heyihavesocks

[heyihavesocks]

Anyway, the woman saw that the apple was good.

Sin has always been choosing the wrong good.

That's why people miss the point when they say "Well, X can't be a sin, because it's good in these ways!" And they similarily miss the point when they say that "X can't be good, because (excess or misuse of X) is a sin!"

You may eat of any tree in the garden except for that of sin. If you eat of it, you will die.

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I, um, I can explain...

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Bang bang, snitches. It's time to get stitches.

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I could sail away on this ship

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"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."

- William Shakespeare

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Someone hold me. My horse loving baby boy has passed.

Someone hold me. My Irish brother has passed.

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A Dance For The Dead and Dying

Summary:

"...A dying man certainly made for a fine excuse to hold on to…"

A Doc and Wyatt story. No slash.

Cross-posted on FF.net and Ao3

The Oriental was alive with revelry that evening.

Its boisterous patrons spilled onto the boardwalk, bathed in slanted panes of golden lamplight, their laughter rising in discordant harmony with the din of clinking glasses and shuffling cards. The usual steady hum of fortune-seekers at the tables had swelled to a raucous roar, spurred on by the addition of a traveling band that had made a stage of the far corner inside. Fiddles and banjos sang their merry tyranny over the room, their frenetic notes slicing through the air with all the subtlety of a gunshot.

Sequestered in the refuge of his chair, back to the wall where he might observe the splendid madness without being caught in its clutches, sat Doc Holliday, dealing cards and winning every round. The atmosphere, however, was far too jovial for his particular taste- gratingly so. There was not enough alcohol in all of Arizona to drown out such unchecked mirth, though his darling Kate did her part to keep his cup brimming.

The tables churned with players, fortunes shifting like desert sands as men won and lost in turn, some plucked from their seats and spun straight into the swirling delirium of the impromptu dance floor. Something in those plucky little tunes had infected the crowd with an intense glee. Not that Doc was opposed to dancing, of course- he was, after all, a gentleman- but this was a place of dignified vice, not a barn raising. The number of heedless couples who dared to whirl within an inch of his chair, their careless steps threatening to upend his drink, was truly an affront to civility.

Wyatt, his dear friend, had drawn his own chair closer, a bulwark of sorts against the frenzied tide of bodies. Doc noted the gesture with quiet appreciation.

As Doc displayed his cards of a winning hand with a flourish to the groaning dismay of his less fortunate company, a particularly overzealous couple spun into Wyatt’s chair. Their breathless laughter was the only apology, and Wyatt, his patience already worn thin, cast a look of mild annoyance, his frown hardly hidden by his moustache.

Amused by his friend’s ever-stoic longsuffering, Doc leaned in, a slow smile curling his lips.

“Shall we take up a dance, Wyatt?” Doc inquired, peering at Wyatt through his lashes.

Wyatt huffed a startled laugh, shaking his head as he reached across the table and swiped a portion of Doc’s winnings in quiet retaliation. Doc allowed the theft with a languid smirk, reclining in his chair once more.

Another round was dealt, whiskey flowed as freely as the music, and soon enough, the remark was all but forgotten.

The crowd, lost in its revelry, had grown more interested in the commotion than the cards, and after a time, the raucous energy began to wear on Doc. Another pair of mindless dancers veered too close to the table, jostling it as they stumbled, sending the drinks sloshing over the edge and upsetting the stack of notes in the center. They tumbled back into the off-key singing and drunken laughter, oblivious to the disruption they had caused.

The spell of the game was broken. One by one, the players abandoned their seats, leaving Doc with little more than the soured taste of lost winnings. He sighed, rolling a cigarette between his fingers as he surveyed the dwindling prospects. Across the room, Wyatt’s gaze snagged on something- someone. Morgan, leaning against the bar, waved him over with an easy grin. Wyatt gave Doc’s shoulder a pat before slipping away, leaving Doc momentarily adrift in the sea of noise and wasted opportunity.

It had been hours and still the music persisted. The gaiety was suffocating.

He preferred a more reasonable atmosphere for poker. Even as the strident strings had softened into something resembling proper music, the notes still pulsed behind his eyes, an unwelcome echo in his skull. The thick haze of cigar smoke clung to him, acrid and oppressive, threatening to send him into a fit of coughing he had no intention of indulging. Doc knocked back the last of his whiskey, its warmth doing little to soothe the irritation in his throat, and pushed his chair back.

Kate leaned over his shoulder, warm breath tickling his ear, “Go on,” she whispered, “I’ll see you at the hotel.”

He softly pressed a kiss to her lips in silent gratitude before slipping outside into the cool embrace of the night air. The air was no kinder to his lungs, but at least it was devoid of sweat and liquor. He drew a slow breath, exhaling just as deliberately, relishing the momentary stillness. He hadn’t expected Wyatt to follow.

Doc turned at the hesitant rhythm of footsteps behind him, catching the way Wyatt hovered just beyond the threshold, hands resting easy on his belt. His mouth parted as though to speak, then shut again. Doc watched him with subdued amusement, tilting his head.

“Well now,” Doc drawled, voice honeyed with curiosity, “What’s wrong with you, Wyatt?”

Wyatt hesitated, then inclined his head toward the far edge of the Oriental, where the lantern light waned and shadows stretched long and soft against the night. Doc arched a curious eyebrow, but obliged, stepping down with Wyatt into the shadows. His curiosity turned to outright surprise when Wyatt held out a hand, a shy, crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“You still want that dance?” Wyatt asked quietly.

For a beat, Doc only stared, lips parting just slightly before warm laughter spilled forth- until it unraveled into a rough cough that caused him to brace a hand against his ribs. He exhaled, regaining his composure. Smiling, Doc placed a delicate hand over his heart with a slight bow.

“You do me a great honor, sir,” He replied, words touched with amused grandeur, “How could I refuse, when asked so sweetly?”

With all the poise of a southern gentleman, Doc took Wyatt’s offered hand, allowing himself to be drawn close. The music from within bled into the night, softened by the walls yet steady enough to guide them.

The first steps were hesitant, an uneven shuffle caught between jest and sincerity. Wyatt, ever the lawman, carried himself with the tension of a man leading a charge rather than a waltz. Doc, though fevered and exhausted, moved with ease, shifting where Wyatt faltered, guiding with a barely-there touch.

“Relax, dear boy,” He hummed, tilting his head with a teasing smile, “This is a dance, not a duel.”

Wyatt huffed a quiet laugh, though the stiffness in his shoulders eased. Slowly, they found a rhythm, swaying to the muffled tune. The laughter in Doc’s chest faded to something quieter, something gentler. What had begun as an offhand jest had eased into something altogether different.

Doc’s gaze lifted, tracing the lines of his friend’s face- the furrow between his brows, the flicker of uncertainty in eyes that rarely wavered. Even in the dim glow, he noted the vibrant flush at the tips of Wyatt’s ears, the way he steadfastly avoided Doc’s gaze, fixing instead on a distant point over his shoulder.

Ah.

A small, knowing smile curled at Doc’s lips. How utterly endearing.

But, what had possessed Wyatt to offer this? The liquor? No, Wyatt was not prone to indulgence. Pity? A far less amusing notion. Perhaps it was the simple wish to hold onto a friend for a little longer.

A dying man certainly made for a fine excuse to hold on to.

Whatever the reason, Doc found he did not much care. He appreciated the moment as it were, in all its overt warmth and rarity of Wyatt Earp allowing himself to do something simply for the want of it.

At some point, Wyatt leaned into him, a slight motion, but enough Doc took notice. Not an intentional gesture of a man seeking untoward solace. A thoughtless moment. Doc, to his mild surprise, did not mind.

There were precious few he allowed this close, fewer still who would take such a liberty unprompted. Yet, Wyatt, lost in his own thoughts, had drifted into his space without hesitation, expectation, or pretense. How rare and precious as glittering gems were a thing like Wyatt Earp.

And how amusing was it that the immovable bastion of law and restraint, taking such a foolish risk, throwing his own reputation into the proverbial fire for nothing more than a moment of play. A man like him did not waltz in the shadows with a known gambler, a dying man, a scoundrel in the eyes of some who rarely did a thing without a price attached.

Yet, there they both were. Two fools caught up in their unspoken words.

Doc breathed out carefully, eyes half-lidded as he tipped his head just enough to rest against the broad plane of Wyatt’s shoulder. An momentairy indulgence, nothing more. His fingers curled around Wyatt's waist, keeping him close. He was weary, and the warmth was pleasant in spite of his persistent fever. The quiet sway of their steps soothing in a way he could not articulate, Wyatt's heartbeat steady in Doc's ear.

Perhaps it was selfishness, a lapse in composure, or a desperate want for something secure. Either way, he let himself enjoy it. The moment would not last- nothing ever did. For now, with the world whittled down to the deep shadows and the twinkling stars above their silent witnesses, Doc allowed himself the rarest of luxuries.

Peace.

[heyihavesocks]

I love your cowboy art ❤️

Thank you 😊💖

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Rowdy harassing serenading his favorite cousin

Can y'all tell I've been listening to Rawhide's Clint Eastwood Sings Cowboy Favorites?

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Freaking gorgeous

lil studies because im bored

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They're waitin' for the train

(not a ship btw)

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Hope you guys eat this up because the people on TikTok did NOT 😭🙏🏽

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CLINT EASTWOOD as MONCO For a Few Dollars More (1965) dir. Sergio Leone

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Someone hold me. My Irish brother has passed.

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The Kenway Adventure Continues...

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family reunion </3

arthur

isaac

eliza

:,)