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Wyatt would almost find it funny to see how afraid most people were of the winter months, minus the denizens of Tombstone, of course, who experienced very mild winters on average this far south. That was if he wasn’t also afraid of the winter months himself, though for very different, perhaps more existential reasons than whether or not he’d freeze to death or if he had enough supplies to last the winter.
The main reason was that for the aforementioned reasons, many more people died on average in the winter, though the difference was a little less drastic in the Arizona Territory compared to when he lived in Kansas. What that meant for him, exactly, was an incredibly stressful and sleep deprived several months.
It got dark so much earlier in the winter, which left the spirits restless in this newfound time to roam around in their deaths. This of course meant that Wyatt had over twelve hours a day to listen to the unceasing whispers crawling from beneath the windows and doors while trying not to rip his hair out.
In recent years, at the very least, he’d had Doc at his side. And whether it was a byproduct of the man himself or his connection to the Devil, the whispers and scratching usually managed to be at an acceptable level.
But for some reason, the winter had been a harsh one, and halfway through January, the whispers were clamoring louder and louder for Wyatt’s attention, despite Doc’s best efforts otherwise.
This of course had led to Wyatt falling down some… circumspect paths. He refused to touch laudanum despite his intense desire to fall asleep, and had instead bounced in the complete opposite direction. When he got tired of the taste of black coffee, he was sucking on cocaine lozenges like they were going out of style. He didn’t exactly like the buzzing feeling he got in the back of his head after eating too many, but staying awake had become a priority.
Once or twice he’d nod off in the Oriental while watching Doc play cards, but the second the sun set perhaps an hour or so after dozing off, he’d shoot awake, wide-eyed and with a headache. It didn’t take a genius to see how Doc purposely left him to sleep on the bartop, and how everyone else seemed to allow it as well. At that point, Wyatt was so exhausted that a train could have run through the building and he’d just let it chug right over himself, none the wiser.
But halfway through January, with several more winter months to go, he began to feel himself reaching a breaking point, and Doc could sense it as well; even Josephine and Kate had begun to give him sideways glances when they saw how pallid his face was and how dark it was beneath his eyes.
By the time Wyatt could tell Doc was planning to stage an intervention, he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since November, and he’d been up nearly six days in a row without even managing to nod off properly. His nighttime anxiety had begun to creep even into the daytime hours, and any time he caught himself drifting off he’d jerk upright with his heart wildly racing, hastily checking the room he was in to be sure nothing had happened.
But by day six, on top of two months of general exhaustion, he could feel himself losing it in the back of his mind.
The realization started when he was washing he and Doc’s breakfast dishes in an attempt to keep himself busy. He was nearly done when the faintest whisper echoed in his ear. He’d whipped his head around, wild-eyed and searching, only to find nothing. Doc had left already, having some business to take care of in town. There was no one home, and the sun was still shining cheerfully through the curtains Kate had picked out.
All he could think to do was swallow and turn back to the dishes, popping a lozenge in his mouth and ignoring how it made his teeth vibrate in his skull. Despite having better endurance than the average human, he was still struggling to keep his eyes open with every passing minute. Staring down at the soapy froth in the basin in front of him, all he could really see was a blurry white visage and some of the soap scum that stuck out against the sides of the gunmetal gray basin.
He blinked, but nothing changed. He ran a soapy hand through his hair, already resigning himself to the fact that he’d have to pomade it back into place before he left the house.
Considering he couldn’t actually see the mess on the dishes, he made sure to scrub extra hard and hope Doc wouldn’t notice anything off, though it was probably already too late for that wish to be attainable. Especially considering Doc’s side-occupation.
A while later, closer to noon than not, he rode into town bareback, having not the strength to put his horse in full tack. The bridle alone felt difficult enough, and climbing onto her back without stirrups left him dizzy and hunched over the horse’s neck, breathing through an open mouth and fighting back nausea and black spots.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but by the time he felt ready enough to ride, his horse was chuffing beneath him in annoyance at not being able to move. Weakly, he nudged her forward with his knee and clicked his tongue. Despite the warm sun shining down on him, he felt cold.
The already short ride into town felt somehow shorter. Between one blink and the next he was riding off the property and then trotting down main street toward the sheriff’s office.
The only reason he’d even managed to keep working this long was because both his brothers were in the next county over, temporarily filling in the power vacuum that had occurred due to the sheriff’s house in said county burning down, with him inside it.
Fortunately, Wyatt had received a telegram two days prior that the deputy was about ready to take over, as he’d been newly selected right before the sheriff’s untimely death with no time to learn the what-how. His frantic telegram in the wake of his sheriff’s passing had amused all three brothers, who felt enough sympathy to ride over and help him out.
Wyatt, of course, had volunteered to stay. If his brothers thought it weird that for once he was the one sitting out the action, they didn’t say a word about it. Wryly, Wyatt suspected they thought he was still anxious to leave Doc’s side, after what happened in the fall. And, well, it wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.
He was a little surprised that they hadn’t caught on to how little sleep he was getting, because usually they were the ones pinning him to his bed with threats of de-soling his favorite boots if he didn’t sleep. Perhaps they assumed Doc had taken over that duty.
In a way, he had, because whenever he caught Wyatt asleep in any place at all, he made it completely clear to everyone in the vicinity that if they woke Wyatt, they would be facing emasculation. The women he didn’t threaten, because they usually had the sense to let sleeping dogs lie.
Wyatt found it rather amusing, though he refused to admit it in any way, and he couldn’t help but be thankful for the snatches of sleep he managed to get due to Doc’s meddling, but it was quickly becoming unsustainable.
So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realize he’d arrived at the sheriff’s office until a tepid gust of wind threatened to knock his hat off his head. He caught it, barely, and blinked slowly at his surroundings. It took a good few seconds for him to register what he was looking at.
Damn. It was getting bad.
As slow as he could, he slid off his horse’s back and grunted when his knees threatened to buckle, something that usually only happened after a long, long ride. He dug his nails into his palms for a moment and counted to ten, breathing out once he finished and hitched his horse up. Wouldn’t do for her to wander off.
Feeling almost bow-legged, he walked inside and shut the door behind him. For a solid thirty seconds he stood there, staring longingly at the chair placed right behind his desk.
“Ain’t no one around…” he murmured to himself, shoulders slumping in defeat. Before he could second-guess his decision, he dropped down onto the wooden chair with a grunt and pushed it back just far enough for him to set his feet atop the desk.
He didn’t even bother to dip his hat over his eyes, because he was asleep before he even had the chance.
A bang startled him awake so badly that he nearly fell out of the chair he’d been slumped in. Fortunately, his legs dropping off the desk were the only things falling.
“Wyatt!” A man called, his broad silhouette outlined starkly in the doorway to the office.
Wyatt squinted at the man, his vision so blurry that he could hardly make out any features. It took him almost too long to recognize just who it was darkening his doorstep.
“What is it, David?” Wyatt asked, voice still rough from sleep. Surreptitiously he swiped at his mouth to make sure there was no drool, barely avoiding making a face when he felt some smear on his hand.
“Someone done stole my damn horse!” David shouted. His hair was a mess and his jeans from the knees down were absolutely covered in sand and dust.
Using the desk for leverage, Wyatt got to his feet with the smallest of groans, hoping it was too quiet for David to hear.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, crossing his arms and staring expectantly at the frazzled man.
Almost bashful now that he had Wyatt’s full attention, he made a token attempt to knock the dust off his jeans, but they both knew it wasn’t coming out without a thorough wash.
“Was riding into town to pick up some flour from the general store when some sour-lookin’ ne’er do well fired a warning shot from right behind me!” He winced at the memory and rubbed at his ear. Wyatt guessed the shot must have been from a shotgun if it’d hurt the man’s ears in open air even so long after.
“‘Course I jumped off my horse ‘fore I could even think about it.” He gestured at his jeans pointedly. Wyatt just nodded for him to go on. “I turned around to see what all the fuss was about, but by then the man was already on my horse and racin’ off! I paid two hundred dollars for that horse up in Tucson! I refuse to lose my best horse to a no-good thief!”
Wyatt had to admit that two hundred dollars was a steep price for a horse, and it certainly explained the man’s attitude. Wyatt would certainly be incensed if someone stole his horse. That faint flicker of guilt he still felt even after so many years at the mention of horse theft made him swallow. Ignoring it, he strode toward David and pretended the dizziness was just a hangover. Nevermind that he hadn’t drank the night before.
“Show me where it happened,” Wyatt ordered, silently regretting that he hadn’t put his horse in full tack. His thighs were bound to be sore after this.
Two hours later and Wyatt was racing across the neverending sand that made up most of southern Arizona’s landscape, an hysterical David clutching at his shirt in a desperate attempt to stay atop the horse through the bumpy ride. Ahead of them was a man furiously riding David’s horse, the poor beast foaming around the too-tight bit and it kept tossing its head and yanking the rider’s arms with each movement.
“Stop the horse and come with me peacefully!” Wyatt shouted, fighting to be heard over the sound of two horses running full-kilt.
Wyatt didn’t have much hope for a peaceful resolution to begin with, what with the man riding like hell was on his ass, but the answering gunshot solidified that idea. Faintly, Wyatt heard it whizz on by. He didn’t much like how close it was for the man’s first shot back at them.
“Hold on!” Wyatt called back to David, and felt David clutch him even tighter. Wyatt had a feeling there’d be bruises on his sides after this.
Fumbling just a little due to the speed they were getting, Wyatt managed to wrangle Peacemaker out of its holster and was able to cock the hammer. Through blurry vision and a heavy arm, he squinted down the length of the gun toward the man racing in front of them.
He pulled the trigger and let out a hiss when he saw it miss. While cocking the hammer back to try again, he heard the man loose another shot.
For some reason, his side began to feel cold. Ignoring it, he hefted his arm up once more and fired another shot, a mean grin twisting his face when it hit home. A startled shout came from ahead, and finally the man was bucked from David’s horse.
“You did it, Wyatt!” David yelled.
Wyatt tugged back on the reins to his horse once they neared the thief, kicking up sand behind them. Without wasting a beat, David slipped off the back of the horse to go chase down his own, who’d run off a few yards, visibly annoyed.
Far more carefully than David, Wyatt slid off and gritted his teeth through the stitch in his side. His fault for riding so hard bareback.
It seemed their thief had given up, curled up on the ground and clutching his bleeding wrist. Wyatt wouldn’t doubt it if he’d never be able to shoot with that hand again. He didn’t feel much guilt for it.
“Can run from your victims, but you can’t run from the law,” Wyatt said, striding closer and squinting blearily down at the form below. “These things have a way of catching up with you.”
All he got back was a quiet groan. The sound of a horse’s panting from behind caught his attention, and he saw a pleased David leading his horse back over. Other than being ridden hard with ill-fitting tack, the horse seemed no worse for wear, thankfully.
With a sigh, Wyatt grabbed the rope he’d tied to his belt before setting off in pursuit and knelt down. The thief put up little fuss, allowing himself to be rolled onto his stomach and essentially hogtied.
Finished, he stood there for a good ten seconds trying to work up the strength to lift the man. With another sigh, he bent down and hauled the—thankfully—lithe man off the ground, doing his best to work through the black spots invading his vision. With his sightline narrowed to a point, he stumbled his way over to David’s horse and tossed the man over the rump of the beast. For a second, he allowed himself to breathe through the dizziness and the persistent stitch in his side before securing the man to the saddle.
He blinked and suddenly he was sat atop his own horse. It frightened him a little that he had no memory of getting up there, and even David was eyeing him.
He clicked his tongue to get his horse moving, but the sound seemed muffled. Christ did his side hurt.
David followed dutifully behind, their thief a silently brooding companion on their ride along.
The closer they get back to town, the more out of sorts Wyatt gets to feeling. He’s cold again, and even in January that was odd, since the days got into a more respectable temperature. His side wouldn’t quit hurting, and the dizziness was becoming more persistent, to the point that the rocking gait of his horse was making him swallow back nausea.
“Y’alright there, Wyatt?” David called after seeing Wyatt list to the side one more time.
Wyatt tried to answer, had his mouth open for it and everything. But between one second and the next, his vision grayed out completely and he lost all sense of balance.
His last conscious thought before hitting the ground was Doc is gonna be so mad.
Opening his eyes felt tantamount to climbing a hill with both legs broken and both ankles sprained, but Wyatt was nothing if not stubborn and managed to pry them open. The view wasn’t all that enlightening, as his vision was still rather blurry, but at least there were more colors than before he’d presumably passed out.
He looked to his side to see what he assumed was a glass of water. However, when he stretched out to grab it, there was a burning pain in his side. Hissing, he snapped his eyes down to peer at his side, pawing at it to figure out what was wrong. He was stopped when his fingers brushed over bandages, and a duller pang of pain resonated from the touch.
More carefully this time, he grabbed the water and brought it to his lips, drinking down the entire glass in seconds.
While he was setting it down, there came a thump from the front of the house, which he realized was his house. Then came faint muttering that he couldn’t understand until the voice got closer, upon which he found it was Doc.
“Stupid idiot,” came the voice, audibly disgruntled. “If he doesn’t wake up in the next twenty minutes, I’m poking that gunshot because no way am I letting this melt.”
At the word melt, Wyatt perked up, though he wasn’t quite able to get himself in a sitting position. He resigned himself to waiting for Doc’s help.
Breaking the silence was Doc shoving open the door to their bedroom, the knob slamming into the wall. The man had no intention of being subtle, it would seem.
“Excellent!” Doc cried, kicking the door shut behind him. “You’re awake. I brought your idiotic self a treat if you agree to my conditions.”
Wyatt could clearly see the ice cream clutched in Doc’s hands, and with how exhausted and achy he still felt, he felt disinclined to argue with whatever Doc had to say. It was usually a losing battle anyway, even on his best days.
The man sauntered closer before seating himself heavily on the side of the bed beside Wyatt. He set the ice cream and the spoon with it on top of the nightstand on Wyatt’s side and helped the other man sit up. Wyatt groaned through the process, but otherwise made it out alright.
“Now,” drawled Doc, staring down at Wyatt with what almost looked like hellfire in his eyes. “When was the last time you slept, and this latest doze does not count.”
“Six days before I went after that thief,” Wyatt admitted quietly.
Doc’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“My terms for the ice cream are these: Every other day once your brothers are back in town you will take a spoonful of laudanum at noon and sleep until sundown until the days lengthen up again. Do you understand?” Doc asked, somehow staring even harder.
Wyatt swallowed. He could see the condensation dripping off the side of the container, and his window for the treat was rapidly closing.
Before this, he likely would have argued, but this brief rest gave room for the ache in his bones to remind him of his age. The fact that he was even able to apprehend that thief in the first place in the condition he was in was damn near a miracle.
But anything was better than how things had been going. He knew it, and Doc clearly knew it by the triumph showing on his face at Wyatt’s silence.
“Yes,” Wyatt said, looking pointedly to the ice cream.
Though he rolled his eyes, Doc pulled off the lid and handed the container and spoon over to Wyatt without any further fuss.
“I believe it’s safe to assume that this hole in my side is from my brush with the horse thief?” Wyatt mumbled through a mouth full of ice cream. He didn’t care about bad manners; he was with Doc. Doc found it more amusing than anything.
“Yes, darlin’. Though your friend David managed to drag both you and him into town, and locked him up himself after he dropped you off with the doctor. Your brothers should be back tomorrow and will handle him for you,” Doc explained, smoothing a hand down Wyatt’s blanket-covered leg, eyebrows pinched.
“How’d you find out, then?” Wyatt asked, curious. He relished the coolness on his tongue. Sweet things were hard to come by this far south.
“The doctor came and hunted me down once he’d fixed you up,” Doc said, shoulders slumping. “Way he started it, I thought you were about to die on the damn table.” He laughed a little. “Turns out he was just nervous to be the bearer of bad news to me. As you can see, the gunshot itself is pretty minor.”
Wyatt nodded slowly, spooning another glob of ice cream into his mouth.
Doc’s face hardened once more. “You’re staying in this bed for the rest of the week, because with how exhausted you look, you’re liable to collapse the second you step foot outside.”
Again feeling the bone-deep weariness weighing him down, he felt incredibly disinclined to argue. Nothing important was going down, his brothers would be back soon and until then, Doc could watch the town, much as he hated doing so.
“Alright,” he said easily, smiling faintly at the suspicious look on Doc’s face.
“I’m tired,” he admitted. “Keep me company in the night and I’ll be more’n happy to camp in bed for a few more days.”
“Well,” Doc said, stilted. “Good.” Nodding to himself, he promptly kicked his boots off and slid in beside Wyatt over the covers.
“I’ve been up so long keeping an eye on you, I feel as if it is only fair that I catch a quick nap, you see,” Doc muttered, lacing his fingers together on his stomach.
Exhaling quietly in amusement, Wyatt ate another spoonful of his ice cream. By the light streaming in the windows, he had a few hours left before sunset.
“Of course,” Wyatt replied, leaning over all careful like and pressing a lingering kiss to Doc’s over-warm forehead. The hellfire in him may be latent, but it still liked to run warm.
Doc sighed, relaxing further into the mattress. “‘Course,” Doc murmured, already half asleep.
Reluctantly fond, Wyatt distractedly patted Doc’s shoulder and kept eating his ice cream. Wouldn’t do for it to go to waste, would it?