Work Text:
“Bottle and two glasses please,” the bespectacled man said softly to the barman, sliding coin across the bar before seating himself at a nearby table with his prizes. The saloon was relatively quiet this early on a Wednesday. It was barely mid-morning and only certain clientele came to drink and talk with the shady characters who frequented it. He stood out in clean clothes relatively unscuffed boots. He could feel the eyes of the heavy drinkers on him as he poured himself a drink. Whatever Wyatt had to say, he hoped it was worth all of this.
“Ain’t it a bit early to be drinking, Robert?”
The alcohol wouldn’t take care of his troubles, but it might help him sleep tonight. With the rumors brewing of the Sheriff of Purgatory’s foul play and the manner he conducted it, he had barely slept a wink. His mind was full, mentions of dark things swirling and although he heard the man who took a seat next to him he didn’t acknowledge him. He was gazing deep into the alcohol when the man spoke up again.
“Robert?”
This time he glanced up and acknowledged his friend's presence with a nod. Wyatt Earp, a man who was everything that Robert would never be. He knew the man the voice belonged to very well. Well enough to be summoned by Wyatt Earp to a saloon in the morning without asking what it was all about. He wasn’t disappointed when his eyes locked with Wyatt’s, there was something there. They kept eye contact for a moment before Robert looked away; he always looked away first. He couldn’t keep looking at the man whose eyes were filled with anger and sorrow. He let his gaze return to the bottle in front of him. “We all deal with our demons in our own way Wyatt.” Robert said almost wistfully, and was met with a noise that he might have said was an agreeable grunt.
“That’s the truth. Guns, the bottle, and the flesh to name a few.” Wyatt said, tacking on perhaps for Robert’s benefit, “Or the cross. Salvation.” It was clearly an afterthought, accented by a gently pushed empty glass towards his quiet friend, “I fear sometimes that the Lord has abandoned this town entirely.”
Robert wasn’t surprised by his admission he was always daring. He smirked at the empty glass and poured for Wyatt without a word, then picked up his own and clinked the glasses together in a half-hearted cheers. “I’m sure the Padre would say that was blasphemous to even think.” His smirk faded as he took another drink, and swallowed the burn. Who was he trying to fool? “I shouldn’t pass judgement, I’ve felt that way.”
"These are strange times," Wyatt admitted.
Robert nodded to the small talk, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. He pushed aside a sliver of guilt and then turned his attention fully towards Wyatt. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Forgive me Wyatt, you know I enjoy our talks, but why are you here? I have heard Doc Holliday is ill. I wish him well, I have prayed for his recovery. Why are you sharing whiskey with me instead of him.”
“John Henry has taken to his own ways.” Wyatt smiled a slightly disarming smile that seemed a little sad. “He remains troubled by his illness even on good day. You’re a good man Robert Svane.” His hand clasped Robert’s shoulder briefly. It was warm. “An’ I say that knowin’ I have to ask a favour of you and you may not be agreeable to it. That’s why I asked you here.” Robert took another drink to steel himself, but nodded for Wyatt to continue. He produced a folded piece of paper and said, “I need you to deliver a letter to John Henry requesting he ride with me to confront the Sheriff causin’ trouble in Purgatory. He is a greater threat than I thought, more than I can handle. He refused me once, I’m hoping the letter will give him cause to reconsider.”
Robert was slightly confused. Wyatt wanted him to be letter carrier to the ill, drunk, skirt chasing Doc Holliday? His meeting with the man the day before hadn’t gone well. Doc had been drunk and belligerent which was expected, and the resulting conversation was short and aggressive. He was not and had never been a fan of violence. His skin crawled just at the thought, picturing the crowded bar he would have to navigate through and the company the dentist slash gunslinger kept. “I fear my presence would only worsen the situation Wyatt,” he said honestly, trying to formulate a believable excuse.
“Tell him it’s important. While Doc Holliday keeps poor company I believe him to be still loyal to this cause. I’ll be leaving for Purgatory before he rises, I need your help Robert. I trust you can do this.”
He needs my help. He needs me for this. Needs. Needs is something someone says to Wyatt, or Doc Holliday or the gunslingers that come in and out of the town. No one needs Robert Svane... he knew his place in this life, he had come to accept his role in the Lord's plan. Except Wyatt did now. The thought was like a fire starting, that moment of nothing and then a sudden bright spark. This was a time to be strong, to be brave, and to reinforce the friendship he pledged to the other man so many years ago. He promised that he would do whatever he could to help Wyatt, it was a promise almost as sacred as his promise to the church. “Ok, I’ll do it.” The word faith tumbled in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak it. Trust meant more here, it was etched in blood and promise.
He nodded and Robert nodded back, both focused back on their whiskey.
----
He trusted Wyatt and Wyatt trusted him. He’d ride to hell and back for Wyatt Earp, he told Doc Holliday and he meant it. There was a time when he was in awe of Doc Holliday and all his skills and his friendship with Wyatt Earp. That was then and now Doc had changed and not for the better. The illness had done that, he told himself. Robert maneuvered away from the raucous party of drunks with their cards and the smell of whiskey and smoke to a more open space. He gave Doc the truth, trying his hardest to meet his eyes and then left the saloon. Already he was making his preparations for his next destination; Purgatory. He had a feeling Wyatt would need him. If Doc wouldn’t aid his friend, he would do all that he could.
---
The church had taught him that he was part of God’s plan, that the righteous would be rewarded and the unfaithful would be damned. Those tenets formed his day to day beliefs and guided him every moment of the day. He was faithful to his faith, the Padre and to Wyatt. He loved the man as a brother and sought to keep him safe; as safe as Wyatt could ever be given the life he led and as much as he could help.
Love, faith, and trust were the words repeating in his head as he was held and struggled against the Sheriff’s strong grip between the Sheriff and Wyatt's gun. He was terrified.
“Wyatt, take the shot!”
His thoughts were racing even as the words spilled out. Did he just say that? Those couldn’t be his words. It was his voice, Robert was sure of that and he repeated the statement twice more with growing urgency, locking eyes with the other man as Wyatt hesitated. He had no longing for death, but he was pleading with the other man to do what was needed to be done. Even as he wished to live, he wished for his death to mean something. If Wyatt didn’t shoot him (the best shot was through him and into the Sheriff), a demon he was sure of it would kill him. He felt like he was on fire... except for his arms Clootie’s hands dug into him. They were cold even through his jacket, not like Wyatt’s. Those hands were nothing like Wyatt’s.
Wyatt raised his gun.
Robert drew in a shaking breath. He felt relief somewhere even in his fear. He was listening to him. It was a fact that he wasn’t a man people tended to listen to, he was meek and understated. The seconds stretched before him feeling like hours as Wyatt and Sheriff Clootie argued. He tried to sort out his thoughts. He wished he could scrub his palms against his pants, they were clammy but he couldn’t quite reach. ‘I don’t want to die,’ he thought, but he didn’t speak. He was acutely aware that if he said his true feelings Wyatt might not make the shot.
Wyatt’s face twisted just briefly into something that Robert couldn’t sort out. Apology? Anger? Sadness? The torment in his friend was evident.
The gunshot was loud, even for a man who heard gunshots quite often. On the other hand, it didn’t immediately hurt like he thought it would which was a small comfort to the scared man, as the force and shock shoved him back into Clootie. He became aware of the blood as it ran down his chest and stomach, wet and sticky, his hands coming to clutch at the hole in his chest. ‘Lord, I did what I had to do, please forgive me’ he thought. Now it was starting to hurt. He knew Wyatt was talking to him, he knew that Clootie was lying on the floor somewhere behind him. Wyatt wasn’t making any sense or rather he couldn’t hear him as his ears were dull and he became aware of a high pitched ringing whine. “I was a good friend.”
Was. He was already thinking ‘was’. Wyatt was nodding, had he said that out loud? The words from earlier in the day returned to him almost like a fever dream, ‘You’re a good man Robert Svane’ and he clung to it like a man dying of thirst clings to the last few drops of water. Darkness overcame him and he was left clutching a piece of paper, Wyatt was gone. He whispered to himself as he tried to stand, "I’m a good man, but I don’t want to die."
---
“I’m a good man,” Robert Svane choked out, protesting this new influx of information. He refused to listen to Constance, it wasn’t possible. Wyatt wouldn’t have done that to him, he would have known that shooting him with Peacemaker would give him the curse. He had loved Wyatt Earp like a brother, maybe more than a brother and Wyatt had cursed him and abandoned him to find Doc. He had devoted his life to good works and had nothing to show for it. Wyatt had used him and left him with a letter. A damn letter!
“Hell will burn that out of you.” Constance Clootie replied flatly.
Many things happened before he succumbed to his wound, he couldn't be sure they were completely real and then he was dragged to hell, but her parting words left with him while he was dying had been unfortunately true. It was a dry heat.
---
Bobo del Rey woke with a start. He sat bolt upright, his breath coming in gasps and his hands clutching at where the wound had been on his chest. When the dream began to fade and his breathing evened out, his hands moved to the fur coat that lay beneath him to steady himself. The animal hair comforting in a way that he would never admit. He exhaled, becoming aware of another body in the bed with him and hoped she was asleep.
“Bad dream, boss?” The anonymous woman cooed. How unfortunate she was awake. She scooted closer to the Revenant, placing a hand on his bare chest. Bobo growled a sound like no, sounding like an unfriendly dog protecting his space, the sound coming from deep in his chest. He shoved away her hand and began the process of tamping down the fear, confusion, and sadness from the dream and replacing it with aggression and disgust. There was no place for fear or HIM in this trailer or outside. Dog eat dog.
Her response to his growl was a bit of a surprise though he noted with a trickle of amusement. She winked, seemingly unperturbed and he wondered if she was perhaps used to his temper, offering her own delicate growl in response and ran her scarred if soft, displaced hand down his bare arm.
That was bold, he thought to himself. She didn’t even flinch. Another time perhaps he would reward her bravery, accept her invitation and enjoy a lazy morning in bed with her to forget his troubles. Today he didn’t have the patience for this bullshit. Even as the dream faded around the edges he felt it as though that gunshot wound had reopened. He growled again and stood, grabbing her upper arm in a strong grip and pulling her off the bed, then shoving her towards the door. “Get out.” His voice was low and menacing without room for argument. He was pleased that it was finally sparking a look of fear in the woman. Yes, finally she understood he was serious. “NOW!” He roared and his reward was watching her throw open the trailer door and scamper down the step, her eyes wide as she tugged on her clothes that she had managed to grab from the floor as she left the trailer. The open door banging against the trailer as it swung.
Bobo put the coat on with its fur collar, attire vastly different from the vest and button up shirt of his past and stepped outside, taking his time to show that no one hurried him. When the Revenant informed him that Doc Holliday was here, in the park that Bobo told him to stay on the outskirts of, Bobo gave another softer growl.
“Go get him.” Bobo said with a smile. The thought of dealing with Doc Holliday and putting the man under his boot was suddenly far more pleasurable as the dream faded away.