BULLSEYE

You Give Love a Bad Name (epilogue)

Sheriff had invited him to a dance.

Doc had woken up from his slumber to find Sheriff's side of the bed dauntingly vacant. The only sign he had left of his ever-being there had been a scrawled note. Yellow parchment.

Doc was a racer. A professional. Fabulous.

He had never been to a dance.

People had invited him. Woman with their hair done up in pretty buns with lipstick smeared upon their mellowed lips. Hopeless rambling men who chocked on their first words and limped away before he could answer their proposition. He had never gone with any of them.

But he would go with Sheriff.

These were the thoughts that resonated in his head as he picked up a pair of silk gloves. Their fabric rubbed against his calloused fingers. So white they shone.

Doc held his hands out. One by one he slipped the gloves on. Adjusting them so that there seams ran down the sides of his blackened arms.

Teeth pressed into his lips, he adjusted the cuffs of his suit. His tie. Doc turned towards the mirror.

The man that reflected upon it was both the man Doc wanted to be and the man he hated. Handsome. Fragile.

He pushed a sinewy hand through his wiry black hair. Pressing it back against his scalp.

The front of the Fabulous Hudson Hornets ruffled white blouse shone behind his navy blue jacket. A black belt with a golden buckle held his matching pants up.

He didn't look perfect but it would do.

With that he grasped his phone. For old times sake. Most of his usual contacts wouldn't bother to call him now that they suspected he had wilfully given up his career.

They did not know the truth.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Doc left the house.

Outside the streets were decorated in light. Neon illuminations cast their glimmer upon the cobbled ground. Flo's Cafe, The Cozy Cone & Casa Della Tires were all ablaze. The usual mob thronged in Flo's Cafe, loud, rowdy and full of boundless cock.

Doc wasn't going into any of those places tonight. His route took an entirely different direction.

He eventually found Sheriff sitting in an straw barn; old and dusted. A rickety sign hang over the threshold. The place looked as though it hadn't been in use for a decade.

Sheriff seemed to blend into the place's antique aesthetic.

He sat at a frangible table. Two empty mugs lay discarded in front of him whilst he sipped on the third. His gun sat just near his elbow.

He hardly looked up when Doc entered the room. He donned a simple black and white suit with not a tie in sight.

"I was wondering when you would get here," he breathed.

Tongue in cheek.

Doc flashed him a wiry smile. Fire lingered in his gaze, consuming darkness.

"How do I look?" he inquired.

Dappled light falling onto his sharp cheekbones. Sheriff took another sip from his flask.

"Fantastic," he cursed, "Absolutely bloody fantastic,"

Sheriff swung his head back, taking a gigantic swing of liquor. It burnt against the sides of his throat. Made his heart leap into his chest.

Doc took a seat opposite to him. Leaning across the table, he clasped his burly hands together.

"Come on," he jeered, "I'm sure you didn't invite me here just so that I could watch you drink," he rasped.

Doc's tongue was husky, flirtatious and reckless. For once Sheriff did not scorn it.

"No," he responded, "I didn't,"

Out of Doc's eyesight, Sheriff draped his nimble body off his chair. He stood in front of Doc before he could pay heed.

He slipped his hand into Doc's. They fit perfectly, their lines, their broken blistered fingers. Hands that were adorned in bruises like bright colourful oil spills.

Doc looked down at their entwined hands, at Sheriff. His eyes were tender. An alloy of love and hope.

"I can't dance," he cursed.

Sheriff let out a muffled laugh.

"But I can,"he retorted, "And I want you,"

With that, Sheriff lead Doc onto the barn's floor by hand. Doc followed his footsteps.

There were no tables here. The straw walls tampered in. The earth beneath their feet was damp and light.

Sheriff let his hand drape over to Doc's left shoulder.

"Lean into me," he whistled.

Doc took a step forward.

"And your hand," Sheriff instructed.

Doc let his hand trail up to Sheriff's shoulder.

"There," Sheriff breathed.

A smile flickered onto his face. Reckless. Drunk on his love.

There was music then.

The radio began to blare the song. The music resonated against the bar's walls. It echoed in Doc's head.

Sheriff moved to it. His steps were lithe and agile. His feet fleeted.

Doc followed his directions. They moved lightly at first, gently, as if they were taking a walk in the summer sun. Then they grew faster.

It didn't take long for Doc to realise what the song was. The lyrics began to seep into his head, crisp and clear. Sharp and brutal.

'Shot through the heart

And you're to blame

Darlin', you give love a bad name'

Doc leaned against Sheriff's form. He smelt of both heaven and hell.

He smelt of reckless violence and prisoners tied up. He smelt of burning love and late-afternoon runs. He smelt of the Devils Drink and broken souls.

Sheriff, friend to many, lover to one.

'Shot through the heart

And you're to blame

You give love a bad name

I play my part and you play your game'

The music swarmed around them. It kept Doc on his feet, kept them moving.

With Sheriff Doc could do anything, even dance.

The music swelled and dived. Tumbled and tossed. It filled the world with sinful harmonies.

In time it died, fading away into a dull crescendo. And then silence.

It was in that silence that Doc looked up. A playful smiled dancing upon his scarred face.

"Were both going to hell darlin'," he breathed.

His lover looked back upon him. Copying the same smile as if he wished for Doc to keep it forever in his mind.

Doc's heart jolted.

Sheriff's bruised lips opened, "I'm already there," he said, "And it's beautiful,"