Chapter Text
When Jewel had asked him to dance, the night Reverend Smith had... the night the cavalry had left town, Doc told himself he had been too drunk, too distraught to resist her.
When she had kissed him, the afternoon he was examining her leg brace, he told himself he had been caught off guard, and had kissed back out of sheer surprise.
When she had squeezed his hand, drawn him under the Gem staircase, and insisted he unbutton her blouse, he had wondered as he did so why he continued to acquiesce - was he humoring her? Relieved someone was giving him instructions for a change? She had smelled of yellow soap, of varnish and beeswax. Perhaps, he had thought, as he bent his head over her shoulder and placed a slightly-out-of-practice kiss in the hollow of her collarbone, it was a relief to step away from himself for a moment; to play at being young and wicked for a few moments, until one of them would hear a footstep, or breakfast would need cooking, and she'd shoo him away with a last peck on the cheek. At least she was less danger to his liver than his usual source of consolation.
It was over two months before he could bring himself to admit she had become a constant presence in his mind.
"I see things when I'm out and about," he told her one day, "and I always wonder 'what would Jewel say to that?' Just as though you were a little bird perched on my shoulder."
"I'd like to be a little bird."
"Your human guise is not without its charms. Birds don't have waists. Or lips, or pretty hair…." His memory dredged up phrases he hadn't spoken out loud in decades. Chickabiddy. Cute as a bug's ear. When he went home, however, the endearments vanished among the medical clutter of his tiny cabin as he looked more soberly at the situation: knowing it to be a natural human feeling did not make him feel any less foolish; he had hoped he would be past any such puppyish nonsense at his age. He could, however, take responsibility for his own thoughts and actions – what frightened him to the core was the idea that his mere existence might be a condition of someone else's happiness. It seemed to him a terrible load to bear.
When drink proved unable to drive thought away (as it always did); he reverted to his original method of dealing with his woes; taking them apart and analyzing them. Though he'd never been much for the conventions of courtship, he felt obscurely he was wronging one who despite her handicap was in sound enough health and would likely outlive him. Well, he told himself, he was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch - if thus far, he'd been able to resist putting himself in the ground, he could resist putting himself...elsewhere.
"My past is a nightmare; my present practice is one in which, despite my poor efforts, death is in any situation a likely outcome - often the very likeliest. I cannot imagine my future will be any different. I am long since resigned to spending my days in that cold shadow, but I would not have it fall upon so warm a heart as your own - as it invariably will if you pursue this connexion."
"Are you sayin' I'm too good for you?"
"I'm sayin' I'm not fit for human companionship. And that you're too good for me."
"You're the only one would think that. And you're the only one I want to fuck. Now, I call that a coincidence. When are we going to?" Jewel added. "It's awright, I've done it before. But I'd like it better with you."
In a dim pantry that smelled of smoke, too-green wood, and molasses; with a woman wearing a leg brace and a faded calico dress; who whispered in a soft, slurred voice while her eyes looked bright as a bird's into his: Doc's resolve on this point finally melted; and melted like ice on a pent-up river. He cleared his throat.
"Do you have a... preferred position?" When her answer was to throw her arms about his neck, he tapped the lowest pantry shelf experimentally, then picking her up, he seated her upon it. Her expression brightened and she tugged awkwardly at her skirts, eventually bunching them across her lap as he stepped between her bared knees and curled an arm around her waist to place his hand between the small of her back and the wood of the cupboard behind her. "Now, please tell me if you're uncomfortable -" he began; she put her hand gently but firmly against his mouth.
"Shh," she cooed. "I'm awright, Doc, really. Please, let's just do it."
The skimpy petticoats she had hiked up were of calico too, worn to soft tatters and warmed by constant contact with thighs as pale as the unbleached cloth. He reached to move the skirts up a bit higher and shivered with a long-forgotten pleasure as his fingertips encountered curled hair. Jewel trembled, too, at the touch.
"Yes," she whispered. "Like that." As if by instinct (or not - she had after all indicated she was not without experience) she crossed her fists across his back and brought her knees closer to grip him, though her weaker leg could not press so hard against his body as the other. Nonetheless, he took it that she desired more pressure on the spot and did his best to provide it.
Meantime, their mouths had locked themselves together, until the force of their osculations almost brought their front teeth into contact. Instead, he tried nibbling delicately on her tongue when it stole forth to touch his. His hair fell over her closed eyes, and he broke the vacuum of their lips long enough to rub cheeks, noses, before withdrawing his hand to hastily undo buttons.
"If you could," he whispered, "just tilt your hips a bit forward and upwards. Yes. Like that." Astounding it was that so frail-seeming a bundle of humanity could be so warm to the touch. Heat fairly radiated though the back and shoulder-blades, the shallow chest and small, tense belly. She gasped. After that, it was mostly gasps, their mouths open, ecstatic, while the part of Doc's mind that was still aware of the universe outside their conjoined bodies prayed that the pantry shelves were as stable as he had thought and wouldn't tip forward with their rocking.
"Are you all right sitting there? This ain't exactly the softest spot in the Gem." They were curled up against the cupboard's lower door, two exhausted bodies with hearts temporarily at peace.
"Though not so young as I was, my career has left me able to make myself tolerably comfortable just about any position." He leant back into the corner. "Besides," he nuzzled the top of Jewel's head, "You look so contented in the crook of my arm, I cannot fail to distill from yours some comfort of my own." Jewel peered into his flushed face, and gingerly smoothed a damp lock of hair off his forehead.
"Was I good?" He nodded wordlessly and she continued gazing at him. "You've got eyes like you swallowed the moon."
"Well," he murmured into the hollow of her neck, "you did serve it to me."