Chapter Text
Doc was well and truly beginning to tire of Tombstone, and perhaps the territory as a whole. Between the weather never being able to decide whether it wanted to be a hundred degrees or to piss down so much rain it’d flood the streets in minutes, and just the Cowboys in their insipid entirety, Doc was sick of this shit.
Slogging his way through the mud and the sudden downpour the skies decided to grace him with, he was really starting to revisit the idea of cutting his losses and making a break for it, like Kate kept encouraging him to do via telegrams from Globe every couple weeks when she got bored. The fact that he was even outside in the first place disabused him of that notion.
Virgil had gotten shot, and it didn’t look all that great, or at least that’s what Milt told him. Doc knew Wyatt would be with Virgil, but he had a feeling that Morgan would have skittered off elsewhere, unknowingly putting a target on his back, so in Doc’s unceasing wisdom he’d decided to try and track the man down to keep the Cowboys from shooting another of the Earp clan.
Not wanting to stay in the rain for longer than he truly had to, he made the executive decision to cut through a nearby alley that led right to the main thoroughfare after a quick look around to be sure no one was following him.
He’d soon come to realize that he was not near thorough enough in his search.
Stepping disdainfully through the sucking mud, he silently vowed to just buy new boots after this. Cleaning them would be too much effort, and he’d been needing new ones for weeks anyway.
Due to the rain, he didn’t hear the sound of footsteps behind him, but he sure as hell heard the cocking back of a gun. Years and years of looking over his shoulder had his ears fine tuned for that sound, and not even the rain could overpower that metallic clicking.
He had just about long enough to come to that realization and begin to turn around, a foot slipping behind him at the motion, before the much louder sound of the shot reached his ears.
He immediately got pushed off his feet, the mud doing nothing to help keep him upright. Falling to the ground, he mostly felt as if he’d been punched in the side.
Barely able to see in the dark, he squinted through the rain pouring over his face—when had he lost his hat?— and saw a jagged hole torn through the side of his vest, already beginning to redden through the yellow fabric.
With no warning, all his senses flooded back in at once. The rain was beating too loud in his ears, the smell of mud and horseshit made him nauseous, and the tearing pain arching up his side finally registered. He groaned under his breath through gritted teeth, just barely able to roll onto his back instead of remaining on his side.
He lay there panting, feeling like he was choking on the rain at this angle. His hand was clasped tightly over his side, but with how soaked his clothing was, there was little point. So oversaturated, his blood was just dripping down and mixing with the sludge on the ground, barely hindered by his vest and hand.
In the back of his mind, he knew if he survived this, his lungs would soon wish he didn’t, because even just lying there he was fighting back the strongest urge to cough. He knew if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and just imagining the pain in his side to follow made him swallow down more nausea.
Through the corner of his eye, he saw a figure race across the end of the alley in the direction of Allen Street, where he’d been meaning to go, but they were gone before he could even sum up the energy to call out for help.
Even with the searing pain emanating from deep within his torso, and the quiet terror that he’d be cursed to die a slow death due to a gutshot, he found his eyes beginning to slide shut. The dizziness made him feel like he was on a boat, and the sound of the rain didn’t help. Slowly, his hand began to slip off his side, landing in the mud with a disgusting splat. But he didn’t have the energy to open his eyes anymore, let alone lift his hand.
He couldn’t help but muse that at least this was more dignified than dying from consumption, even if he’d miss Wyatt. Wyatt…
A harsh slap across his cheek snapped him back awake, even though everything remained gray and fuzzy along the edges when he blinked. Almost nose-to-nose with him was a furious Wyatt, his eyes so wide he looked comparable to a spooked horse.
“You stay awake you damn bastard, or I’ll lock Kate and you in a closet with a derringer between you,” Wyatt snarled. To Doc’s ears it was muffled and grainy, but audible.
“You strike a hard bargain,” he mumbled, but in the state he was in, he honestly had no clue how decipherable it was to Wyatt’s ears.
“Least you chose a convenient spot to get shot, Doc,” Wyatt muttered, hauling Doc to his feet despite the strangled cry of agony that tore out of him once his side was jostled. “Doctor’s office is right through the alley,” he finished, breathless from Doc’s weight.
“I always aim t’ please,” Doc gasped, bright lights flashing across his vision like fireflies. He could barely feel Wyatt’s grip on his wrist, keeping his arm secure around Wyatt’s shoulder, but he sure as hell could feel the hot fucking poker digging into his innards.
Each heaving breath ended up exhaled on a gasp, leaving him even more lightheaded and in pain, and despite Wyatt’s help, his feet were mostly dragging through the mud rather than stepping. For once, it seemed his almost emaciated state would be a boon for a situation, rather than a blight.
Doc looked down to see how much blood had leaked through his vest, but his vision was so faint and colorless that he couldn’t make out anything to tell, and he was so drenched by the rain that even that wasn’t an indicator. The obscene amount of symptoms he was experiencing all led him to one unfortunate conclusion: not good.
“Where’s Morgan?” Doc murmured through numb lips, unsure of if Wyatt even heard him.
“He’s with Virgil at home,” he said shortly. “Nearly there,” he added, noticeably increasing their pace, despite the fact that Doc couldn’t even keep up with the previous one.
“Wyatt, do not let me die slowly,” Doc ordered, reaching over blindly with the arm not slung over Wyatt and grabbing the man by his sodden shirt. “If this wound is terminal, do not allow me to die slowly. I have come to terms with one slow death, but I do not have it within me to accept another.”
There was an unfathomable look in Wyatt’s eyes, and at that moment, they were the only thing Doc could actually make head or tail of. Everything else was just a gray wave, undulating in the corners of his eyes.
“My God!” Interrupted, Wyatt snapped his head toward the voice, relaxing once he saw it was the doctor. “Another one?”
Doc hadn’t realized they’d stopped, but he could definitely tell once Wyatt had them moving again, but this time the doctor had rushed forward and draped Doc’s free arm over his own shoulders to help.
“Yes,” Wyatt replied, verbose as ever. Doc would have snorted if he’d had the energy. As it was, even the sound of the rain around him was beginning to fade away.
He only knew his eyes had closed once they were wrenched back open, except this time Doc was laid out on a table, staring up at a lantern turned as high as it could go. His head was forced to the side, and once again he was locking eyes with Wyatt, with everything fading away in the background.
“The doc’s about to get that bullet out, alright? Do you want the laudanum?” Wyatt asked, and Doc noticed how the man’s hand was still splayed over his chin.
“Yes,” Doc rasped with zero hesitation in his mind. He may not enjoy laudanum as a daily treatment for his consumption, but he was known to use it in dire circumstances, and he felt that if anything qualified, this one definitely would.
Wyatt left his view for a moment, and Doc heard the doctor getting his supplies ready. A fuzzy glance down confirmed that his vest had already been cut open. No hope for this one, then, he mourned.
He blinked and there was a spoon of bitter liquid in his mouth, which he swallowed on reflex with a slight grimace.
When the doctor turned back toward him with forceps and a scalpel, Doc didn’t even have to ask before Wyatt was undoing his belt and folding it up, setting it between Doc’s teeth.
With a harsh exhale through his nose, Doc gave a sharp nod at the doctor and gripped the edges of the table he was laid on.
Even through the dulling effects of the laudanum, Doc could feel the moment the doctor dug his forceps in. A quiet groan dragged its way out of his mouth, muffled by the belt. Doc’s grip on the table was so firm his knuckles were bone-white.
“This thing’s really lodged in there,” Goodfellow murmured, tugging hard enough on the bullet that Doc felt like his chest was about to cave in. The whine that slipped out would have embarrassed the hell out of him, if he’d had any memory of it later.
Finally, with a loud crack followed by a disgusting sucking noise, the doctor had the bullet out and held it up to the lantern, Doc’s blood still dripping off of it. Through squinted eyes, Doc thought he could even see a shard of bone clinging to the tip of it.
“Nice and whole,” the doctor announced, and both Doc and Wyatt breathed sighs of relief, with Doc’s coming out a bit ragged. “Looks like the shot may have clipped your liver, if where it ended up in your ribs is any indication.” Looking straight at Doc then, he looked almost apologetic.
“I’m gonna have to cut the wound open a hair bigger so I can see better,” Goodfellow said.
Doc grimaced around the belt. Being cut into even worse to look inside him did not sound appealing at all, not in the least. But he’d also seen what happened to folks who’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse and died not twelve hours later because of the bleeding from the inside. He already had one death sentence, he did not need another.
A shaky hand reached up and pulled the belt from between his teeth, ignoring the bite marks indented deep.
“Give me some more laudanum,” he rasped in reply, his words answer enough to the doctor’s unspoken question.
The doctor gave a nod to Wyatt, and soon another spoonful of the foul stuff was being deposited on his tongue. He swallowed it down, and not thirty seconds later did the throbbing in his side diminish to barely an afterthought.
Through half-lidded eyes, he peered over at the doctor who was watching him carefully. “It’s now or never, Doctor Goodfellow,” Doc murmured, deciding to leave the belt out this time.
Doc just barely managed to suck down a deep breath through uncoordinated lungs when he felt the pressure on his side. A quick glance down had him immediately looking back up at the ceiling. He didn’t like the sight of himself being cut in while barely feeling it; it didn’t feel like that was his body being sliced open.
At the very least, the pain had finally ebbed away to a distant memory, but Doc knew he’d be feeling it later, since he would most definitely refuse any more laudanum after this. Some expensive whiskey would set him straight in no time.
“Hm… As expected. The bullet clipped your liver but just barely, it’s managed to stop bleeding on its own,” the doctor reported, voice distracted as he continued to poke around Doc’s innards. Risking a look at Wyatt, he was amused to find the man looking a little green around the gills.
“What’s that mean for me?” Doc asked, breathless.
“Well, it doesn’t seem to need stitches, so I’ll stick some glue on there to be sure it says closed and it should figure itself out. In the meantime, that means no drinking for at least six weeks, and I’d suggest light work as well, considering I’m about to sew up a fairly grievous wound,” Goodfellow said, withdrawing his scalpel and looking around for his adhesive.
Damn. There went his plans for whiskey. He may test the limits of his body as often as he was able, but he had no wish to kill himself due to alcohol poisoning simply because he was a little impatient.
“Most terrible news, Wyatt,” Doc muttered, earning a quiet huff of laughter from the other man.
“I’m sure you’ll find something to keep yourself in good spirits,” Wyatt said. Doc just shrugged weakly and tried to pretend he didn’t feel Goodfellow’s fingers digging back around inside him.
Several minutes passed in the strained quiet before Goodfellow pulled back from Doc. “Alright, time to stitch ya shut.”
The laudanum helped, but still Doc could feel the tug of the thread on his skin every time Goodfellow pulled it through for another stitch, but at the very least the man worked fast. Five minutes later and he was wiping his bloodied hands off and staring down at his work with satisfaction.
“I recommend you stay in bed for about a week, and do as little as you can for the next two months, if possible. If not, best advice I can say is keep an eye out for tears and always have a needle and thread on ya. As it is, I’ll let Wyatt here get you home since we’re done here,” Goodfellow said, already beginning to clean off the dirtied instruments he’d just been using.
“Wyatt, I do believe that standing may be beyond me at the moment,” Doc murmured, trying to breathe through the shame suffusing his chest and throat.
Wyatt stood watching him thoughtfully for just a moment. “Let me run and get Morgan real fast, alright? More dignified than me carrying you like we’re newlyweds,” Wyatt said.
Doc’s face twisted unhappily, but he couldn’t deny that while being carried between two people would hurt, it certainly wouldn’t be a new sight for the citizens of Tombstone, and they likely wouldn’t look twice at Doc’s predicament. The pain was vastly better than the embarrassment, and he wasted no time in nodding his agreement.
Wyatt immediately turned on his heel and marched out, and Doc spent the next several minutes staring at the lantern overheard and following the swirls of light his addled mind concocted.
Two sets of footsteps brought his attention back to where it should be, and he couldn’t help but frown at Morgan’s haggard appearance, and even Wyatt was looking paler than when he’d left.
Still, without a word among the four of them, with Goodfellow still absorbed in cleaning his tools, the brothers wasted no time in getting a secure grip on Doc’s ankles and beneath his arms and lifting him up.
Instantly, his side flared in agony, but the stitches held. The men were doing a good job at keeping him level, at least.
As the brothers carted him outside and toward his lodgings, he forced his eyes shut and did his best to breathe through the pain. Soon, thankfully, the door was being opened by Kate, who immediately looked distressed to see the state Doc was in while she ushered them all in.
“Put him in the bed, I’ll take care of him for the night,” Kate ordered, leading them toward the back of the house. Wyatt and Morgan silently followed, and Doc was just keen on not throwing up the bile he could feel at the back of his throat.
The second he was laid down on the bed, all the tension in his body drained out of him with a pained groan. His side was throbbing persistently, but still the stitches held.
“Feel better, Doc,” Morgan said, voice hollow, before turning and leaving.
Wyatt just looked at him for several long moments, set a hand on Doc’s shoulder, the warmth soaking through the fabric, and then turned to leave as well.
Watching them go, something niggled at the back of his mind, but as exhausted as he was and with Kate already fussing over him, it slipped through his fingers before he could get a grasp on it.
He only remembered what he was trying to think of the next day, when news of Virgil’s passing finally reached him. Suddenly, Wyatt and Morgan’s attitude the night before made far more sense.
Doc knew then that the doctor’s hopes of him getting adequate bedrest were to be hopeless. No doubt Wyatt and Morgan were going to get their revenge, and Doc knew he was going to be at their sides, no matter his state.