They may not have talked a lot, relatively speaking, but Doc's hundred plus years held him in good stead in terms of being able to see a man. Tim was that curious blend of very old, mature soul, yet fragile, young and easily lost at the same time. A product of fighting in war at too young an age. Nothing new in the history of man, just one of the many casualties of war.

As if physically responding to Doc letting up the pressure, Tim took a deep breath and then another before forcing himself to stand up straight. He still rested his hip against the window sill but was no longer curled in on himself. Doc's advice is sound, giving it all some time and a couple of crates of 'shine sound like heaven at the moment. He'd kept away from the hard stuff while everything was blowing up, but it might be a good idea to christen his new abode with a blind drunk night. Make sure the toilets were up to snuff.

Another deep breath and Tim dropped his hands back to brace them on the window sill as he shook his head slightly.

"Got to admit, discussion feelings was not even in the top ten of things I ever imagined discussing with Doc Holiday back when I was a kid. Had a list as long as my arm about marksmanship."