ᴊᴏsʜ ғᴀʀᴀᴅᴀʏ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
peacemakers) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
etceteras2017-01-10 07:48 pm
peacemakers) wrote in etceteras2017-01-10 07:48 pm
this night ain't for the faint of heart;
[ The instant he and Alec return to Anne's ranch, they're greeted with grateful tears and words of gratitude, as Anne embraces her sleeping daughter. Once the girl is safely put to bed, Anne surprises Faraday by wrapping Alec and Faraday each with rib-breaking hugs before she ushers Alec off for some doctoring. Anne's daughter, May, wakes at some point, offers to heal Alec the rest of the way, but her mother bats her hands away.
"She can't do too much at once," Anne explains while she dresses Alec's wounds. "Makes her sick if she tries."
So they stick around while Alec heals – which is just as well, considering the wizard had collapsed nearly the second Anne had taken his weight. Despite his earlier protests, Faraday had obligingly ducked under Alec's other arm, though he grumbled about the new chore. Accused the bastard of being a whole lot heavier than he looked. The man can hardly move that night or the next day, and Faraday feels a bitter little twist in his chest.
(If Faraday were in the habit of being more honest with himself, he'd recognize the feeling as concern, as worry. Strange, feeling that for anyone but himself.)
Not that Faraday gives himself much time to examine that strange feeling, setting to the bottles as he does. Their last stop into a town had refreshed his stores, so to speak, and he takes up station in a corner and tossing back whiskey like his life depended on it. (Maybe not his life, he admits; his sanity, though, is another matter entirely.) He's a charming drunk, at the very least, the alcohol making him boisterous and talkative – better than brooding over the reality of what Alec had told him, of what he is and isn't.
Faraday spends the next several days helping around the ranch – it's a familiar song and dance, and it reminds him of the early days of when he had first trekked out this far west. Before he found more money in cards, before he discovered the strange, shadowy curl just behind his heart – his magic, he supposes. His gift, though Faraday winces at the term, now. He's not obligated to assist, but he does it anyway. It helps to keep his mind off things.
(Because he's not sure if he was better off knowing or not knowing about the existence of magic, about creatures far removed from the natural order of things. He's not sure if he preferred thinking about his ability as some odd quirk of his – painful and abnormal and deeply terrifying, the longer he thinks on it – or if he prefers knowing it came from some deep pool of magic, something that had warped him and changed him. Made him some kind of abomination.
He wonders if the only difference between him and that wraith is that he's still got a heartbeat, for however much longer that might last. )
A few of those days, he wanders back into the nearby town. The first time, he borrows a shirt from Alec and purchases himself new clothing, replacing his bloodied shirt and vest. With a frown, he buys a second set – because for as often as Alec tells him, "Don't die," it's been a uniquely difficult direction to follow. On at least one occasion, he had availed himself of what they generously called their saloon, padded his funds with a few rounds of cards; he doesn't even have to cheat, considering how clearly the men wear their tells on their sleeves. He is gracious about it, though, offers them a conciliatory round of drinks for mopping the floor with them. It seems to do the trick of endearing him to the other men, and the other times he has occasion to ride back into town, they greet him with smiles, not guns.
Today, Anne had sent him to town to purchase some supplies, and with the task done, Faraday wanders back into the saloon. No guns, once again, but no smiles, either, and Faraday is instantly on edge. He slides up to the bar, asks the barkeep in a low voice, "Who the hell died?"
The barman, some weathered old man with a shock of white hair and a beard to match, huffs out a humorless little laugh. "Had a bounty hunter come through, a Wyatt Garrison. Slimy son of a bitch." His smile fades, and he looks pointedly at Faraday, expression solemn. "Was lookin' for a couple'a' men. One of 'em was dark-haired. Lightnin' thrower. The other... well. Sounded an awful lot like you, son."
To his credit, even as something clenches in his gut, Faraday snorts out a laugh, as if that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. His expression becomes curious rather than wary, and some of the tension drains from the barkeep's shoulders. Fooled by the act, then. Faraday asks, "What'd they do?"
The barkeep shrugs. "Same as anyone does. Killed the wrong folks. $300 for one, $250 for the other. Dead or alive"
Faraday almost wants to ask which is which, but he can figure it out for himself. (A small kick to his pride, but he'll live.) "Ballsy son of a bitch, goin' against a lightning thrower. Good luck to him."
"Said he don't need luck," the barkeep says grimly. His gaze flicks over to the bat wing doors, and though Faraday doesn't turn, he can see movement outside from the corner of his eye as someone meanders down the street. Faraday sucks in a sharp breath and presses his hand to his chest, abruptly struck by the sensation that something is missing, like sitting in a room and realizing all the noise had disappeared. He focuses, and— yes, that shadowy flicker still curls in his chest, but it's muted, somehow. Grown distant and barely there.
Faraday lifts his head, and dread plummets in his stomach like a stone.
He takes his time leaving, at least, takes his time retrieving Jack from where he's tethered in front of a watering trough. Even takes his time trotting out of town – but the instant he's far enough, he urges Jack into a gallop. He makes it back to the ranch in near record time, and when he's near enough to the house, he starts shouting: ]
Alec! We've gotta go.
"She can't do too much at once," Anne explains while she dresses Alec's wounds. "Makes her sick if she tries."
So they stick around while Alec heals – which is just as well, considering the wizard had collapsed nearly the second Anne had taken his weight. Despite his earlier protests, Faraday had obligingly ducked under Alec's other arm, though he grumbled about the new chore. Accused the bastard of being a whole lot heavier than he looked. The man can hardly move that night or the next day, and Faraday feels a bitter little twist in his chest.
(If Faraday were in the habit of being more honest with himself, he'd recognize the feeling as concern, as worry. Strange, feeling that for anyone but himself.)
Not that Faraday gives himself much time to examine that strange feeling, setting to the bottles as he does. Their last stop into a town had refreshed his stores, so to speak, and he takes up station in a corner and tossing back whiskey like his life depended on it. (Maybe not his life, he admits; his sanity, though, is another matter entirely.) He's a charming drunk, at the very least, the alcohol making him boisterous and talkative – better than brooding over the reality of what Alec had told him, of what he is and isn't.
Faraday spends the next several days helping around the ranch – it's a familiar song and dance, and it reminds him of the early days of when he had first trekked out this far west. Before he found more money in cards, before he discovered the strange, shadowy curl just behind his heart – his magic, he supposes. His gift, though Faraday winces at the term, now. He's not obligated to assist, but he does it anyway. It helps to keep his mind off things.
(Because he's not sure if he was better off knowing or not knowing about the existence of magic, about creatures far removed from the natural order of things. He's not sure if he preferred thinking about his ability as some odd quirk of his – painful and abnormal and deeply terrifying, the longer he thinks on it – or if he prefers knowing it came from some deep pool of magic, something that had warped him and changed him. Made him some kind of abomination.
He wonders if the only difference between him and that wraith is that he's still got a heartbeat, for however much longer that might last. )
A few of those days, he wanders back into the nearby town. The first time, he borrows a shirt from Alec and purchases himself new clothing, replacing his bloodied shirt and vest. With a frown, he buys a second set – because for as often as Alec tells him, "Don't die," it's been a uniquely difficult direction to follow. On at least one occasion, he had availed himself of what they generously called their saloon, padded his funds with a few rounds of cards; he doesn't even have to cheat, considering how clearly the men wear their tells on their sleeves. He is gracious about it, though, offers them a conciliatory round of drinks for mopping the floor with them. It seems to do the trick of endearing him to the other men, and the other times he has occasion to ride back into town, they greet him with smiles, not guns.
Today, Anne had sent him to town to purchase some supplies, and with the task done, Faraday wanders back into the saloon. No guns, once again, but no smiles, either, and Faraday is instantly on edge. He slides up to the bar, asks the barkeep in a low voice, "Who the hell died?"
The barman, some weathered old man with a shock of white hair and a beard to match, huffs out a humorless little laugh. "Had a bounty hunter come through, a Wyatt Garrison. Slimy son of a bitch." His smile fades, and he looks pointedly at Faraday, expression solemn. "Was lookin' for a couple'a' men. One of 'em was dark-haired. Lightnin' thrower. The other... well. Sounded an awful lot like you, son."
To his credit, even as something clenches in his gut, Faraday snorts out a laugh, as if that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. His expression becomes curious rather than wary, and some of the tension drains from the barkeep's shoulders. Fooled by the act, then. Faraday asks, "What'd they do?"
The barkeep shrugs. "Same as anyone does. Killed the wrong folks. $300 for one, $250 for the other. Dead or alive"
Faraday almost wants to ask which is which, but he can figure it out for himself. (A small kick to his pride, but he'll live.) "Ballsy son of a bitch, goin' against a lightning thrower. Good luck to him."
"Said he don't need luck," the barkeep says grimly. His gaze flicks over to the bat wing doors, and though Faraday doesn't turn, he can see movement outside from the corner of his eye as someone meanders down the street. Faraday sucks in a sharp breath and presses his hand to his chest, abruptly struck by the sensation that something is missing, like sitting in a room and realizing all the noise had disappeared. He focuses, and— yes, that shadowy flicker still curls in his chest, but it's muted, somehow. Grown distant and barely there.
Faraday lifts his head, and dread plummets in his stomach like a stone.
He takes his time leaving, at least, takes his time retrieving Jack from where he's tethered in front of a watering trough. Even takes his time trotting out of town – but the instant he's far enough, he urges Jack into a gallop. He makes it back to the ranch in near record time, and when he's near enough to the house, he starts shouting: ]
Alec! We've gotta go.