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One thing Wyatt had long said he would never do - no matter the circumstance - was play cards with Doc Holliday. It was a losing proposition, to start with; Doc was the best, coldest, most calculating gambler Wyatt had ever seen. He might seem like he was having fun, but rest assured, he was getting ready to rook his mark. Or kill them. Either would be a satisfactory end to a day's work.
Yet here they were, holed up in a violent rainstorm somewhere in the New Mexico Territory, with Doc and Wyatt in one room of the hotel and the rest of their posse squirreled away in a second room. They had to pass the time somehow, and there were only so many things they could do.
By flickering lamplight, Doc dealt the cards, and Wyatt squinted at him in the close dark, trying to get a sense for how much Doc was cheating. Not that it mattered, playing for imaginary money, but it was the principle. Doc's shirt was open at the collar, and his neck visible; Wyatt tried to keep his eyes off that patch of revealed skin, but it was no damn use.
"Now tell me, Wyatt," Doc said, dealing a fresh hand. "What is this I hear, quite belatedly, about you manhandling a ruffian who was seeking the pleasure of my company in the Oriental Saloon?"
"Aw, Doc, don't go making a big deal out of it." Wyatt picked up his cards and tried to concentrate, but his head was spinning, and his gaze kept traveling back to Doc. Wasn't the whiskey that was making him dizzy - he'd had more whiskey in an hour than he'd drunk here all night. Must be the low light.
Doc's eyes were on him, expectant. "I really must know, if only for the sake of my curiosity. Did you tell him, and I quote, to stay the fuck away from Doc Holliday?"
"May have." In fact he certainly had, because if anybody in that town laid so much as a finger on Doc, Wyatt was going to remove their entire goddamned arm. But he hadn't really intended for Doc to know.
"Are you," and now Doc shifted forward in his seat, his shirt falling open a bit more, baring his chest. He picked up his glass and sipped from it, then set it back down, drawing a finger around the rim. "Are you under the mistaken impression I am in need of the protection of the law?" The way he said it, Wyatt was hard-pressed not to roll his eyes.
He sighed. "No, I don't think you need protecting. I think you could marshal just about anywhere and do a better job of it than whatever yahoo that town could afford to hire."
"Then it was personal," Doc said. He set down two of his cards and waited for Wyatt, who really was not particularly interested in his hand. But he dutifully slapped down three cards and kept a pair of nines.
"Well what in the hell did you expect me to do? Do you know how many cowboys and vagabonds roll through here looking for you? It's not like I can have them kicking up mayhem all over the damn place."
Doc dealt three cards to Wyatt with an elegant flick of his wrist, and two to himself. Then he fanned the cards out in his hand, studying them briefly, before setting them down. "It may interest you to know - and I am assuming nothing, of course; I'm merely speculating - that I quite enjoy the idea of you standing to my defense."
Wyatt tossed back his whiskey, poured himself another, and poured one for Doc as well. He looked at his hand; three nines now, plus a two and an eight. A shit hand if there ever was one, since Doc's natural luck plus his damned bluffing would have him lifting the money right out of Wyatt's pocket, if there were any wager on the game.
He gave Doc a speculative look. "What if it does?" Wyatt said. "Interest me."
"Well then, friend, we might have ourselves a proper game." Doc set his cards on the table. A full house, kings over queens. In the damp room, the smell of him - leather and expensive soap, and rich cigar smoke - filled the air. It was making Wyatt crazy.
"Why do you talk in circles?" Wyatt asked irritably, throwing his cards down. "Have you ever been plainspoken once in your whole life?"
"I try to be honest. I'm afraid that's the best I can do." Doc's hands went to his waist, and unbuckled his gun belt; he draped it over the arm of the chair, and tossed back another whiskey. "Why is it you didn't tell me about this little episode at the saloon?"
"Why is it you never tell me any damn thing? I have to hear second-hand about you lying still as a corpse in a hotel room across town, past death's door and inside it. That your idea of real friendship?" The minute he said it, the fear came rushing back - the rumor had been that Doc was dead, that the woman Kate was going to have him carted off and buried without so much as a by-your-leave or a proper goodbye, and Wyatt had nearly broken his neck getting over there to find out Doc was still somehow alive.
It was also that fear that kept him from telling most of his truths, because that kind of fear only could come from one place, and a man wasn't supposed to feel that sort of thing for another man.
Then again, Wyatt had never known a man like Doc before. Might never again.
"Shall I deal again?" Doc scooped up the cards and held them loosely in his hand.
"I can't concentrate," Wyatt said. "All the rain hitting the roof sounds like horses running loose up there."
"Is that so? What a shame. Perhaps the stakes should be higher." Doc smiled, and his eyes glittered in the dim light. "I endeavor not to be a cliché - there's nothing more gauche, truth be told - but a game can't be properly played if one's heart isn't in it."
"For God's sake, man." Wyatt stood up and poured one more shot - for courage, maybe, because if he was ever going to find it, the liquor might help. "We're riding out of here at dawn to go kill some sons of bitches, and you want to hide in card games and penny-and-dollar-ante me to death at poker?"
"Not particularly." Doc's smile faded, but the intensity of his gaze did not. Eyes locked to Wyatt's, he said, "It's just that I thought that's the only game you were willing to play."
Wyatt stared at him, thinking about whether or not he could taste whiskey on Doc's mouth right then, if he kissed him. If the fucking rain would ever let up. If they stayed there one more night, and let the posse ride on ahead, whether they could draw the curtains and put death aside for a day.
"Get up," Wyatt said, and then before Doc could move, Wyatt kicked the table aside and - then he stopped himself, tamping down the urge for violence, which he knew was something much more tender, in disguise. His hands itched to be on Doc's body, to quiet the wanting within him.
Doc rose slowly from his chair, that deceptively slow way he had of moving through the world, like he hadn't a care in the world. They closed the space between them, closer, and then Wyatt had him.
Wyatt could taste whiskey on his lips, and the copper-salt tang of blood. He could feel Doc's collarbone beneath his hand, and he took and took until he had to break the kiss or never breathe again. Doc's fingers latched into Wyatt's vest and pulled, until it came loose, until Doc had him close enough, where he wanted him.
"Is that plainspoken enough for you?" Doc asked, his voice rough, hoarse from the perpetual cough and the whiskey, low with desire. "Because I'd prefer never to play games of chance with you, Wyatt. Not with you."
"No more games, then," Wyatt rasped, already thinking about whether the bed could hold two grown men, and whether Doc's skin would taste as good as his smart mouth.
A long night, and a day, and another night together. It wouldn't be enough, but it was a better hand than either of them had held in a long, long time.