Here's To Being Civilized
by Nicole Clevenger (c)January 2004
*
Notes: Written for the Remainder New Year's Challenge at Yuletide, the Obscure Fandom Secret Santa Project.
*
"It's true, there is nothing that can compare to the soft curves of a lovely lady," Doc slurred, raising his cup in a toast. "But it's also true that there's something to be said for occasionally experiencing the strong grip of one's fellow man." That said he knocked back the shot, seemingly oblivious to the gaping stares of the four other occupants of the table.
Beside him, Wyatt choked. He chuckled awkwardly, eyes flickering over the other three men. "Ignore him. He's drunk."
"That may well be," Doc said. His hand shook a little as he poured himself another. "But I'll thank you not to make excuses for me." The drink went down as smoothly as the last.
"There ain't no excuse for you," a voice growled low under the surrounding din of the crowded bar.
Doc didn't bother to look up at the man across from him as he set himself up with yet another refill. "Why, John Crowley - have I said something to offend your delicate sensibilities?"
Wyatt looked back and forth between Crowley and Doc; out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam Jackson doing the same. Old Mutt Hawlett was studying his cards intently, as if he hoped that maybe the situation would resolve itself if only he didn't pay too much attention. Wyatt watched Crowley's hands, waited for their inevitable sudden move. He couldn't believe they were having this conversation.
"I came here to play cards, Holliday. Not sit here and listen to this disgusting -"
"Disgusting?" He finished off the drink and licked his lips. "May I infer then, sir, that you have tried it?"
Crowley was getting redder by the second; Wyatt felt his muscles tensing. He eyed the half-empty bottle in the middle of the table. Visualized the motions needed to grab for it and bring it down on the back of Crowley's head in a hurry. No way to tell for sure which way Jackson would lean in a fight, but he was a good man and probably not like to make trouble. And Old Mutt looked to be staying out of things entirely.
"You calling me a -"
The angrier Crowley got, the more calmly amused seemed Doc. Like it was all just another friendly hand of cards. A game. Wyatt briefly considered dropping that bottle on the back of his friend's head instead.
"I merely point out that you need to be more accepting," Doc cut him off with a languid flip of the hand. "Dismissing things out of hand like this just isn't *civilized*."
Crowley blinked. Wyatt's hand shot forward as he started to move; there were screeching sounds as one or both of the other men pushed back from the table in a hurry. Time stretched, stopped, and then slammed back into itself as Wyatt's fingers closed around the neck of the bottle.
But Doc already had his gun up, his steady aim on the center of Crowley's forehead looking to be nothing other than stone cold sober. The other man froze, his hand on his holster and his face a mask of scared.
"Now, I want you to think very carefully here, John. Is this *really* how you'd like our friendship to end?"
A beat, and all the noise around them seemed to go muted and distant. Wyatt reminded himself to take a breath.
Then Crowley shook his head, raised his hand out from under the shadows of the table. He emptied his own glass and slammed it back onto the scarred wood before getting to his feet and taking himself out of the bar.
Wyatt relaxed, releasing his white-knuckled grip on the sticky bottle. Jackson and Mutt sat themselves back down again, picking up their cards as if nothing unusual had happened. Doc coughed, reholstered his gun.
"I was beginning to think that man would never leave," Doc said, pouring himself another shot.
*
The night wore on; the men got drunker. There were no more guns drawn (though they did twice hear shots fired somewhere down the street outside), no more threats of impending violence. Doc continued winning - as Doc tended to do - reminding Wyatt once again of his oft-renewed resolution to find someone else for company when he was looking to play some cards. Round about midnight, Mutt begged off and went home; an hour or so later, Jackson followed his lead. Left with only the company of one another, Doc and Wyatt let the deck rest on the table and switched to swapping stories.
"...so with a straight face Marllini says, 'No, Sheriff, I don't know how those pigs got in there. But my wife sure does like her ham...'"
Both men exploded into laughter. "Wyatt," Doc wheezed, wiping at his eyes, "promise me that there will one day be a record of all these grand adventures of yours." He tried to suck in a breath; the laughter changed into a bout of coughing.
Wyatt pretended to ignore it, taking the opportunity to clear his meager winnings off the table. "What makes you think folks would be interested in hearing about me? All the good stories been told already?"
Doc pulled out a clean white handkerchief, held it to his mouth. When he could speak again, his voice was hoarse. "Oh no - there's where you're wrong, sir... something tells me that you're the stuff of which legends will be made..." It was all he could get out before the words dissolved into more coughing.
When the fit finally died down, Doc slumped back into his chair and struggled through a couple of exhausted breaths. Then he cleared his throat, swallowed, and sat up. "Well," he said.
He began to gather up his own collection of money with one hand, using the other to help himself to the rest of what was in the bottle.
"'Bout ready to call it a night, Doc?" Wyatt asked, as casually as he could make it sound.
"Indeed." Doc's smile looked somewhat lopsided as he pushed himself to his feet; when Wyatt stood, the rest of the room got somewhat lopsided as well. "It just so happens I have the good fortune of another bottle back at the hotel. That, my friend, is what I call a night."
Wyatt chuckled and tried to concentrate on staying upright as they staggered out of the bar. "Not what I meant..."
They stopped on the wooden sidewalk, waiting outside the door while Doc lit a cigarette. Pleasantly mellow, Wyatt stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. Closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the warm night air. He could hear the rise and fall of lingering conversation from inside the building behind them, the sound of a restless horse in the stable two doors down. Beside him, Doc took a deep drag, and through his mind slipped the unbidden image of his friend's lips wrapped wet around that thin burning paper stick.
Eyes still closed, he tipped his head back and felt the whispered kiss of a faint breeze across his face. "Say Doc... You mean all that stuff you were saying earlier?"
He wondered if the other man was going to know what he was referring to. He wondered what it was he was hoping Doc was going to say.
The breath in his ear was unexpected, the smooth familiar tones of a voice sounding like honey and tobacco and gin.
"Why, Wyatt Earp," Doc murmured, "are you propositioning me? What a peach of an idea."
end.
by Nicole Clevenger (c)January 2004
*
Notes: Written for the Remainder New Year's Challenge at Yuletide, the Obscure Fandom Secret Santa Project.
*
"It's true, there is nothing that can compare to the soft curves of a lovely lady," Doc slurred, raising his cup in a toast. "But it's also true that there's something to be said for occasionally experiencing the strong grip of one's fellow man." That said he knocked back the shot, seemingly oblivious to the gaping stares of the four other occupants of the table.
Beside him, Wyatt choked. He chuckled awkwardly, eyes flickering over the other three men. "Ignore him. He's drunk."
"That may well be," Doc said. His hand shook a little as he poured himself another. "But I'll thank you not to make excuses for me." The drink went down as smoothly as the last.
"There ain't no excuse for you," a voice growled low under the surrounding din of the crowded bar.
Doc didn't bother to look up at the man across from him as he set himself up with yet another refill. "Why, John Crowley - have I said something to offend your delicate sensibilities?"
Wyatt looked back and forth between Crowley and Doc; out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam Jackson doing the same. Old Mutt Hawlett was studying his cards intently, as if he hoped that maybe the situation would resolve itself if only he didn't pay too much attention. Wyatt watched Crowley's hands, waited for their inevitable sudden move. He couldn't believe they were having this conversation.
"I came here to play cards, Holliday. Not sit here and listen to this disgusting -"
"Disgusting?" He finished off the drink and licked his lips. "May I infer then, sir, that you have tried it?"
Crowley was getting redder by the second; Wyatt felt his muscles tensing. He eyed the half-empty bottle in the middle of the table. Visualized the motions needed to grab for it and bring it down on the back of Crowley's head in a hurry. No way to tell for sure which way Jackson would lean in a fight, but he was a good man and probably not like to make trouble. And Old Mutt looked to be staying out of things entirely.
"You calling me a -"
The angrier Crowley got, the more calmly amused seemed Doc. Like it was all just another friendly hand of cards. A game. Wyatt briefly considered dropping that bottle on the back of his friend's head instead.
"I merely point out that you need to be more accepting," Doc cut him off with a languid flip of the hand. "Dismissing things out of hand like this just isn't *civilized*."
Crowley blinked. Wyatt's hand shot forward as he started to move; there were screeching sounds as one or both of the other men pushed back from the table in a hurry. Time stretched, stopped, and then slammed back into itself as Wyatt's fingers closed around the neck of the bottle.
But Doc already had his gun up, his steady aim on the center of Crowley's forehead looking to be nothing other than stone cold sober. The other man froze, his hand on his holster and his face a mask of scared.
"Now, I want you to think very carefully here, John. Is this *really* how you'd like our friendship to end?"
A beat, and all the noise around them seemed to go muted and distant. Wyatt reminded himself to take a breath.
Then Crowley shook his head, raised his hand out from under the shadows of the table. He emptied his own glass and slammed it back onto the scarred wood before getting to his feet and taking himself out of the bar.
Wyatt relaxed, releasing his white-knuckled grip on the sticky bottle. Jackson and Mutt sat themselves back down again, picking up their cards as if nothing unusual had happened. Doc coughed, reholstered his gun.
"I was beginning to think that man would never leave," Doc said, pouring himself another shot.
*
The night wore on; the men got drunker. There were no more guns drawn (though they did twice hear shots fired somewhere down the street outside), no more threats of impending violence. Doc continued winning - as Doc tended to do - reminding Wyatt once again of his oft-renewed resolution to find someone else for company when he was looking to play some cards. Round about midnight, Mutt begged off and went home; an hour or so later, Jackson followed his lead. Left with only the company of one another, Doc and Wyatt let the deck rest on the table and switched to swapping stories.
"...so with a straight face Marllini says, 'No, Sheriff, I don't know how those pigs got in there. But my wife sure does like her ham...'"
Both men exploded into laughter. "Wyatt," Doc wheezed, wiping at his eyes, "promise me that there will one day be a record of all these grand adventures of yours." He tried to suck in a breath; the laughter changed into a bout of coughing.
Wyatt pretended to ignore it, taking the opportunity to clear his meager winnings off the table. "What makes you think folks would be interested in hearing about me? All the good stories been told already?"
Doc pulled out a clean white handkerchief, held it to his mouth. When he could speak again, his voice was hoarse. "Oh no - there's where you're wrong, sir... something tells me that you're the stuff of which legends will be made..." It was all he could get out before the words dissolved into more coughing.
When the fit finally died down, Doc slumped back into his chair and struggled through a couple of exhausted breaths. Then he cleared his throat, swallowed, and sat up. "Well," he said.
He began to gather up his own collection of money with one hand, using the other to help himself to the rest of what was in the bottle.
"'Bout ready to call it a night, Doc?" Wyatt asked, as casually as he could make it sound.
"Indeed." Doc's smile looked somewhat lopsided as he pushed himself to his feet; when Wyatt stood, the rest of the room got somewhat lopsided as well. "It just so happens I have the good fortune of another bottle back at the hotel. That, my friend, is what I call a night."
Wyatt chuckled and tried to concentrate on staying upright as they staggered out of the bar. "Not what I meant..."
They stopped on the wooden sidewalk, waiting outside the door while Doc lit a cigarette. Pleasantly mellow, Wyatt stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. Closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the warm night air. He could hear the rise and fall of lingering conversation from inside the building behind them, the sound of a restless horse in the stable two doors down. Beside him, Doc took a deep drag, and through his mind slipped the unbidden image of his friend's lips wrapped wet around that thin burning paper stick.
Eyes still closed, he tipped his head back and felt the whispered kiss of a faint breeze across his face. "Say Doc... You mean all that stuff you were saying earlier?"
He wondered if the other man was going to know what he was referring to. He wondered what it was he was hoping Doc was going to say.
The breath in his ear was unexpected, the smooth familiar tones of a voice sounding like honey and tobacco and gin.
"Why, Wyatt Earp," Doc murmured, "are you propositioning me? What a peach of an idea."
end.