Breakfast of Champions

Another bout of coughing wracked Doc’s chest, leaving him gasping for breath. He curled his sweat-soaked body deeper underneath the covers, bloody rag clutched in his fist. Incessant bleating from a rooster in the street below indicated morning had finally arrived. Exhaustion weighed on Doc’s limbs as heavily as the blanket. He coughed again and squeezed his eyes closed, willing sleep to end the misery.

A bang rattled the door.

“You up, Doc?” Wyatt pushed the hotel room door open.

“Unfortunately,” Doc rasped, pressing the handkerchief to his lips and stifled his next cough.

Wyatt paced into the room and rubbed the shoulder of Doc’s jacket, which was draped over a chair. “Virgil and Morg are eating downstairs.”

“Good for them.” Doc turned over, wanting the sheets to bury him. He had little energy to get up and even less desire for eating.

“I had a coffee earlier,” Wyatt said, “but I could go for breakfast.”

Floorboards squeaked as Wyatt came farther into the room. His palm grazed Doc’s back, and Doc flinched in response. Wyatt’s hand was large like Kate’s and nearly as rough. Instead of whacking his back, though, it caressed in a lazy circle. Doc sighed. “I suppose I could join you downstairs,” he said. “But I am not having any more of those eggs.”

Wyatt rubbed his back for a moment more. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to try the bacon and toast?”

Doc rolled to the edge of the bed and sat there a moment. Sweat matted his blond hair and he struggled to catch his breath. Wyatt faced the window though Doc could see his eyes were fixed on him. Not wanting to cause him undue concern, Doc hurried out of bed and dressed swiftly. He held back a coughing fit as he combed his hair using the mirror by the desk.

Wyatt’s reflection shifted so he stared straight at Doc’s backside. “You know what?” he said. “Meet me outside. I have an idea.”

Doc grunted to show he’d heard, fearing the fit would escape if he spoke just then.

Wyatt brushed his shoulder on the way to the door. “Take your time,” he murmured. “I’ll tell the boys.”

Doc frowned and waited until he no longer heard Wyatt in the hall outside his room. Then he retreated to the bed and groped for his handkerchief. He coughed violently, pressing the stained cloth to his lips. His chest shuddered as fresh blood erupted from his mouth. Gasping for air once it subsided, he dropped the handkerchief to the sheets and longed to crawl back into their embrace. As much as the notion appealed to him, Doc couldn’t abandon Wyatt and his brothers.

He grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. The saloon was noisy as Doc descended the stairs. He searched the raucous cowhands enjoying a hearty breakfast for Morgan and Virgil. His vision blurred and soon he was too low to scan the crowd. Relying heavily on his cane though no pain seared his hip, Doc navigated the tables to push through the front door. Wyatt waited a few feet away, his back to the hotel as he surveyed the dust-clouded street.

Wyatt half turned as Doc approached before they headed up Allen Street together. Doc let Wyatt lead in comfortable silence. The dry air felt good in his lungs and he didn’t want to risk another fit to inquire over their destination. When they reached the corner of Fourth Street, Wyatt turned and led the way to the ice cream parlor.

“I thought you’d like something sweet for breakfast,” Wyatt said before he could ask. “I’m buying.”

Doc rightly couldn’t argue with Wyatt’s effort to coerce him into eating something so he followed him inside wordlessly. Wyatt pointed to a table—his favorite, Doc guessed—before continuing to the counter. Doc chose a chair that faced the door and was grateful for the rest. He winced at the thought of cold ice cream, though the texture could very well soothe his throat. Perhaps the numbness would be a good thing. However, if he was to eat something, Doc wished for it to be warm.

After waiting only a few minutes, Wyatt sauntered over to the table with two dishes and a grin. He set a bowl of vanilla ice cream down in front of an empty chair and lowered a plate of steaming chocolate cake in front of Doc. “Enjoy,” he said taking his own seat. He wasted no time taking a bite.

“Thank you kindly.” Doc smiled, and not the kind he would force for Kate’s benefit, but a genuine grin which sprang from pure bliss, horrible night and impending doom aside. He delicately sliced a morsel off the end of the cake and closed his mouth on it. Even without being hungry, the sweet flavor flooded his mouth, his senses begging for more.

Across from him, Wyatt was already halfway through his ice cream.

“You know, you are supposed to savor your food,” Doc chided. “Especially if it might be your last.”

Wyatt paused mid-bite but kept his eyes trained on the ice cream as it melted in his bowl. “I’ll be glad that this was my last meal and with the company of someone I truly care about,” he said. “If I am to die today.”

Doc lowered his fork and gingerly brushed the back of Wyatt’s hand with the tips of his fingers. Wyatt lifted his gaze and their eyes met. A single tear welled in the bottom of Wyatt’s, matching the ones that stung Doc’s eyes. Doc wasn’t one to fear death and its inevitability but, right then, he didn’t want the moment to ever pass.

Then Wyatt brought another lump of ice cream to his lips, and the moment was gone. Doc dropped his hand and took another bite of his chocolate cake.

“Virg and Morgan will meet us outside with the guns,” Wyatt whispered.

Doc nodded. They lapsed into silence while Wyatt polished off the ice cream and Doc picked at his cake. Once the bowl was pretty much licked clean, Wyatt returned to the counter. Doc heard him ordering a coffee. Before he returned, Doc fished his flask from his coat pocket. He took a swig, praying that the whiskey’s warmth would dull his pain. A frown tugged on Wyatt’s lips at the sight when he returned to his chair. After the night he’d had, Doc couldn’t even be apologetic to his friend for the spirits. Wyatt only nursed his coffee in silence instead of criticizing the choice.

No more words passed between them. Doc swallowed more whiskey to wash down the last few bites of cake. Not long after, the boisterous voice of Morgan signaled the arrival of the rest of the posse on the street outside. Doc smiled privately at Morgan’s enthusiasm as he tucked the flask back into his pocket. Wyatt took a final sip of his coffee. They both stood. Doc let Wyatt lead the way outside. Virgil’s expression was grim but Morgan grinned from ear to ear. Everything was an adventure to the younger Earp brother. Doc supposed he couldn’t begrudge Morgan for the excitement, but he had trouble pushing Wyatt’s expression from his mind.

“Are we ready?” Virgil asked, passing a shotgun to Doc.

“I’m always ready to uphold the law,” Wyatt replied, accepting a revolver from Morgan. He opened the chamber and studied the contents.

Doc dropped the barrel of the shotgun to check its cartridge load as well. He clicked it back into place but focused his gaze downward. The whiskey was never enough.

“Y’all right, Doc?” Morgan asked, face sobering.

“I am quite alright.” He met Morgan’s eyes. “Wyatt treated me this morning, and I have my best friends at my side. I could not be better.”

Wyatt fixed each one of them with a long stare before nodding and leading the way up Fourth Street heading towards Fremont Street.