"Well. Is that it?" he asks, forcing a smile even though he can't help his voice crackling and breaking ever so gently in the process. "Dry your tears, my love. I have drinks for you here."

He is reluctant to let her go, and she seems reluctant to let him slip away. There are no drinks to be had standing around where they are at, only the breadth and depth of their personal sufferings keeping them rooted, holding on to the only promise of relief they have.

Brushing the backs of his curled fingers against the top of her cheek, he wipes her tears away and rubs his hand down her upper arm. He has missed her so, but he would not burden her with fifty days of this desert road he has already walked on ahead of her when she is barely holding herself together.

"Come with me," he murmurs, taking a small step back, and when she's following he will guide her over to the bar, get her seated. Is a drink actually a good idea right now? Well Doc wouldn't claim to know everything. Sometimes when they're hanging on by a thread a drink is the only thing that is holding them up. Holding them together. In any case, there are no universes out there where two alcoholics in an abandoned bar is going to be a good idea.