FIC: A Man of Wealth and Taste (Doc Holliday/Johnny Ringo, PG-13)
TITLE: A Man of Wealth and Taste
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: Tombstone
PAIRING: Doc Holliday/Johnny Ringo
SUMMARY: Nothing traveled faster than bad news. Maybe that’s why that son of a bitch Holliday was so quick.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: For staringiscaring, as per her request. The title comes from the Rolling Stones’ song Sympathy for the Devil.
I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.
-Shakespeare. Othello, Act II, Scene III.
The immutable laws of the universe extended beyond physics. Ice would float in water because it was less dense, but nothing traveled faster than bad news.
Maybe that’s why that son of a bitch Holliday was so quick. Because he was nothing but bad news.
You don’t make a deal with the devil and not ask for anything in return. What Ringo really wanted was an end to the hunger, but he didn’t know how to say it, so instead he asked for good hands. There were tales from far east-way beyond the coast of Boston and Philadelphia, which was pretty damn far east in Ringo’s estimation-about wishes, and the mistakes you made when the genie was smarter than you, but Ringo’d never been much for stories. It was a real shame, because he could have used the advice. If he still had to be hungry, he wanted the best hands, but he wasn’t careful when he asked and it turned out, like in that goddamn Snow White story-not that Ringo was one for stories-that his wish had only made him second best. Holliday, by nature, without ever giving anything up, was better and faster and it was just a goddamn shame that Ringo hadn’t been careful, because now his hunger just grew, and he wanted to swallow the whole world so long as Doc Holliday got swallowed up, too.
Ringo had rode out half a dozen times following rumors that Holliday had passed through a place, and he’d been late every time. He had just happened to be in Tombstone when Holliday showed up there, and when Ringo had first heard the news of his arrival, his heart was lightened in a way it hadn’t been since waking up Christmas morning as a boy. Ringo had first seen him as an accident-they just happened to be at the same place at the same time again-and he had known the man without being told who he was. It was fucking disappointing, and Ringo had thought, at first, that it was a mistake. This sick, skinny thing was the one pair of hands between him and eternity? But Ringo could see the wolf shine in Holliday’s eyes, the hunger growling beneath the surface, and he had known it was no mistake. They were as kin.
And so Ringo felt at war with himself, approaching him. On the one hand, they were the same, and he felt a strange, heretofore unfelt desire to belong. On the other, he felt the hunger burn inside him, begging to be sated. If he took Holliday down, that would be it. It would fix Ringo’s deal, and he would be smarter than the damn devil, and he could live forever as the fastest hands. And so, as a rut-crazed stag, Ringo had charged forward: as his defense, his offensive best. But Holliday had not been shaken, and he’d been not just quicker of hand but quicker of mind, and the hunger howled, and tore at Ringo’s insides with its claws.
Johnny Ringo was not smarter than the devil, and as it turned, he was not smarter than Doc Holliday, either.
***
After that, Ringo mostly kept his distance. His needed some time to lick his wounds, and besides, Holliday was always hanging around the Earps. It wasn’t that Ringo was worried by lawmen; it was just that he had a natural aversion.
Then one night Ringo happened to be walking down the street the same time Holliday happened to be leaving the Oriental, all on his own. Ringo watched Holliday from across the street; he was a little shaky in his gait, his joints liquor loose. Ringo watched Holliday light a cigarette and bring it to his mouth, and then he watched him walk home haloed by the cloud of smoke.
Ringo followed Holliday home, taking the stairs behind him two at a time. The door was unlocked, and Ringo let himself in.
Holliday stopped mid-motion when he heard Ringo at the door, frozen in the action of undressing, his vest in his quick hands, stretched out away from his body like spread wings.
“Why, Johnny Ringo,” he drawled softly.
And then, without waiting for a response, Holliday continued undressing. He removed his vest, folded it, and laid it on the bed. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt.
Rage thrummed in Ringo’s veins as he watched Holliday push his braces from his shoulders and strip off his shirt, going about his business like he was alone. Ringo’s hands itched for his pistols, but Holliday still had his guns slung around his narrow hips, and Ringo was mad but he wasn’t stupid.
“Holliday,” Ringo said.
Holliday’s pale eyes flickered up to him.
“Yes, Mr. Ringo, I remember you’re there,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
Ringo stepped further into the room, stopping only when the bed between them forced him to. Holliday watched his progress with his usual expression-mild interest and perpetual amusement, like the whole world was a joke styled just for him. With Holliday’s eyes on him, Ringo lost all the words he had brought here with him-things about nobility and precision and deals with the devil.
Like a spasm, Ringo said instead, “What do you want?”
Holliday laughed. Ringo’s hands curled into fists.
“I believe that’s my line,” Holliday said.
Ringo was stuck against the bed, but he still wanted to move forward. As concession, anything to burn the wanting out, he rested his hand on the footboard.
“What do you want?” he said again.
Holliday looked at him a long time, those pales eyes tearing into him like the burn of a bullet, all the way through. He laughed again, quieter this time, shaking his head. Holliday-finally-took his guns off, dropped them to the pile of his clothes on the bed. Then he stripped off his undershirt, and he stripped off his belt.
“I have a rule about drink,” Holliday said. “When you start waxing philosophical, you have reached your limit.”
Holliday looked even thinner without the padding of clothing on. His belly was concave, and Ringo could see the bumps of Holliday’s ribs ridging his pale torso. Ringo’s hands imagined the feel of him: as smooth and cool and hard as white marble. Ringo swallowed, dryly.
Holliday was still looking at him. Ringo wished he would stop. Holliday was still looking at him, as his thin, quick fingers worked loose the buttons of his trousers.
“And what is it that you want, Mr. Ringo?”
Ringo knew what he wanted, but he didn’t know how to say it. Instead, he crawled up onto the bed, made over to Holliday, upsetting his clothes. Holliday watched him, passive and interested and amused. Ringo came unsteadily to his feet, and he stood before Holliday, who was still watching him with those damn pale eyes. Ringo put his hands on the marble vault of Holliday’s chest. Holliday was warmer than he thought; he was warmer than anyone Ringo had ever touched. Ringo could feel Holliday’s heartbeat, and the shaking rattle of his breath, throb in his palms. Holliday didn’t start, so Ringo brushed past Holliday’s legendary fast hands and finished opening the front of his trousers.
Holliday didn’t start. He just watched him, passive and interested and amused, so Ringo slipped his hand between the fine linen and Holliday’s fevered flesh, and he rested his own body against Holliday’s whisper thin one, and he brought his own mouth to Holliday’s perpetual smile.
Ringo had never been one for stories, but he had heard somewhere about the devil coming in disguise, and he had heard somewhere that sometimes you got a second chance if you made your wish wrong the first time. The hunger inside him raged and narrowed, and now Ringo wanted, more than he had ever wanted anything, to take it back. He hadn’t thought anything of it, it’s not like he went to church so he didn’t need a soul for anything, but now that it was gone he missed it, the absence growing in him like a cancer, and he would have done anything to get it back.
Failing that, Ringo wanted those legend fast hands on him. He wanted to devour Holliday, to take him inside him and hold him inside him until he could not feel the ache of separation any longer.
Ringo was lost for a moment, in the sensation of Holliday’s body against his, of the smoky raw taste of him. And then Holliday pulled away, and he laughed.
“Go home, darlin’,” Holliday said, his voice a snake’s rasp. “You’re out much too late.”
Johnny Ringo was not smarter than the devil. And, as it turned, he was not smarter than Doc Holliday, either.