink against the light, his eyes blurry.
“I was…” he starts, then yawns, long and unashamed. “Restin’.”
“Looks like it,” Wyatt replies. “Hope the prisoners didn’t keep you up.”
Doc squints, then smiles lazily. “You worry too much.”
“You sleep in stranger places than a coyote,” Wyatt says, handing back the hat. "I have my reasons to worry".
"Whatever you say". Doc lets out and tips his hat with a nod, settling back in. “Wake me up if the law needs enforcin’.”
Wyatt chuckles, and stays with Doc longer than he should.
The third time is different, and quieter.
The sky’s that kind of blue that only happens in the West and Wyatt’s walking the edge of town when he spots the old, sun-bleached wagon.
He hears the soft rustle of paper before he sees Doc, curled up in the dirt, half in shadow, books strewn beside him like wind-blown leaves; one’s splayed open across his chest, another under his hand.
Wyatt crouches beside him, picks up a volume, and flips through the yellow, dusty pages
“Who is Richard C. Skinner?” he asks, his brows raising.
Doc shifts slightly, brows drawing together like he’s troubled even in sleep. Wyatt sets the book down gently and brushes a curl from Doc’s forehead, fingers lingering on it longer than they should.
“Probably someone nicer than you" Doc finally answers, shifting slightly. "Let me sleep, Wyatt.”
Wyatt lets out a soft laugh and leans against the wagon, sitting beside Doc, Doc immediately resting his head on Wyatt's shoulder. He closes his eyes and lets the afternoon heat warm his boots, falling asleep too just a few minutes later
The next time it’s in the middle of a sudden, rare rain, the one that leaves a high desert smell, like fresh soil and mud.
Wyatt comes to the stable lookin’ for a missing saddle, instead all he finds is a pile of blankets in the corner, a soft snoring, and two sets of feet poking out.
One human, one four-legged.
He steps closer and grins at the tender scene.
Doc’s curled up in the hay, his head pillowed on his arm and his chest rising slow beneath a blanket pulled messily over his side. A skinny, scrappy dog with one ear flopped sideways is tucked against him, nose resting on Doc’s ribs.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Wyatt murmurs, steeping closer. The dog lifts its head and gives him a lazy blink, then goes back to sleep.
“Didn’t think I’d find you cuddlin’ strays.”
Doc stirs and blinks blearily at him. “He’s got better manners than half the town.”
Wyatt smirks. “That mutt sleepin’ on your liver?”
“Let him. He’s warm.”
There’s something about the image of Doc, all quiet and soft-edged with a mutt curled up as if Doc were its mother that makes Wyatt’s chest ache.
“You wanna stay the night here?” Wyatt asks, voice softer now. “Inside, I mean”.
Doc shrugs, nestling deeper into the straw. “Only if he comes too”.
Wyatt huffs a laugh. “Sure, he seems clingy”.
The storm passes and days roll by. Things change in small, silent ways: Wyatt stops flinching every time Doc coughs and Doc stops pretending he’s not excited when he sees him.
One night, Wyatt finds him asleep again; but this time he’s not slumped or strayed. He’s in Wyatt’s room, leaned up against the foot of the bed, dozing with a book on his lap and a blanket fallen to the floor.
Wyatt doesn’t speak. Just kneels and reaches out, cupping Doc's cheek on his hand. Doc stirs only slightly, eyes fluttering open, and when he sees Wyatt, he just… sighs.
Peacefully.
Wyatt pulls him closer and wraps his arms around his body, making Doc hum low in his throat.
“Will you ever stop findin’ me like this?” Doc whispers, resting his head in Wyatt's chest.
“Think it’s time I stop lettin’ you drift.” Wyatt replies.
Doc smiles against Wyatt's shirt, and this time, he falls asleep in his arms.
Right where he’s meant to be.