Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To the lawman, Wyatt Earp,

We hope this letter finds you in good health. As you may remember, you arrested two members of our gang a few weeks ago, members who happened to be our leaders. John William Taylor and Miller Davis are going to rot in prison thanks to your misplaced sense of justice. To repent for that, we have found the one person you care about most in the world and last night, we took him on a little trip with us. You are going to have to watch him suffer a slow and painful death. His agonised screams of pain will forever haunt your sleepless nights.

If you ever want to see Doc Holliday again, you know where to find us.

“Oh, God.”

Wyatt Earp’s hands shook slightly as he read the letter over and over again, his eyes trailing each and every lazily scrawled word multiple times, hoping he’d find a mistake or a wrong name, hoping the appalling words would twist and morph the way his vision was doing now, and change into something else entirely. Because he didn’t want to believe it.

He didn’t want to believe that his best friend had been kidnapped.

To make it worse, the letter said they took him last night, which meant he was taken right under the Earp Brothers’ noses. Wyatt pressed a hand against his face, trying to get a hold of his racing thoughts and pounding heart, trying to process the information he had just received. He felt Morgan’s hand squeeze his shoulder gently, while Virgil cleared his throat.

They had been hunting down a skilled gunslinger with a large bounty on his head. Realising they couldn’t do it alone, the Earp Brothers had asked Wyatt’s dear old friend, the lunger Doc Holliday for help, knowing he was the only one who could even come close to matching this gunman.

The brothers and Doc had then set out in search of him, before choosing to rest for a while in a hotel near a small town, hoping to continue their travels the following week, which would provide a much-needed break for Doc, since the damp and rainy weather had been making his illness worse as of late. It had, of course, been Wyatt’s idea and look where that landed us. He thought bitterly, slamming the letter onto the wooden desk.

“Can’t believe we didn't even notice! They took him and we didn’t notice!” He cried, punching the desk again to let out his frustrations.

“It’s alright, Wyatt.” Virgil said, his voice as calm and composed as ever. “Just calm down, it’s alright.”

“No, it’s not, Virg!” Wyatt collapsed onto the chair, his head held in his hands, trying to think of a way to get his beloved friend back. “It’s not even close to alright. He doesn’t deserve to be punished for my foolishness. God, what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know, but we can figure something out.” Morgan said, but Wyatt could tell it was more out of pity and reassurance than anything else.

“We gotta get him back.” Virg declared as he clenched his fists until his knuckles were white, turning to look at his brothers, while the letter lay abandoned on the desk.

Wyatt felt a burning in his gut that he couldn’t quite place. Was it guilt? Determination? Pain? Dread? He didn’t know, but it made him want to stop sitting around and do something. It made him want to kill the sons of bitches who took his friend. 

And he was about to do just that.

Meanwhile, as the torrential downpour rained down on an abandoned shack somewhere in the outskirts of the town, a man’s breathy, spiteful laughter broke the heavy silence that had settled in the room. 

“ He’s Doc Holliday?” He scoffed, looking at his men with a raised eyebrow, his thumb pointing at the pale young man with a busted lip and an open gash on his forehead, tied up to a chair in the middle of the room. “To be honest, I…expected something more !” He chuckled as his men crowded around the young man, who was panting harshly, blurry gaze focused on the soles of his bare feet. 

At some point after they beat him up and dragged him here, they had stripped him of his weapons and personal belongings, which included his shoes and the hidden knives that came along with them. He still didn’t know how or why he was here. All he knew was that he was tied to a chair against his will and his fucking guns were taken.

Just then, Arthur Jones, the new leader of the outlaws, heard his detainee mutter something unintelligible. He got off the old wooden crate he was sitting on and strode towards the restrained man. “What’s that?” He barked, fisting a handful of the man’s blond hair and roughly wrenching his head up.

“I said,” He croaked. “So did I.” Despite his situation, Doc smirked. “Honestly, Arthur, I expected your notorious gang of rebels and frondeurs to be an awful lot more than a handful of crooks in a run-down barn.” That smug remark earned him another slap from Arthur and a kick in the shins by a hefty blond who’s name he didn’t remember.

“Stay in your fucking limits, Holliday!” The blond cried. “Remember who’s in charge here!”

Doc simply scoffed, resisting the urge to cough. He wanted to bite back and make another scathing remark about how he truly questioned who was in charge, he wanted to humiliate these bastards who thought they could get away with kidnapping Doc Holliday without having so much as provided an explanation for it. 

However, he couldn’t do any of that, thanks to the incessant burning in his chest and the relentless itch at the back of his throat. He refused to give in, though. There was not a chance in hell he was going to show that kind of weakness in front of these men. Instead, he tried suppressing it by laughing.

“The hell’re you showing those teeth for? You know how easy it’d be to break them?” Yelled another man. Seeing how scrawny and unthreatening the man was, Doc shook his head.

“Why, I could say the same about your neck, young man.” He wheezed slightly, but didn’t give in to his body’s impulse to cough.

“You son of a bitch!” The man attempted to lunge at him, pistol loaded in his right hand, but was held back by the ox-like blond from before. 

“No, wait! Don’t do anything to him yet. I want that bastard Wyatt Earp to watch him.”

Wyatt? That’s what this was all about? Doc knew his friend had arrested two of the members of this gang, but he never made the connection that he was being held captive as bait for his best friend. He was Wyatt’s punishment.

The thought made him sick to his stomach and soon enough, he was forced to bite back yet another bodily impulse. They were going to hurt Wyatt by hurting Doc. It was all his fault. He should have been on guard. He shouldn’t have let himself get captured so easily. It didn’t help that they had somehow managed to get him in the middle of a violent coughing fit when he was leaning against a wall outside their hotel, where he had gone just so Wyatt and his brothers wouldn’t have to hear him and worry themselves over his stupid health. 

How was he going to get out of this? How would he help Wyatt? How could he make himself useful ? Before he could say anything or ask one of the ten-thousand questions that were flooding his mind, he heard Arthur speak.

“Yeah, but a little bit of pain in advance couldn’t be too bad, huh?” He smiled mockingly, licking his lips and glaring at him in a way that reminded Doc of a starving predator finding prey for the first time in weeks. Arthur drew closer, still looking at him with a bloodthirsty grin and maniacal eyes. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as Arthur’s eye twitched when leaned down to face him, and for the first time since he got here, Doc was terrified of what they might do to him.

He gritted his teeth as the other man’s bony fingers and the unkempt fingernails crusted with blood and God-knows-what-else, gently caressed and squeezed his shoulder, moving up to his neck and finally, his cheek. 

“What a specimen.” He leered, wetting his lips once again. Out of nowhere, his hand wrapped around Doc’s throat. His grip was loose and soft at first, barely making contact with Doc’s skin. “Now, I wanna hear ya scream!” He chuckled softly, taking pleasure in the way Doc winced. Still, he wasn’t going down that easily. Without a moment’s hesitation, Doc spat in Arthur’s face, making sure he got him right in the eyes. 

It was Doc’s turn to laugh now. Those poor bastards, they didn’t know he was sick. Arthur thought it was a simple act of defiance. Little did he know that Doc had pretty much just given him a death sentence. 

His laughter didn’t last long, though. Within three seconds, Arthur’s grip around his neck tightened tenfold and suddenly, Doc couldn’t breathe. He had no idea how his frail-looking fingers could ever produce the strength they were demonstrating now, but he wasn’t given much time to think. “I said SCREAM!” He yelled, making Doc’s ears ring.

Never losing his snark, Doc bit the inside of his cheek and wheezed out the first response that came to his mind. “I think you’re doing enough of that for the both of us, don’t you?”

“Why, YOU-” Arthur bellowed, baring his teeth animalistically and Doc closed his eyes, thinking for a second that his neck would actually snap if he kept the pressure up. Maybe that way, at least Wyatt wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of Doc’s uselessness. Unfortunately, though, Arthur released his grip just when Doc was about to pass out from lack of oxygen.

Doc lurched forward as soon as he could breathe again. As much as he tried to resist, forceful coughs made their way out of his throat, burning his lungs like acid, he couldn't hold it any longer, he was in too much pain. Each stuttering breath he tried to take led to another bout of coughing. Tears were threatening to escape his eyes as he squeezed them shut, trying to shake off the agony that came with each new breath he took. For almost a minute, though it felt ten times longer, Doc was in the most harrowing, unending pain he had ever experienced. 

When his breaths were starting to even out and his lungs weren't threatening to break out of his body anymore, he registered his surroundings. He was hunched over, or as close to it as he could get, thanks to the ropes that bound his hands to the back of the chair, sweat and blood dripping down his face, surrounded by vultures who had been waiting to find a weakness to exploit. He had given them exactly what they needed to torture Wyatt. He might as well have betrayed his best friend, stabbed him in the back and twisted the knife, because that's what it felt like. 

God, why couldn't he ever do anything right? Arthur could now use Doc's illness as a way to get to Wyatt and hurt him deeper than any flesh wound ever could. Doc knew his friend's thought process almost as well as his own, and he knew Wyatt wasn't going to let this go. If something happened to Doc while he was kidnapped, Wyatt would blame himself for all of eternity and make up silly excuses for his mind to punish him.

He didn't know what he did to deserve Wyatt, sometimes. 

Because as much as he hated to admit it, Doc still held on to the singular ray of hope that he had amidst this mess, which was the belief that Wyatt was going to come for him. He was going to find Doc and they were going to go back to riding horses and slinging guns. 

"So... a little sick, are we?" The blond man from earlier smirked. 

"Hardly." Doc responded, still hoping to retain his cover. "I think you missed the part where he grabbed my throat, my friend." 

And just as his poor luck would have it, none of the outlaws seemed to buy his excuse. 

"Didn't know strangling someone could drain the colour from their face and make 'em sweat buckets!" Arthur laughed his wheezing laugh. 

"Well, you must never have been strangled then, Arthur. Untie me and let me show you." Doc felt the familiar burning in his chest. No, please, no, not now. I can't do this to Wyatt. I can't hurt Wyatt, please-

His internal prayers and pleas did nothing to ease the pain between his ribs as another set of violent, hacking coughs made their way out of his unwilling throat.

“Who’re you trying to fool, Holliday?'' Arthur scoffed. “So much for not bein’ sick.”

The skinny man from earlier cracked his knuckles viciously. “That old man Wyatt Earp is gonna get what’s comin’ for him!”

Another man who was previously nothing more than a hunched silhouette in the dark stepped forward, his face plastered with a hysterical grin and a hungry look in his bloodshot eyes. “I say we have some fun with him.” He licked his chapped lips, clearly drunk, and placed an arm around Arthur. “What do ya say, Boss? You did say he’s a specimen. Why not enjoy it while it lasts?”

Doc’s heart stopped in his chest. Any shallow, ragged breath he may have managed to suck in dissipated instantly, leaving his lungs empty and heaving for air. An involuntary whimper escaped his throat and he thought about what Wyatt would think after seeing him in pain. All this time, he didn’t have a care in the world about himself, knowing he was a dead man walking, he only cared about Wyatt. The only friend he ever had. The friend he didn’t deserve.

However, Doc couldn’t help but swallow thickly and began to worry about what he was going to go through in the next few minutes. The guilt followed suit as he realised he was worried about himself now and not Wyatt. Still, he couldn’t make that sickening feeling in his gut as his gaze flickered from one outlaw to another. After all, he knew what they were insinuating, he knew that look in the man’s eyes, the way he licked his lips and stared at Doc. As the men laughed and cackled, slowly cornering his drenched, pale frame, he knew what they were about to do to him and there wasn’t a single thing he could do to escape it.

Chapter Text

In the meantime, the Earp brothers had been searching in vain for a few hours, trying to find anything that could possibly be an outlaw camp or hideout. The letter contained no hints as to where they might have taken Doc, but they assumed it had to be someplace they’d seen before. 

You know where to find us.

The words flashed before Wyatt’s vision each time he closed his eyes, whether it was to blink or to prevent his tears of frustration from escaping. 

“I don’t understand!” Morgan cried out. They had stopped for a few minutes to drink water and plan their next move, but it was nearing evening and their horses were exhausted. “Where do we look?”

“Be patient, Morg.” Virgil spoke up, getting back onto his horse. “We’ve still got about half an hour of productive daylight left.”

“Woah, wait…” Wyatt said suddenly, turning to look at his brothers. “You’re not implying that we stop searching at nightfall, are you?” he stared at them with an almost hysterical look, while they exchanged awkward glances, neither of them wanting to look Wyatt in the eyes. It made him want to scream. Taking in a few calming breaths, Wyatt spoke in a dangerously low voice, glaring at Virgil. “Are you, Virg?”

“Look, Wyatt, all I’m saying is-”

“No.” The younger man spat. “I don’t wanna hear it. Look, we can’t leave Doc out there. I’m not leaving him to die!” 

“And I’m not asking you to!” Virgil followed Wyatt in getting off his horse. He walked closer to his younger brother and held his shoulders, slightly shaking him, trying to get him to see reason. “I’m just saying, there ain’t nothing good that’s gonna come out of searching at night.”

“We can find him!” Wyatt argued, staring daggers at his brother. “We can-”

“No, Wyatt.” Morgan stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. “We won’t find anything in the dark. We’re in the middle of a goddamn forest here. The last thing we need is for one of us to get injured. We can’t help Doc if we’re hurt or worse, killed by a wild fucking bear!” The youngest of them was somehow being more reasonable. Still, Wyatt didn’t wanna hear it. He didn’t want to see reason, he wanted to see Doc.

 A flicker of fear shone in his wide eyes as he clenched and unclenched his fists to stop himself from either dissolving into sobs, or lunging at his brothers. He took a soft, shaky breath, before speaking. “I-I can’t, Morg. I can’t stand the thought of what they might be doing to him.” His voice was beginning to get constricted with emotion. “Right now, as we speak. I don’t want him to be hurt because of me. I don’t want him to be punished because of me.”

“Oh, Wyatt…” Virgil sighed sympathetically. “You have to see reason, please. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“And you’re fine with our friend being hurt, Virgil ?!” The use of his full name and the menacing glare made his older brother shudder uncomfortably. “Where’s that justice of yours now? Where’s your respect for the law?” Wyatt didn’t mean those words, but he just wanted his brother to see the desperation behind his eyes. He didn’t know how to convey the dread in his gut and the unfathomable guilt that wore him down. “We have to get him back. Please. ”

“I’m sorry, Wyatt. We’re not going out there at night.” Virgil spoke with the authoritative tone that Morgan and Wyatt had only heard used against rebels and lawbreakers. “We’ll begin our search again at first light. End of discussion.”

Defeated, Wyatt let out a soft sigh and looked down at his feet, feeling his shoulder being gently squeezed by Morgan. 

“Fine.” He said, but it was just to get his brothers off his back. If his brothers weren’t going to do anything useful to find his friend, then he was going to do it on his own, with or without their help.

Back at the abandoned shack, Doc was panting harshly after having emptied the contents of his stomach on the floor. It had been a few hours, but he could still feel the phantom sensation of the outlaws’ hands all over himself, in every area of his body and it made him feel filthy. Another image from before flashed in his vision, one of Arthur and the blond man from before smirking as they did unspeakable things to Doc and pleasured themselves.

“Oh, God.” The thought sent another wave of nausea flooding through his body and Doc retched again, heaving dryly, but nothing came up. Of course, he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. The rain had quieted down sometime after they began their torture session , but Doc hadn’t noticed when, nor did he care. Coughing violently, he tried to get himself to sit up straight, but he couldn’t even manage that. Each racking cough sent sparks of agonising pain radiating out from his chest, leaving him gasping and sputtering for air. When he opened his eyes after the fit had passed, he realised the ground before him was sprayed with crimson. 

At least the outlaws weren’t here to see him like that at the moment. It was almost dark outside, judging by what little he could see through the small window in the closed-off shack. The outlaws had gone to get a meal, leaving only two drunk men to guard Doc. Even to them, a thought creeped into his unguarded mind, He wasn’t worth more attention than that of two drunk men. Of course, he’d tried to escape by knocking over his chair, but they’d just trudged over in their drunken slumber and pushed him back upright with a slap to the face and a kick to the chest. He tried, once, to headbutt one of them, but the man somehow anticipated the move and punched Doc hard in the face, enough to black him out for a good few minutes. He didn’t know how many hours it had been since then.

His arms were sore and his wrists stung from the tight ropes that bound them at the back of the chair. His body was littered with bruises, some inflicted by the outlaw’s fists, some with their feet, while others, Doc shuddered, were from their mouths. He squeezed his eyes shut and clawed at his wrists, desperately trying to get free. No matter where he looked, all he could see were the sadistic eyes of the outlaws and all he could hear was their heartless laughter that echoed through the small room. He bit the inside of his cheek hard as another set of vivid memories from a few hours ago flooded his vision.

“What are you doing to me?!” His screams went unnoticed as he squirmed and writhed beneath their touch. “Stop it! Get the fuck away from me!” This was worse than any beating he could ever have gotten. 

“Shh…” Arthur leaned in and licked his ear while Doc screamed his throat raw out of pure human instinct. He wasn’t thinking, he just wanted to get out. “Be quiet and we’ll make this quick and painless.”

Arthur then proceeded to crash his lips against Doc’s. An act the younger man had always associated with love and softness. But there was no softness in Arthur’s chapped lips and there was no love behind his frigid gaze. No, this was purely an act of violence and resentment and lust. And yet, Doc felt filthy, disgusting and used. 

Of course, he wasn’t going to let them see how much they hurt him. He wasn’t going to give them more bait to hurt Wyatt. He wasn’t submitting to them so easily. The next time one of the men tried to lock their lips with him while scratching at his bare chest with his fingernails, he bit down hard and drew blood. 

“Fuck you!” The blond man spat clutching his bloody mouth. 

Of course, this small act of defiance led to the worst thing Doc had ever experienced. He could still feel the tall man’s rough, calloused fingers forcing his jaw open, leaving bruises along his neck and face, while Arthur cackled and unbuckled his pants.

And just like that, his stomach knotted painfully and he shot forward as best as he could, trying to avoid throwing up all over himself. He shouldn’t have wasted his energy, though, since nothing came up except blood, spit and bile. This time, though, the memories were so fresh and burned into the deepest chambers of his brain, that Doc couldn’t help the pitiful sob that escaped his throat. Soon enough, more followed. He tried to keep himself quiet to avoid waking up the drunk men who were now heaped on top of each other, but he didn’t know why. It wasn’t like there was anything left for them to do. Still, he hung his head low and let the tears fall into his lap, wetting the ruined fabric of his pants. 

So great was his agony and heartache, that Doc wished he could end everything right then and there. He wished he never had to feel again. Wretched and selfish though the desire was, he could do nothing to stop the bitter anguish that threatened to overthrow his senses. He couldn’t help the craving he felt, although momentarily, for the sweet release of death. 

Because for the first time in his life, Doc Holliday had lost all hope. 

He had spent almost 24 hours in this abandoned shack, forced to writhe in the prison that was his own mind, witnessing firsthand the failings and flaws of the human body and having to endure the worst kind of torture one could imagine. All the while, Doc had but one ray of hope, the man he swore to protect with his life, the only real friend he ever had. 

But now, it seemed that it was all a lie. Wyatt Earp was never coming. He was not going to come for Doc and he was not going to rescue him from the clutches of the outlaws. All the better, he thought. At least that way I know their plan is failing. They wanted to hurt Wyatt, but they can’t hurt him if he never shows.

For once, Doc was glad that he was a sad, worthless, unsalvageable husk of a man with one foot in the grave. Or so he told himself. Yet, somewhere deep in his heart was an insatiable ache. A burning that was unlike any physical pain he could dream of experiencing. It told him it was all his fault that they had ended up in this situation. As much as he acted the contrary, Doc was afraid. Underneath the layers of wit and charm and the ever-present smoke of a burning cigar which always seemed to obscure the emotion in his icy teal eyes, he was breakable and fragile, not unlike the tinted panes of glass that look sturdy and reliable, until they are pushed off the edge.

He had been stabbed in the back by everyone he loved, he had been bloodied and beaten and bruised and left to die in the cold. And now, he had been left behind by the only man who ever saw the flecks of gold in those same teal eyes.

He was unsure how long it had been since the last time he was vaguely aware of the concept of time. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. It was still dark, so he figured it couldn’t have been longer than 7 hours. Chuckling humourlessly as he realised how little that timeframe narrowed things down, Doc sighed and stared at his feet. If he was going to die here, he was going to ask the outlaws as his final wish, to have his boots put back on. Because there was not a single chance in Hell that John Henry Holliday was going to die barefoot in an abandoned shack without so much as putting up a fight. The very least he wanted was to have his boots on and die as a gunslinger with honour instead of a coward who couldn’t fight back.

Before he could go on wallowing in his self-pity and waiting patiently until he passed out and death finally claimed him, he heard a rustling noise from the outside. He didn’t bother paying attention to it, though. It was dark and they were in the woods, it was probably an animal roaming around somewhere. He went back to staring aimlessly at his feet, them being the only thing he could see clearly in the dimly lit room. The musky scent filled his sick lungs and he coughed harshly, no longer bothering to resist the reflex. After all, how did it matter?

In the end, he was going to die here and Wyatt was going to move on and have a happier life. A better one, no doubt, now that Doc wasn’t going to be in it. While he, he would slowly starve to death in the dark, or maybe his illness would finally get the better of him, or he would simply die of the many wounds that the outlaws had inflicted on him. It would be better than whatever his current condition was, grazing the line between life and death, not alive enough to move or speak or call out for help, but not dead enough for everything to stop hurting. God, he wanted to just pick a side already. Instead, he was left to deal with this anguish all on his own with no force pushing his wavering form to either side. 

Just then, Doc was snapped back into reality as he jumped at the sound of a loud gunshot nearby. He saw the drunk outlaws begin to stir and reach for their guns, just as a horse whinnied and the front door burst open. As soon as the splintered wood slammed open against the wall, the outlaws started shooting blindly. Through his heavy and swollen eyelids, Doc couldn’t make out who it was, until his breath picked up as soon as he heard the all-too-familiar voice.

“Doc?”

As soon as Wyatt’s voice reached his ears, warmth flooded throughout him, despite his condition and he let out a breath of relief. A breath he didn’t even know he was holding. Wyatt had come back for him. He hadn’t abandoned him . The thought alone almost reduced him to tears yet again, but he blinked them back and steadied his breaths and watched as his best friend shot both the outlaws in the knees, reducing them to immobile piles on the ground.

The look of rage and pure burning resentment in his eyes was one Doc had never seen in the twelve years they had known each other. It sent shivers down his spine and made him realise how grateful he was to be on Wyatt’s good side.

“What have they done to you?” Wyatt inched closer and began undoing his binds. For the first time in what felt like forever, Doc could move his hands freely. He groaned slightly as blood rushed back and his fingers had pins and needles all over them. Still, he smiled and pretended he wasn’t in pain just for Wyatt’s sake. He was glad most of his wounds were hidden.

“Was that a rhetorical question or would you like me to describe it to you?” He said, buttoning his shirt all the way up so Wyatt wouldn’t see the bruises that littered his upper chest. Wyatt rolled his eyes fondly.

“I’m serious, Doc.” He said, moving to pick up Doc’s gear while the younger man attempted to stand up. “How badly are you hurt?”

Doc opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the fierce itch in the back of his throat, which forced him to cough harshly, doubling over at the pain in his chest. It took a few moments for the fit to pass, during which Doc’s legs had given up completely and he realised he was being held up by someone’s arms.

“Thank you, Wyatt.” He rasped, clearing his throat, embarrassed that he was being so weak in front of Wyatt. “But I’m fine, really.” His friend looked like he was about to argue, but then his gaze diverted to something behind Doc and Wyatt’s eyes widened.

“Duck!” Wyatt yelled with panic in his voice and pushed Doc out of the way just as another gunshot rang out in the silent night. 

Somebody grabbed Doc by the collar just as he fell to the floor and harshly wrenched him back up. There was a click, followed by a sensation of cool metal against his temple.

“Make one wrong move, Earp.” Doc recognised Arthur’s oily voice and the musky scent of his dirty clothes as the taller man pinned his arms back, probing the pistol into his forehead. 

“Shit!” Wyatt was aiming a handgun at Arthur, trying to assess the situation and look around for possible exits. Doc tried to elbow Arthur in the gut and escape, but one of the drunk men drew his pistol and yelled out.

“Don’t even think about it, Holliday!” And now, Wyatt had a gun pointing at him, too. 

“Well, Wyatt…” Doc could hear the smug grin in Arthur’s voice as he spoke. “Why don’t you come and join us? I was just about to try out a new way to make your precious friend scream. I think you’d rather enjoy it.”

Doc’s heart was hammering inside his chest, guilt and nausea washing over him like a tidal wave. He looked up at Wyatt with pleading eyes, begging his friend to do something. He didn’t want to try and make another attempt to run, since that would only result in getting them both killed. Even if he managed to get free, there wasn’t much he could do alone in his current state, not when he could barely move his legs and his chest hurt everytime he breathed. 

Doc couldn’t fight back another raucous bout of coughs that left him hunched over, gasping for breath as blood trickled down his chin and onto the damp wooden floorboard below. Arthur’s firm grip on the back of his shirt was the only thing that kept him from dropping to the floor out of sheer exhaustion.

A bead of sweat slipped down Wyatt’s forehead as the four of them stood anticipating each others’ moves in the tense, stretched out silence that had settled over them, broken only by Doc’s wheezing breaths.

Before any of them could make a move, though, two more figures burst into the room, their guns pointed at the two outlaws. The drunk man redirected his pistol at the hooded forms of Morgan and Virgil Earp and began shooting blindly in their general direction.

The distraction provided an opening for Wyatt to sprint over at the speed of light and try to knock the gun out of Arthur’s hands. As the outlaw’s grip on his collar slackened, Doc fell to his knees, his back resting against the cold wall. 

“Virg? Morg? What the hell are you doing here?” Wyatt screamed out as more shots echoed around the shack.

“We knew you’d try to sneak out!” Morgan replied, before turning around as two more men joined the gunfight. 

And then it happened.

Just as Wyatt moved closer to help Doc to his feet, the drunk man who was still on the floor, aimed a shot at the lawman’s leg and missed, the bullet grazing Doc’s side instead. He cried out in pain, looking down to see his white shirt rapidly growing red as though he had dipped it in dyed water. Never in his life had Doc Holliday felt so utterly useless in a gunfight. He was always the one to come out on top, to effortlessly shoot his opponent’s down while maintaining his level-headedness and icy demeanour. Doc wasn’t supposed to be bootless and weaponless on the floor with a gunshot wound to the side, tears flowing freely down his face as the pain was finally too much to bear.

“Wyatt!” Virgil called out and directed the younger man’s attention to Doc’s bleeding form. “Take him and run! We’ve got this!” He cried as he shot one of the other outlaws in the leg. 

Wyatt froze. Surely, he couldn’t just leave his brothers behind to fend for themselves! “You sure?”

His younger brother nodded. “Take Doc and get him to safety! We’ll arrest these bastards!” Morgan patted him on the shoulder and nodded firmly, reloading his pistol and ducking away to avoid Arthur’s line of fire.

Wyatt breathed heavily, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. For a second, he hesitated, debating on what to do. On one hand were his brothers, fighting against four armed men with no backup plan, and on the other hand was his best friend, hurt and injured and in no shape to escape alone. He took one look at the sheer heartache and agony infused into the tears that flowed freely from Doc’s eyes, and there was nothing else to be said.

“Thank you, Morg.” He said simply and raced towards his best friend, kneeling down next to him. Doc,  who was clutching his side, his shirt rapidly changing colour, only looked at him with desperation in his eyes. 

“Wyatt.”

The anguish laced into that singular syllable, laden with tears and pain, made Wyatt’s heart stop. He had never seen Doc like this before and his stomach dropped as he tried to imagine the things these men could have done to make him like this. Pushing that thought away, he ran a comforting hand through Doc’s hair, brushing it away from his face. His heart broke when his best friend flinched away from the touch and let out a soft sob.

“I’m so sorry, Wyatt. I got us into this mess.” Doc’s breathing picked up as Wyatt helped him to his feet and they sprinted out of the house, which was still echoing with gunshots.

“Don’t be, Doc. Wasn’t your fault.” Wyatt swallowed thickly. They were silent for another moment as Wyatt found his way back to the hotel with his best friend leaning heavily against him, the occasional tear wetting Wyatt’s coat. 

“God, Wyatt, you don’t have to do this.” Doc rasped as Wyatt burst into his hotel room and sat the injured man down on the white bed, instantly ruining the sheets. Another wave of pain stung Doc’s heart as he thought about what would happen if either Morgan or Virgil got hurt trying to give them time to escape. He didn’t think Wyatt would ever forgive him if one of his brothers got hurt while he could have prevented it.

“I- I should have-I could have prevented this. I’m so sorry, I can’t-” Doc’s words mingled with his gasping, huffed breaths as he struggled to fight off the tears. God, he didn’t want to cry in front of Wyatt. In over a decade, he hadn’t cried in front of anyone, and yet, here he was, breaking down from nothing but some physical pain. He really was a weakling. 

“It’s okay, Doc.” Wyatt shushed him, gently holding his shoulders in place and rubbing his back as another coughing fit threatened to consume him. “I’m here. You're gonna be alright, just breathe.” When Doc could breathe again without having to cough every time he did so, Wyatt began to unbutton his shirt. “Let me see that wound now, Doc.” He instructed firmly after Doc pulled away as soon as he got the first one.

“‘Tis just a flesh wound, Wyatt. I can bandage it up just well.” He lied. In truth, he didn’t want his best friend to see the nasty bruises that cluttered his chest and shoulders.

Wyatt raised his eyebrow. “Can you even lift your arms up all the way, Doc?”

His friend’s silence and averted gaze was the only answer Wyatt needed as he continued undoing the buttons on Doc’s shirt. This was it. There was nothing more Doc could do about it. Wyatt was going to see the bruises, feel disgusted by what Doc had done and leave him for good. Surely a man as reputable as Wyatt Earp wouldn’t want to be seen hanging out with a man that let people use him like that. Still, his heart dropped when Wyatt’s eyes widened as soon as he saw the patchwork of multi-coloured bruises. 

“What in the Hell happened?!” Wyatt exclaimed, trailing his calloused fingers over the blue and purple array etched onto Doc’s skin. Desperation rose up in his chest just as tears welled up in his eyes and he gripped Wyatt’s wrist reflexively, trying to keep his only friend around for as long as he could.

“Wyatt, please. ” He begged, but he didn’t know what for. Was he begging him to stay? To not abandon him like everyone else had done? Or was he begging him to take the pain away, somehow? All he knew was that he would be fine as long as Wyatt was. “I’m sorry.” He uttered brokenly.

Suddenly, Wyatt sat down on the bed next to where Doc was hunched over, hiding his face in his hands as he dissolved into helpless, breathless sobs. He put an arm around Doc’s shoulders and pulled him closer, squeezing the back of his neck comfortingly. “Doc, will you please look at me?” He placed a hand on the younger man’s arm, smiling softly as Doc did what he said and looked up at him with those piercing blue eyes speckled with gold. “Good. Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully.” Doc took a deep breath of anticipation as his heart began to race, waiting for Wyatt to say he was done dealing with Doc and his stupid, weak self. Instead, Wyatt’s eyes softened. “None of this is your fault, okay? None of it.” He spoke with so much certainty that Doc almost believed him. Almost. For some reason, it was becoming even harder to catch his breath the more he tried to calm down. When he realised he couldn't, he freaked out even more.

"Wyatt, I-I can't...something's happening-" He gasped. He tightened his grip around his friend's arm, while Wyatt simply spoke in the most calming voice Doc had ever heard.

"Just breathe with me, Doc." He instructed. "Try to breathe and you're gonna be fine. Trust me. You're okay." He firmly rubbed his back while Doc tried desperately to control his racing thoughts. Everything that happened in the last few hours seemed to him him all at once and left him sobbing and sputtering for air. 

"That's not good, Doc. You gotta breathe, or you're gonna pass out." Wyatt pressed Doc closer to himself, trying to do everything he possibly could to ease the suffering of the younger man. "That's it, just keep breathing. Deep in, deep out. Easy. There you go."

Once again, Doc’s response was interrupted by his breath hitching as he lurched forward from the force of the coughing fit that followed. “It’s okay, Doc.” Wyatt whispered, rubbing his chest to help him breathe through it. This was worse than the last one. Doc’s head spun and his vision swam before his eyes as he felt the familiar warmth of blood making its way out of his throat. Wyatt was holding him up by the chest, making sure he didn’t fall over. “Let it out, I’ve got you.” Doc’s throat burned by the time it was over and his chest ached beyond words. Each breath felt like a thousand white-hot knives were digging deep into his chest. He sagged into Wyatt, who was still holding him, and went limp from the exhaustion, while the older man softly cradled him against his chest.

“Wyatt…” He choked out as more tears slid down his face. “Why do you put yourself through this just for me?” 

Wyatt let out a small wet chuckle, his own eyes filling with tears at the sight of his best friend in so much pain. “Because I want to help you.”

“I ain’t worth it.” Doc mumbled as sleep weighed his weary eyes down. It broke the older man’s heart because even in his state of exhaustion, he cared more about Wyatt than he did about himself.

“You are, Doc.” Wyatt tried to put in every ounce of emotion he possibly could to make those words sound as genuine as they did everytime he thought them. “You’re worth every good thing in this whole world.”

“I’m so sorry, Wyatt.” Doc felt himself fade in and out of consciousness while the small wound in his side ached. “For being so weak.”

“You’re not weak at all, Doc.” The older man pulled Doc tighter into himself, trying desperately to make him see how wrong he was. “You’re perfect.”

Doc may have imagined that last part, but he didn’t care. He was finally okay. Sure, his physical injuries would take a while to heal, but he could deal with that. He was no longer hopeless. He had hope; He had Wyatt. He was drifting off to sleep in his friend’s arms, enveloped in his secure embrace and he had never felt more at home. They were going to have some long conversations about what happened that day, sometime in the near future, but Doc couldn’t bring himself to care as his breathing evened out, lulled by the faint beating of Wyatt’s heart and the rising and falling of his chest.