[ Josh Faraday has a way with people. He's a disarming sort of man, with an easy grin and a boyish charm to him, free with the stories and the jokes. It helps to keep them laughing as he swindles them out of their hard-earned cash, makes the pain of their loss that much less sharp. Because as good as he is in making a passing friend, Faraday is even better with cards, hands made quick from more than a few firefights (or maybe it's the cards that made him quick on the draw?). He keeps a face card tucked away for added security – a suicide king, most of the time, because Faraday has a grim sense of humor – but he only rarely needs it, thanks to his clever dealing.
But sometimes, his old "friends" catch up to him, press a gun to his side as he steps out of a bar, tell him in no uncertain terms that he's coming with them. Three men, all armed with secondhand pistols, who march him out into the fields outside of town just as the sun begins to set. The clouds above them purple like a bad bruise by the time they finally stop, and the men demand he fall to his knees to die like the dog he is. It seems they had plans to shoot him the back.
Rookies and fools that they are, they forgot to take his guns.
Three shots ring out as the sun disappears behind the mountains; three pained cries as pistols clatter into the packed dirt. A fourth shot that flies cleanly between one man's eyes, and a single thud, as a body falls to the ground. Silence, as the remaining two men stare at Faraday and his smoking revolvers, clutching their wounded hands with fear in their eyes.
"I didn't wanna have to do this," he tells them. "We could'a' talked this out. Remember that you did this. Now get on your knees. Wait over there. Count as high as you can, and when you're done, I want you to run as fast and as far away from here as your legs can carry you. You try this again, and I won't be so kind."
They move, and he kicks their guns away somewhere into the darkening field. He leaves after that, trusting he's put the fear into them, and heads back to—
Bang. Faraday stumbles. Stunned silence. A hidden gun, apparently.
Bang. Bang. Two thuds and the skittering of displaced dirt and rocks. Dragging footsteps as Faraday turns away.
A brief burst of energy gets him as far as the outskirts of town – the same sort of energy that pulls him through a fight, makes his focus narrow down to a single pinpoint. He presses the fabric of his clothing to his wounded left side, clamps his hand over the injury like that alone could stop his life from seeping out of him. His strength flags a few buildings in, and his legs buckle beneath him, send him careening into a barrel and a stack of crates. An unlit lantern falls beside him and clatters against the wooden walkway, rolling into a support column. Faraday sinks to his knees, leaves a smear of blood across the wood as he props himself up against the wall of some building.
So this is how it ends, he thinks, laughing quietly in the dark. Blood loss and pain makes his fingers clumsy as he pulls his flask from where it's tucked into his vest pocket. He pries the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spits it away, taking a long pull of whiskey. It burns its way down his throat, pools with an empty sort of warmth in his stomach.
Josh Faraday, taken out by three idiots, he thinks, laughing again. No fanfare, no glory, not even a witness to mark his passing. Bleeding out alone because of some meaningless confrontation. Of all the nightmares he's had, this is by far the worst. ]
[ Madigan remembers the man from the bar. She remembers his easy smile and quick hands and sharp gaze that suggested the people playing at his table were about to lose a lot of money. Madigan herself didn’t care one way or another about cheating, so long as it was done well. It’s the ones who were bad at it that were bound to cause the most trouble, and when the inevitable happened, they got a stern lecture and an armed escort from the premises.
She was never one to tolerate trouble in her establishment. That man had been good, though, and she was content to let things play out and his victims were none the wiser about how well they had just been played. She kind of had to admire that.
So when one of her girls comes across their sharp-eyed friend unconscious and bleeding out in a pile of old crates at a darkened storefront, she has him brought back to one of the rooms above the bar. Their little town is too small for a doctor of their own, and the nearest one is a good few hours ride away.
Madigan has a fair bit of knowledge in that area herself, thankfully. She’s patched more than a few people up after a bar fight or two, and at the very least she’s able to stop the bleeding and get him at least somewhat stable as one of her employees makes the ride at first light for the doctor. The doctor comes and goes, and tells her wearily he’s done what he could. The rest is up to the patient.
Madigan comes in to check on him often, to see if there’s any change. Stranger or no, she hates to see people in pain, she hates to see people die needlessly. She keeps hoping she’ll find him awake, though she hasn’t yet. Maybe this time will be different. ]
[ Faraday wakes a day or so later, to an unfamiliar bed, an unfamiliar ceiling, and a burning ache in his left side.
An ache that flares into a blinding agony that makes his ears ring with a high-pitched whine when he tries to push himself up. Whoops.
So he’s alive, then, he thinks dimly (though a part of him wonders why that would be in question). Or at least, he’s pretty sure being dead is supposed to be a lot more painless than this.
When he regains his senses, he hears the clop of horse hooves outside, the noise of voices and wagon wheels turning on the dirt. Below, he hears the soft tinkling of glassware, of a piano being idly played, and the soft din of conversation. Afternoon light streaks in through the parting between the window’s curtains, blocking out only a bit of the day’s warmth. Sweat beads along his brow, makes his hair stick to his forehead, but maybe that’s less from the heat of the sun, and more from some sort of fever, his body battling infection. Whichever it is, the blankets aren’t helping, and Faraday carefully shoves them off, keeping as still as possible to avoid that pain from spilling over again – which is about the time he notices the bandages swathing his middle.
… Odd.
Explains a whole damn lot, though, like why he feels like the kind of shit you scrape from a horse’s shoe.
He glances over to one side, finds his things there, sees his hat and gun belt hanging from a rack in the corner. Lucky for everyone, the thought of standing to claiming either of them sounds excruciating, and he opts to stay in his borrowed bed; it’s enough that they’re even there. For a few moments, he tries to remember what happened to bring him here, fingertips ghosting along the bandages and the tender spot at his side, but the memories are hazy. Too much to drink, maybe; he has too much to drink every night.
At least he can safely say he got shot. That’s one mystery solved. Nicely done, Faraday.
Caught up as he is, the creaking of the door catches him off-guard, and he tenses, hand closing around empty air as he reaches for his absent peacemaker. He looks up at the figure in the doorway and—
—and falls still, staring. Whatever he was expecting, a young woman with a distantly familiar face certainly wasn’t it. ]
… Afternoon.
[ Croaked, the pronunciation imprecise from sleep and from the way his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He clears his throat, though it helps little when he speaks again, and tries for a small smile that looks more like a wince. ]
Did hell start hirin’ angels, or did I just get lucky?
[ This time is different, and she feels a distinct sense of relief. Also, she is not at all surprised to find that he’s a sweet talker, even if he looks a bit like death warmed over. She steps inside, gently shutting the door behind her. ]
Barely off of death’s doorstep and you’re flirting. [ She laughs a little. ] You had a close call, but looks like the worst of it is over.
[ He asks it with a grimace, screwing his eyes shut and holding a hand against his side. Stupid, maybe, to take his eyes off her, but considering his position, considering he’s got no earthly clue as to how long he’s been here or how long he’s been so vulnerable, he figures he’s safe enough, for the moment. He’s clearly been cared for, for some reason; some misplaced sense of charity, maybe.
He coughs, wincing again as it pulls at his wound. ]
‘Cause I feel like I’ve been trampled five times over.
[ The consolation she offers only earns a huffed-out laugh from him. Considering the way he feels, how his injury throbs with each heartbeat, he’d much rather be unconscious, right about now. The sound of her approaching footsteps captures his attention, and he opens an eye to return her gaze. ]
Haven’t the faintest.
[ He peers up at her – both eyes, now, examining her in the dim light of the room – and frowns. ]
[ Well, she supposes with all the blood he’s lost, it only stands to reason that he’s hazy. She gives a little nod. ] You robbed quite a few men of their hard-earned money at my poker tables just a few nights ago. Call me Madigan.
[ Well, that certainly sounds like something he would have done. Still, he offers a token, ] Won that cash fair and square. [ apparently having taken umbrage with the idea that he “robbed” anyone, though the denial is lukewarm at best.
He shifts a little in the bed, trying to pull himself up further and grunting with the effort. Slowly – slowly, slowly – he props himself up on the elbow of his good side, having learned his lesson from earlier. Even this seems to leave him slightly breathless, and it takes him a few seconds to recover enough to answer her question. ]
Folks call me Faraday. [ No one’s called him Josh since he was young enough to cry at a skinned knee, and he’d rather keep it that way.
He gestures to the bandages around his middle. ] You the one who patched me up?
[ Halfhearted though it is, she finds something amusing about his denial of the implications that he was stealing. He must get that a lot, and she’s so surprised by the revelation. ] More or less, until we could get a doctor here. You’ve been out for a few days.
[ She wants to ask what happened, but there will be time for that. Currently, he seems to be struggling with the idea of being upright, so she leans down to offer him a hand. ] Come on, you’re halfway there already. Let’s get you sat up and then maybe see about some food.
Days? [ He echoes it back, baffled, his voice slightly hollow. She put him up for days, when they barely knew each other?
… why the hell would someone go and do a thing like that?
She moves in to help him, and that distracts him from his confusion. Together, they manage to get him propped up against the wall, her hands blessedly cool against feverish skin, and once she steps away, his hands drop to his injury. He presses his shoulder blades back, straightening a little as if to relieve the pressure on his side. He grits his teeth, eyes shut again, but even through the pain, he breathes out a sharp laugh through his nose, forces a tight, lopsided smile. ]
I’m gonna have one hell of a bill after this is all said and done, ain’t I?
Work on not dying and then we'll go from there, okay sugar?
[ She can hear the wheels in his head turning, wondering just how this kindness is going to come back to bite him. Would that "every man for himself" wasn't the way of things out here, but she know that sadly that's the truth of it. She's not planning to charge him for his stay, no matter how long it may be.
Granted, she could expedite the healing process, given her, ah, talents, but the poor man looks like he can barely sit upright. He needs a little time to heal on his own before she goes helping him.
There's a pitcher of water and a glass on the bedside table, and she turns to pour it for him, offering it over. ]
[ Despite it all, his hand remains steady as he reaches for the glass, only the slightest tremor of weakness betraying him. He drinks the water down in a few greedy gulps, nearly choking with it in his haste, but a few deep breaths keeps the coughing fit at bay.
Admittedly, he would much rather have something with a higher proof, something to take a bit of the edge off, but he’ll take what he can get, for now. ]
You make a habit of runnin’ a hospital out of your inn?
[ He drinks from the glass with no less ardor, though a touch more carefully this time, and once it's drained, he offers a quiet, ] Thanks. Needed that.
[ He tries to settle into a more comfortable position, frowning with concentration as he shifts. ]
I owe that girl of yours a word of thanks, too, I suspect. [ A pause, as he tries to sort through the haze, pick out the memories that led him to this sorry state. ] Where'd I end up at?
[ He vaguely remembers that, remembers thinking, Well, this is a shitty way to die, and a bit of the haze falls away. He chuckles mirthlessly all over again, bringing up a hand to cover his face. ]
I got shot. [ Simple as that. His palm muffles his words slightly. ] Got sloppy. Wasn't exactly at my best, I guess.
I figured that much when I patched you up. [ Her eyes flick down to his side, then back up to his face ] What I want to know is if someone's gonna come back to finish what they started.
[ He says it with a grim certainty, hand dropping to his bandaged side.
Six shots, when he should've just taken three and ended it before it began. Shouldn't have fooled himself into thinking the men were smart enough to leave well enough alone.
[ She holds his gaze for a very long moment, before she turns to regard the guns hanging on the rack by the door. There are a lot of people out here who carry guns, even her, but not many of them could use them well.
After a moment, her eyes return to him. ]
That’s good to know.
[ With that, she gets to her feet. ] Let me see what’s cooking downstairs. I’ll be right back.
[ The little joke draws a chuckle out of her and she vanishes out the door. She's met with curious and expectant looks from her staff when she makes it back down to the main area of the bar. "He's awake," she says, and just like the the tension in the air dissipates.
A short while later, she makes her way back upstairs with a bowl of simple stew and some bread. For courtesy's sake, she raps on the door with a knuckle before entering. ]
I hope you haven't managed to wander off, Mr. Faraday.
[ True to his word, Faraday doesn’t wander too far; in fact, he doesn’t wander at all, mostly because even the idea of getting out of bed makes the ache in his side flare in warning. He already has a hole in him – he doesn’t need to add a busted nose to the list if he falls flat on his face.
So he stays put, reaching over to the window’s curtain to pull it aside. Light spills into the room. His eyes shut reflexively, and he turns away as his sight adjusts, but when it does, he looks down on the street below. It’s a small town, which means it has little to recommend it – a general shop, a schoolhouse, a church, all the usual stops. A man with a horse and carriage drifts down the road at a slow, leisurely pace. A couple more horses stand tethered in front of a watering trough directly below.
Peaceful. You’d almost never guess that just outside of town, three bodies rotted in the heat, or that it was very nearly four.
When Madigan reenters the room, Faraday looks up, and it’s only when he sees the food in her hands that he realizes he’s damn hungry. He puts on a crooked sort of smile, carefully pushing himself to sit up a little more. ]
I’m far from it, but I like to think I make a decent bowl of stew at the very least.
[ She offers said bowl and a spoon to him first, setting the bread aside next to the pitcher of water from earlier. Once again, she perches on the edge of the bed, observing as he eats for a short while before, ]
If you don’t mind my asking, what is it you do for a living, Mr. Faraday?
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have some prompts i guess
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But sometimes, his old "friends" catch up to him, press a gun to his side as he steps out of a bar, tell him in no uncertain terms that he's coming with them. Three men, all armed with secondhand pistols, who march him out into the fields outside of town just as the sun begins to set. The clouds above them purple like a bad bruise by the time they finally stop, and the men demand he fall to his knees to die like the dog he is. It seems they had plans to shoot him the back.
Rookies and fools that they are, they forgot to take his guns.
Three shots ring out as the sun disappears behind the mountains; three pained cries as pistols clatter into the packed dirt. A fourth shot that flies cleanly between one man's eyes, and a single thud, as a body falls to the ground. Silence, as the remaining two men stare at Faraday and his smoking revolvers, clutching their wounded hands with fear in their eyes.
"I didn't wanna have to do this," he tells them. "We could'a' talked this out. Remember that you did this. Now get on your knees. Wait over there. Count as high as you can, and when you're done, I want you to run as fast and as far away from here as your legs can carry you. You try this again, and I won't be so kind."
They move, and he kicks their guns away somewhere into the darkening field. He leaves after that, trusting he's put the fear into them, and heads back to—
Bang. Faraday stumbles. Stunned silence. A hidden gun, apparently.
Bang. Bang. Two thuds and the skittering of displaced dirt and rocks. Dragging footsteps as Faraday turns away.
A brief burst of energy gets him as far as the outskirts of town – the same sort of energy that pulls him through a fight, makes his focus narrow down to a single pinpoint. He presses the fabric of his clothing to his wounded left side, clamps his hand over the injury like that alone could stop his life from seeping out of him. His strength flags a few buildings in, and his legs buckle beneath him, send him careening into a barrel and a stack of crates. An unlit lantern falls beside him and clatters against the wooden walkway, rolling into a support column. Faraday sinks to his knees, leaves a smear of blood across the wood as he props himself up against the wall of some building.
So this is how it ends, he thinks, laughing quietly in the dark. Blood loss and pain makes his fingers clumsy as he pulls his flask from where it's tucked into his vest pocket. He pries the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spits it away, taking a long pull of whiskey. It burns its way down his throat, pools with an empty sort of warmth in his stomach.
Josh Faraday, taken out by three idiots, he thinks, laughing again. No fanfare, no glory, not even a witness to mark his passing. Bleeding out alone because of some meaningless confrontation. Of all the nightmares he's had, this is by far the worst. ]
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She was never one to tolerate trouble in her establishment. That man had been good, though, and she was content to let things play out and his victims were none the wiser about how well they had just been played. She kind of had to admire that.
So when one of her girls comes across their sharp-eyed friend unconscious and bleeding out in a pile of old crates at a darkened storefront, she has him brought back to one of the rooms above the bar. Their little town is too small for a doctor of their own, and the nearest one is a good few hours ride away.
Madigan has a fair bit of knowledge in that area herself, thankfully. She’s patched more than a few people up after a bar fight or two, and at the very least she’s able to stop the bleeding and get him at least somewhat stable as one of her employees makes the ride at first light for the doctor. The doctor comes and goes, and tells her wearily he’s done what he could. The rest is up to the patient.
Madigan comes in to check on him often, to see if there’s any change. Stranger or no, she hates to see people in pain, she hates to see people die needlessly. She keeps hoping she’ll find him awake, though she hasn’t yet. Maybe this time will be different. ]
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An ache that flares into a blinding agony that makes his ears ring with a high-pitched whine when he tries to push himself up. Whoops.
So he’s alive, then, he thinks dimly (though a part of him wonders why that would be in question). Or at least, he’s pretty sure being dead is supposed to be a lot more painless than this.
When he regains his senses, he hears the clop of horse hooves outside, the noise of voices and wagon wheels turning on the dirt. Below, he hears the soft tinkling of glassware, of a piano being idly played, and the soft din of conversation. Afternoon light streaks in through the parting between the window’s curtains, blocking out only a bit of the day’s warmth. Sweat beads along his brow, makes his hair stick to his forehead, but maybe that’s less from the heat of the sun, and more from some sort of fever, his body battling infection. Whichever it is, the blankets aren’t helping, and Faraday carefully shoves them off, keeping as still as possible to avoid that pain from spilling over again – which is about the time he notices the bandages swathing his middle.
… Odd.
Explains a whole damn lot, though, like why he feels like the kind of shit you scrape from a horse’s shoe.
He glances over to one side, finds his things there, sees his hat and gun belt hanging from a rack in the corner. Lucky for everyone, the thought of standing to claiming either of them sounds excruciating, and he opts to stay in his borrowed bed; it’s enough that they’re even there. For a few moments, he tries to remember what happened to bring him here, fingertips ghosting along the bandages and the tender spot at his side, but the memories are hazy. Too much to drink, maybe; he has too much to drink every night.
At least he can safely say he got shot. That’s one mystery solved. Nicely done, Faraday.
Caught up as he is, the creaking of the door catches him off-guard, and he tenses, hand closing around empty air as he reaches for his absent peacemaker. He looks up at the figure in the doorway and—
—and falls still, staring. Whatever he was expecting, a young woman with a distantly familiar face certainly wasn’t it. ]
… Afternoon.
[ Croaked, the pronunciation imprecise from sleep and from the way his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He clears his throat, though it helps little when he speaks again, and tries for a small smile that looks more like a wince. ]
Did hell start hirin’ angels, or did I just get lucky?
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Barely off of death’s doorstep and you’re flirting. [ She laughs a little. ] You had a close call, but looks like the worst of it is over.
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[ He asks it with a grimace, screwing his eyes shut and holding a hand against his side. Stupid, maybe, to take his eyes off her, but considering his position, considering he’s got no earthly clue as to how long he’s been here or how long he’s been so vulnerable, he figures he’s safe enough, for the moment. He’s clearly been cared for, for some reason; some misplaced sense of charity, maybe.
He coughs, wincing again as it pulls at his wound. ]
‘Cause I feel like I’ve been trampled five times over.
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[ She approaches the edge of the bed, hands on her hips, peering down at him with a considering look. ] Do you know where you are?
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Haven’t the faintest.
[ He peers up at her – both eyes, now, examining her in the dim light of the room – and frowns. ]
We’ve met, though, haven’t we?
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You are?
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He shifts a little in the bed, trying to pull himself up further and grunting with the effort. Slowly – slowly, slowly – he props himself up on the elbow of his good side, having learned his lesson from earlier. Even this seems to leave him slightly breathless, and it takes him a few seconds to recover enough to answer her question. ]
Folks call me Faraday. [ No one’s called him Josh since he was young enough to cry at a skinned knee, and he’d rather keep it that way.
He gestures to the bandages around his middle. ] You the one who patched me up?
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[ She wants to ask what happened, but there will be time for that. Currently, he seems to be struggling with the idea of being upright, so she leans down to offer him a hand. ] Come on, you’re halfway there already. Let’s get you sat up and then maybe see about some food.
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… why the hell would someone go and do a thing like that?
She moves in to help him, and that distracts him from his confusion. Together, they manage to get him propped up against the wall, her hands blessedly cool against feverish skin, and once she steps away, his hands drop to his injury. He presses his shoulder blades back, straightening a little as if to relieve the pressure on his side. He grits his teeth, eyes shut again, but even through the pain, he breathes out a sharp laugh through his nose, forces a tight, lopsided smile. ]
I’m gonna have one hell of a bill after this is all said and done, ain’t I?
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[ She can hear the wheels in his head turning, wondering just how this kindness is going to come back to bite him. Would that "every man for himself" wasn't the way of things out here, but she know that sadly that's the truth of it. She's not planning to charge him for his stay, no matter how long it may be.
Granted, she could expedite the healing process, given her, ah, talents, but the poor man looks like he can barely sit upright. He needs a little time to heal on his own before she goes helping him.
There's a pitcher of water and a glass on the bedside table, and she turns to pour it for him, offering it over. ]
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Admittedly, he would much rather have something with a higher proof, something to take a bit of the edge off, but he’ll take what he can get, for now. ]
You make a habit of runnin’ a hospital out of your inn?
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Considering there's no doctor here, yeah. Sometimes.
You're lucky one of my girls found you when she did.
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[ He tries to settle into a more comfortable position, frowning with concentration as he shifts. ]
I owe that girl of yours a word of thanks, too, I suspect. [ A pause, as he tries to sort through the haze, pick out the memories that led him to this sorry state. ] Where'd I end up at?
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[ She perches on the edge of the bed, canting her head to one side. ] What happened?
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I got shot. [ Simple as that. His palm muffles his words slightly. ] Got sloppy. Wasn't exactly at my best, I guess.
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[ He says it with a grim certainty, hand dropping to his bandaged side.
Six shots, when he should've just taken three and ended it before it began. Shouldn't have fooled himself into thinking the men were smart enough to leave well enough alone.
He takes a breath, catching her gaze again. ]
I don't make mistakes twice.
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After a moment, her eyes return to him. ]
That’s good to know.
[ With that, she gets to her feet. ] Let me see what’s cooking downstairs. I’ll be right back.
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I’ll try not to wander too far, in the meantime.
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A short while later, she makes her way back upstairs with a bowl of simple stew and some bread. For courtesy's sake, she raps on the door with a knuckle before entering. ]
I hope you haven't managed to wander off, Mr. Faraday.
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So he stays put, reaching over to the window’s curtain to pull it aside. Light spills into the room. His eyes shut reflexively, and he turns away as his sight adjusts, but when it does, he looks down on the street below. It’s a small town, which means it has little to recommend it – a general shop, a schoolhouse, a church, all the usual stops. A man with a horse and carriage drifts down the road at a slow, leisurely pace. A couple more horses stand tethered in front of a watering trough directly below.
Peaceful. You’d almost never guess that just outside of town, three bodies rotted in the heat, or that it was very nearly four.
When Madigan reenters the room, Faraday looks up, and it’s only when he sees the food in her hands that he realizes he’s damn hungry. He puts on a crooked sort of smile, carefully pushing himself to sit up a little more. ]
You’re a saint, you know that?
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[ She offers said bowl and a spoon to him first, setting the bread aside next to the pitcher of water from earlier. Once again, she perches on the edge of the bed, observing as he eats for a short while before, ]
If you don’t mind my asking, what is it you do for a living, Mr. Faraday?
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