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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.
no subject
I can use it, just not well. Never had much of a need to, considering I can throw lightning and fire from my hands.
[ A shrug. ]
It’s for looks, mostly. I don’t like people knowing what all I can do, so I try and at least appear normal.
no subject
Sharply, ] Don’t carry the damn thing if you’re no good with it. Either learn to fire, or don’t wear it.
‘Cause people see a gun on you, and they expect you know how to use it. And some folk’ll see it as a challenge, not as a warning.
no subject
Are you lecturing me? I’ve been around a lot longer than you have, and haven’t managed to die a dozen times along the way.
no subject
Alec has a point, of course. Faraday has died, over and over – sometimes through no fault of his own. Sometimes because he didn’t know when to leave well enough alone – or because he did know, but didn’t care. Sometimes because he was just tired. And at least once – a shameful, drunken night – because he wondered if his ability wouldn’t save him.
He drops the cigar to ground, grinds it out with his heel – far more force than necessary, but it’s better than punching Alec’s teeth out, as he currently wants to do. The ashes leave a dark stain on the wooden planks of the porch, and he kicks the spent remains away to the dirt. ]
Sure. Fine. [ Brightly, but not without bitterness. ] The hell do I know, right?
[ He pushes off from the railing, putting on an echo of his usual smiles – but this one is sharp and mean. ] I must seem like the world’s biggest idiot to you, huh? Some sorry bastard who can’t tell the difference between bullets and beans. Must be such goddamn chore for you, tryin’ to save me from myself.
no subject
It would be easier. Easier than trying to navigate this. Easier than caring.
But fuck it all, he likes Faraday. He likes having him around, appreciates his company in a way he never thought he would after so goddamn long on his own. The realization that he might actually mourn the man’s absence is startling enough that it saps the anger from him, drawing it out in a sigh. ]
I don’t think you’re stupid. I don’t think you need saving or whatever the hell other ideas you have in your head, and I didn’t mean to imply that I did. I’m sorry, all right?
no subject
That anger is still there, though, dimmed but not extinguished, and he turns away to look out over the fields. He leans forward, hands gripping the porch’s rail. ]
Just learn to use the damn gun, Alec. [ Gritted out between his teeth, without looking Alec’s way. ] I don’t wanna have this conversation again.
no subject
I don’t either. We still got a ways to go once we hit Leadville.
no subject
[ He pushes away from the railing, forcing himself to relax, rolling his shoulders to ease out the tension. Faraday has no earthly clue why the hell he’s so bothered by this whole mess, why he gives as much of a damn as he does.
Alec is a means to an end. A guide, if nothing else. And surely the reasoning for his being so agitated by it all is because without Alec, Faraday’s unlikely to get some much needed answers.
... Yeah. That feels like bullshit, even to himself. ]
Gives me time to teach you, then.
no subject
You’re gonna teach me how to shoot?
no subject
[ Though he says it with doubt in his voice; he doesn’t expect Alec to come up with any other solution. ]
Said it yourself, didn’t you? I’m the better shot. [ And not without some smugness, ] By a large margin, I’d wager.
no subject
[ There’s no bite in his words, though. It’s a sound idea to have Faraday teach him, even if he’s probably going to be insufferable through the whole process. ]
Fine, go ahead and teach me. I won’t say no to the help.
no subject
[ Still slightly salf-satisfied, despite Alec calling him on his attitude. Faraday takes a great deal of pride in his skill, after all. ]
We leavin’ in the morning?
no subject
Yeah. The portal will take us a couple miles out of town, then we'll go from there.
no subject
And how far have we got to go ‘fore we find that friend of yours?
no subject
Denver, or thereabouts.
no subject
Expect Anne will be happy to have us outta her hair. Can’t imagine puttin’ us up has been particularly pleasant for her.
no subject
She’s a tough lady. Her husband and I used to run in the same circles, but once she had May, they came out here. Never did get why until recently, but you’d think she’s been doing this her whole life with how well she’s taken to it.
no subject
Between the two of us, we’ve given poor May plenty of practice.
[ he pauses again, glancing over at Alec, his gaze drifting down to Alec’s middle, where the bullet had torn through earlier in the day. Faraday frowns, something thoughtful rather than angry, and shakes his head. ]
How ‘bout you don’t take any more bullets for a while? Considerin’ we won’t have the girl with us to patch you up.
no subject
The next time someone shoots at us, I hope to be able to use my magic.
no subject
Here’s hopin’.
[ He takes a breath, smirking a little as he adds, ] Although I do recall you getting’ flung on your ass, the last time we were in a firefight. Even with your magic.
no subject
There’s not much anybody can do when the earth itself decides you’re going for a ride.
no subject
Just sayin’, not sure how you managed to live all those years of yours— [ And he says that with a bit of mockery in his voice. ] —without a hired gun at your side.
no subject
[ He wrinkles his nose at the mockery, cocking his head slightly to one side. ]
How old do I look to you?
no subject
Hell of a time to feel vain, Alec.
[ But he gives the other man a once over, then shrugs a shoulder. ]
I dunno. Same as me, I guess. Thirties.
no subject
I wasn’t being figurative earlier. I’m 57.
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