[ 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?
no subject
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?