Tombstone fanfiction! 1085 words!

I’m actually fond of this piece. Normally I nitpick my writing too much but this was enjoyable to write and I found myself continuing along at an easy pace. So much better than struggling and searching for the words. The only thing I’m a little concerned with is the cohesiveness, as with the majority of my pieces, because it doesn’t flow in the most straightforward of ways.

Here’s what I attempted: a progression from the beginning of Kate and Doc’s relationship up to the near end.

I personally think there’s a difference between the man “Doc” and the man “Holliday.” I’m supporting this opinion by referencing the movie where Ringo only ever refers to John as “Holliday” (and lunger, on a few occasions) but, to my knowledge, Kate never does.


( the nature of my game )

For those who know me, this is probably way over-due.

A few blurbs, working on Doc's character and his less than believable healthy relationship with Ringo.

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Doc can feel his lungs consuming themselves, a putrid, withering blaze in his chest.

Meanwhile, Johnny hisses like he’s turned feral. The mad-cap, his eyes white and fearless, his mouth a hard line across his sun-weathered face. He squints at Holliday – from the sun – and the two walk towards each other. It feels more like walking backwards though, watching himself from another’s body.

There’s blood in Doc’s mouth. It slides down his chin when he tries to cough and, unconcerned, he wipes it away with the back of his hand. Southern gentleman hands, piano fingers that whip a pistol faster than a dare from the devil.

“Lunger.” Johnny scoffs, spitting the word out.

Doc raises an eyebrow, his fingertips tapping the curve of his gun at his hip. His expression is calm, but the sweat on his pale face makes him seem ghostly. For a moment, a flicker of fear enters Johnny’s eyes. It’s small, reflected more in the inward draw of his eyebrows. Truth is, he isn’t much scared of dying, because he hasn’t been living for anything.

He gets the sick, twisted feeling in his gut that tells him Doc knows it too.



Johnny tastes a little sweet, a little sick. It’s what famine tastes like.

There’s whiskey and smoke on Doc’s breath, the underlining current of tang and copper. “My,” he drawls, “aren’t we reckless today.”

It’s like they’ve been sharing a sickbed for years.



Doc doesn’t use names much. He keeps slurring out clever replacements instead.

He undresses meticulously despite his drunken state; his hair is unkempt and it doesn’t suit him, but his fingers move and move, work the pearl buttons of his vest and then he shrugs out of his undershirt. Most of his clothes, by this hour, are turned wet from sweat – wrinkling from where the starch just gave up. He is a lean man, but the tuberculosis is wearing him down, turning him grey, the lines of his ribs becoming sharper. Most of his scars are inward though, battering him like the disease.


He keeps his guns nearby.