Work Text:
In Regards
He shouldn’t be surprised how hard it is to not only find the right medium to respond, but the right way to do it as well. Honestly, he rather envied the other the ease with which words seemed to come. Doc was better with the more physical approach but wasn’t quite sure how well that would translate on paper. He huffs slightly before laughing because as difficult as it was it wasn’t something he resented the other for.
Quite the opposite. It was a challenge and above all else, that man knew he liked a challenge.
So he finds himself sitting at the bar sans drink contemplating exactly what he might reply. Idly his fingers curl and uncurl next to him as he considers carefully.
As it turns out, too carefully because his train of thought is interrupted by Wynonna asking, “Are you trying to solve the world's problems or figuring out the best way to kill someone? ‘Cause you are a little more focused than I’ve ever seen you get and you’re also not drinking.”
“Nothin’ that profound I’m afraid,” he answers immediately trying to sound almos bored, “Wool-gathering mostly.”
“Sounds painful, I wouldn’t suggest it too much.”
He snorts at her attempt at what was a joke. Thankfully, he had enough knowledge of the Earp line in general to know how to keep them off the scent of trouble. At least for a time. He was sure she’d get suspicious eventually.
Doc was more than happy for that to be way in the future.
He orders a drink just to placate her and maybe as a way to figure out what he was supposed to reply. Or how to. Words had never been his thing. That was Wyatt. He more preferred shooting to talking things out.
So of course he would prefer a man who seemed to delight in being a wordsmith. Of course.
Not to say that Bobo Del Rey couldn’t be concise because he could be. Sharp and cutting and blunt. So very blunt. But then again, he had a six-page bit of evidence that he could also take his time.
But Bobo liked to call him “insufferable”. The thought is amusing somewhat and he brings the cup to his lips deciding that he’d much rather drink than be asked why he was suddenly grinning like a fool. He really needed to get this under control but control is not something he’d had in a very, very long time. Sometimes, he thinks he prefers it that way.
Unknowingly, it takes him the same two days to get what he wanted written down with a lot of restarts and crossing out and cursing at the paper, himself, Bobo Del Rey, and everyone else he could think of for even considering this.
But it was finally done so he could go and give it to the damned man plaguing entirely too much of this thoughts and time (even though he doesn’t mind as much as he acts).
*~*~*~*
Bobo never should have done it. It was the thought that haunted him immediately after leaving the station and allowing that letter to actually go to it’s intended recipient. It was the worst idea and it would end no doubt with him being humiliated (again). And he was pretty sure he deserved it for naivety at this point. Running a hand over his face, Bobo shoves the feelings as hard away as he could. It was done, it was fine, and it wasn’t like he wanted this thing between him and Doc to actually be something.
He didn’t. Absolutely not.
A growl escapes him; deep and annoyed and he shoves a few things off the table in front of him but is, of course, careful not to go near the quill and ink pot. “Dammit it all,” he snarls as he drops his head onto the clear surface, “I should have killed him and been done with it!”
Stupid, he was so stupid still. Did he never learn? Why did he think…
Sharp rapping has his attention and his teeth grind together before he rises and stalks for the door intending on removing whatever body parts he could reach of the person stupid enough to intrude on him. Throwing open the door, however, has him having to rethink that.
Because the intruder is the goddamn man he’s been frustrated by for far longer than he’d like to think about. “Doc Holliday,” he says slowly, “To what do I owe your approach of my...humble abode?” The other merely steps in going so far as to push him into backing up. “Right, just let yourself right in then.”
“You are an absolute menace, you realize.”
Bobo gifts him wth a lazy smile. “Demon, remember? I sort of figured that came with the job. Now, did you come all this way to remind me that I’m a Revenant? Because honestly, John Henry, I already know that.”
“Do you? Because sometimes it seems like you don’t know anythin’ of the sort.”
Grandstanding. The man was grandstanding. The walls were thin and whatever this was could not be overheard. He knew the other well enough to know when he was putting on a show. So he steps closer, enough for them nearly to be touching. “Don’t like how I ‘demon’ then by all means do it better yourself,” he responds cooly, “As you’ll recall, there’s an agreement with the Earp Heir mostly because I’m tired of the idiocies. So if you have a complaint take it up with her.” It was easy, using this as a conversational piece and he feels the light shift of his hand along his coat in the vicinity of his pocket and knows exactly why the man was here.
“One can never be too careful ‘bout their allies such as they are. I wanted to be sure you understood the parameters.”
“Of course I do, Doc,” he says sarcastically, “I’m behaving. We’re behaving. She has no reason to come down here and shoot the place up.”
Doc leaves not long after that. Bobo is almost sorry for not getting a kiss but he was far more interested in his coat. The door is barely shut when he reaches and his fingers find an envelope in the pocket. Something hot fills him and he pulls it out. He’d actually written back.
He’d…
Moving, he makes sure to lock the door properly before moving back to the table and setting it down. He wants to make every denial he could but it was clear anticipation that roils hot through him. Of course there’s the nagging fear that what was written was bad but…
But Doc had written back . It was more than...well, it was more than he’d gotten in the past. It was best not to dredge that unpleasantness up so he decides and focuses on what was in front of him (his future). With that in mind, he carefully pulls out the paper hoping that whatever he would find would take what was left of him.
That he feared that said more about what he had with Doc than he’d like. And Doc called him a menace…
“Robert,
Ain’t the writin’ type, you know that. Ain’t my style or in my wheelhouse but..you do enjoy this so I’ll make a token attempt. For you. Funny how easy that seems but don’t suppose it matters how we got here. We’re here regardless…”
The words are coarse and abrupt somewhat like the man could be when he wanted but...it was John Henry so Bobo could forgive him. And let him use that name. He’d earned it. He gazes over the rest letting himself drink in the short two page reply the other had managed and finds that fear slowly inching back more and more. This was not the letter of a man who would show up one day with a cocked fist and a warning to never be that familiar in the future.
It's the lines before the closing though that banishes that fear: “I may not match your eloquence or length but you are always welcome and encouraged to correspond if the feeling takes you. I will never refuse such a gift from you.”
He folds the letter and places it in the envelope before tucking it safely away out of sight of prying eyes,lips curved into a smile. “If you insist, John Henry,” he murmurs softly, almost tenderly, “Then I very much look forward to it.”