[ There are a lot more graves in the churchyard than he remembers.
He supposes it follows, really, considering how many casualties were incurred that blood-drenched day. Seems like an awful lot more burial mounds than there should be, though – and it occurs to him that Bogue’s men must have been interred alongside the rest of the town’s lost. Their graves were marked by simple crosses, left mostly forgotten toward the back. Six months and some bits is enough time for nature to stake a claim, and weeds began to gather around their markers.
Still, it was decent of Rose Creek to have buried them along with their dead; when the dust settled, it must have been one hell of a shouting match to allow those men even that much of a courtesy. He wonders if one of those plots is Bogue, left to rot in the dirt, or if Rose Creek had left his body to a different fate.
(If it were up to Faraday, Bogue would have been left to the elements, tossed somewhere for the wildlife to pick at. It’s only half of what he had coming for him, for taking away the lives of good men. But then again, very few people leave things up Faraday – or at least they never had when he still had breath – and for good reason.)
Faraday leans against the wrought iron fence wrapped around the graveyard, one foot kicked up on the lower rail. Some names he recognizes – men with whom he briefly spoke in that week leading up to his death (and theirs, too, he supposes) – and he watches as somber women and children tend to graves. Faraday offers something like a quick prayer for them. (Is it too peculiar for a ghost to pray for the dead?) He spies the name “Matthew Cullen” and wonders what sort of man he was to inspire a town to go to war.
It’s been a few weeks now, since he spoke with Emma beside his own grave, and he’s been present in some form for nearly every one of those days, drifting around her. (Haunting her, more accurately, but his use of the term earns him a glare every time.) His bouts of existence are getting longer, now, almost like he’s getting his strength back. Like he’s practicing, getting accustomed to a new skill. No one sees him, still, no one hears him, no matter how much of a ruckus he tries to make, save for Emma.
It’s not perfect, whatever this is. It’s not ideal. But few things ever are, and he makes do.
He learns a few things, during that time. Like how he can walk through walls and doors and people, or how he can be some place in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, he can let himself drift – invisible even to Emma’s eyes, but still aware, in a way, of his chosen surroundings and of time passing. He also learns that trying to go too far out of Rose Creek sends something buzzing through him, makes him feel a tug in his gut, and the discomfort only goes away when he wanders back toward the town. Tethered to something, though he can’t tell what.
Faraday pushes away from the fence, turns a little to look in the direction of the hill, where Goody, Billy, and Jack lie. (His own body, too, though he tries not to think too hard on it.) He offers them a brief nod – almost like a fond sort of greeting. After that, he disappears—
— and reappears in Emma Cullen’s kitchen. He grins. ]
[ emma is struck by how oddly easy it's been to adjust to having faraday around so regularly. it isn't constant, but since that sunday on the hill, she's seen him for some amount of time every day. surprising, is what it is, but also...less lonely. emma isn't necessarily reclusive, by any means, and she still interacts with the people of rose creek just fine, but, well, she otherwise lives by herself, widowed as she is — though she's made it perfectly clear to those that worry after her that she's more than capable of providing for her own needs. she isn't helpless, by any means, and never ought to be considered such.
she carries on, is what she does.
but she's not above admitting that the silence is often heavy and more than she's used to. in those times, she's come to be grateful for faraday's company and the lightness of his humor; it fills her empty hours more than anything else has, though she really doesn't much care for calling what he does "haunting." she feels like that goes on to imply some sort of malicious intent, and truly, the worst he's done is move something while she's just about to reach for it.
he's a pain, but he's not a ghoul of any kind, that's for sure.
the downside to having him around, trailing after her so often, is that she can't acknowledge him when she's around other people. she has to treat his presence with the most impassable face she can manage. she can't look like she's conversing with plain air, after all, so she's always stuck waiting until they're alone again.
however, there's also an unpredictability to his appearances. he comes and goes so frequently that emma can never figure when he'll be back again, and it's usually a surprise when he is.
like now, for instance.
she starts at the sound of his voice, in the otherwise silent house, and it's jarring enough that she yelps in the most undiginified way — and, inconvenience of inconveniences, but she just so happened to be preparing dinner, and her hand slips on the vegetables she'd been cutting, leaving a (fortunately shallow) slice on her finger.
turning to glare at him, she reaches for a nearby rag, pressing it to her hand. ]
[ That noise she made makes him grin all the more widely – but his amusement is short lived when he hears the clatter of her knife on the cutting board, sees the little flicker of red on her hand before she covers it with the rag. The smile leaves his face in almost an instant, replaced with concern, and he starts forward. ]
Sorry, sorry— I didn’t mean—
[ Faraday had always been the type of man to make do with what he’s given. Life wasn’t fair, but he grew to accept that, learned to take it all on the chin and keep on grinning. Tended to piss off a lot of people when he didn’t simply stay down, but it was better than the alternative – cowering in some corner and withering away.
Apparently death couldn’t keep him down, either – at least, not very well – and he makes do with this, too. Haunts Emma Cullen (because that’s what it rightly is, no matter how she glares, considering the state of him), pulls little jokes in town when he follows her there, offers a running commentary on the other people she passes on the wooden walkways—
(“I believe that man has goose down glued all over his chin.” “Oof, how long’s that woman’s face been like that? You think she smelled some curdled milk and it got stuck?” “When’s the last time you think he’s seen his feet, with that paunch?” “Someone should tell that man he ought to have his wife braid his mole hair to keep it outta the way.”)
—knowing perfectly well that Emma wouldn’t be able to respond immediately. Couldn’t smack him for his rudeness after the fact, either.
And sometimes he gets a cheap laugh from startling her, too, but he never means to do any real harm. He looks properly contrite, shoulders hunching a little. Not unlike a child caught stealing sweets, really. ]
[ it could obviously be much worse, which is largely why emma isn't too put out over it. her finger still stings and gives the occasional unpleasant throb, but the pressure she's putting on it with the rag helps.
she pulls back the cloth to take a look at her finger, and it's determined to keep oozing blood down her palm — which she's quick to wipe away. ]
Not nearly so bad you need worry yourself over it.
[ it hurts, certainly, but emma is far from the kind to be dramatic over such a small wound (rather, she'd even downplay it, if it was bad), and she's even less so prone to squeamishness over her own blood. most of her ire is gone with the look of apology on his face, but she still fixes him with a most displeased look. ]
Sneakin' up on me's not quite a bright idea when I'm cooking.
[ because she doesn't find it nearly as amusing when he makes her leap outta her skin from time to time, and when there's clearly more opportune times to do it, she's absolutely going to scold him.
wrapping her finger back up in the bloody cloth, she reaches over to pick up the now-dirty knife, wiping it clean on the rag just the same. she means to get back to dinner in a moment, when her finger decides to stop bleeding, but for now, she's left to wait on it. she's actually had to get out of the habit of offering faraday food, because when he makes himself known while she's cooking, it's near instinct to try to feed company — but that, obviously, is not something faraday's capable of now. ]
I could've cut my finger clean off, you know.
[ well, not really, but she still has to rib him a bit for it. ]
[ He grimaces at the scolding, arms folding over his chest and shoulders hunching up a little around his ears. Defensive. A bit like a hissing cat.
Apparently he’s unused to being on the receiving end of a lecture, or at least unused to having to actually sit through one. Usually any attempts to tell him he’d done wrong went in one ear, out the other, or he’d decide not to suffer it and wander off. Harder to do either of those things when the person doing the haranguing is literally the only person he can talk to.
When was the last time he was reprimanded like this, anyway? Surely not since he was old enough to think a skinned knee or a ripped shirt was enough to bring about the end of days.
He finds he doesn’t like it. ]
I said I was sorry, didn’t I?
[ It’s not the first time he’s had to apologize for scaring her, but usually those apologies were lip service at best, said while he was still grinning or laughing. This is likely the first time he says it with any hint of sincerity. He shifts his weight, glancing over at the vegetables on the board to avoid meeting her gaze, but when she continues on, his contrite (if embarrassed) expression turns flat. His arms drop to his sides, hands resting on his hips, and he looks over at her, finally, unimpressed. ]
Alright. Now you’re just bein’ dramatic. If you were hackin’ away at carrots like that, I think we’d have bigger things to worry about.
[ emma's a bit impressed he actually stands there for the scolding, much as he obviously dislikes it; he's not skulking off or turning invisible, like he absolutely could, and that look on his face is amusing as hell on its own.
it's easier for emma to find her sense of humor these days, now that things are thoroughly settled with bogue, but she never smiles quite the same as she does when faraday's around — even if she's just as much rolling her eyes at him with a hint of mirth tugging at her lips. she's occasionally rather galled by his jokes, and those are, of course, greeted with the usual disapporving glare, but when he makes her laugh— well, that's special all on its own. ]
It could've just as easy been somethin' that needed a firmer hand.
[ she gives him a pointed look, but it's all in an attempt to keep the small grin off of her face long enough to keep giving him a level of good-natured grief. she wants to keep that serious expression, meet his unimpressed gaze with one of her own, and she just mirrors his posture with her own hands on her hips, her eyebrow cocking up expectantly. the rag has slipped slightly from her hand, not pressed so firmly over the cut that now seeps blood slowly onto her white apron.
she, of course, doesn't notice, fixated though she is on faraday. ]
It wouldn't be just small as this, then, and it would've been your pranks that cost me a whole finger.
[ He can see the way the smile tries to shine through even as she fights it off, and rather than taking her lecture to heart, as he's sure he's meant to be doing, it just encourages him, really. ]
I mean, would it really be my fault, if you're actin' as careless as all that with cutlery? Choppin' like that is surely a sign of a troubled mind.
[ He rocks back, shifting his weigh to one leg and putting on a slightly smug look.
He likes it best when they're like this, trading jokes back and forth. It was a form of conversation they had only briefly brushed against, when he was alive; there hadn't been time or inclination – not on both sides, at least. Faraday had built his life on laughing even when things all went to shit, which wasn't always appreciated.
So it's better like this, he thinks, now that Emma has had time to breathe, now that the storm has passed, for the most part. The clouds still hang around, he knows, but they're not quite so dark anymore. ]
Really, I done you a favor. You oughta be more—
[ careful, is how he meant to finish that, except he tenses when he sees the bit of blood flowering on her apron and unconsciously steps forward. ]
[ it's amazing how much easier it is for emma to be, well, emma now that the business with bogue has been put to rest. admittedly, it doesn't mean that she won't carry the heaviness of it all with her, that she doesn't still see matthew in her dreams or the men she gunned down during the fight, but she's oddly less haunted by dreams of faraday; perhaps because he's come around to haunt her near constantly during the waking hours instead.
she minds that much less. ]
A favor? Perhaps you need better remindin' of what a favor i—
[ she stops when he draws attention back to her bleeding hand, and she glances down at the gently throbbing wound; she'd tuned it out, if she's honest, but she sees it continuing to bleed on her nice, white apron, and she curses softly under her breath. she reaches back to untie the apron from her waist, gathering it up and setting it aside before she can stain it further, then carefully holds her hand up and out of the way. ]
Inconvenient, that's all it is.
[ but there's still blood slowly oozing down her palm, which she's going to go ahead and attribute to neglecting pressure on the wound (when, in reality, she could probably use a stitch or two, not that she'd own up to it). ]
"Inconvenient," she says, while she's bleedin' all over the goddamn place—
[ He scoops up the discarded rag. Over the past few weeks, the two of them found that if he concentrated, he could touch things, manipulate things. (Sometimes this meant snatching things away from Emma, when he was feeling particularly inclined to be an ass.) It shouldn't have been possible, but he supposes it makes sense; ghost stories were always on about vengeful spirits knocking pictures off walls or dropping bottles onto unsuspecting victims. If they could do it, why couldn't he?
Living things, though, things with heartbeats, he didn't have much effect on; passed through them all the same. (His presence spooked some animals, he finds. He wonders if they can sense him.) Probably for the best, considering the amount of mischief he could get up to if he could manipulate a person.
He holds the rag out to her pointedly, displeasure in the set of his jaw. ]
[ well, it is incovenient — it stained her apron and a few other things, after all.
she makes a small noise that's nearly a huff, but she reaches up to take the rag from him, careful not to touch his hand and avoid the fairly unpleasant experience of passing through him. she's made that mistake before, even actually stumbled through him once, and it's not especially enjoyable; it's like being doused with ice water while something crawls right up your spine, and emma does her best not to suffer through that.
(even if she would be all right with the occasional contact, she reckons — before disregarding that line of thought.)
she mops some of the blood away from her palm and where it's trailed down her wrist, then wraps the rag around her finger again. ]
It's just a cut, Joshua. Hardly the kind of thing you need to get bent out of shape over.
[ she doesn't take concern especially well, doesn't like letting or making other people worry over her, and she's far too prideful to admit that the cut's bothering her or might need attention. ]
[ In the time he's spent with her, he's starting to realize they're alike in a lot more ways one. He learns she can take a joke, can give as good as she gets. That she has little patience for cheats and idiots. That she suffers from the same shadows in her dreams, though she never talks to him about it. (He does his best not to ask; when he had need for sleep, when he dreamed, he preferred not to talk about it, either.)
But above all, he learns that they're both as stubborn as mules and far too used to taking care of themselves.
The use of his first name still jars him, and for a second he blinks, surprised out of his annoyance. It's short-lived, though, and he huffs out a breath through his nose.
It should've stopped bleeding by now, he thinks, if it had been as minor as she said. The blood should've stopped itself up or gummed up a little and slowed to a trickle, at least, but it hasn't. (He feels a quick pang of guilt; he shouldn't have tried to scare her.) ]
Good Lord, you're planning on just bleedin' straight through that rag, ain't ya?
[ emma fixes him with a Look, serious but also mildly dismissive. ]
There's no need for that.
[ she doesn't want to go to the town doctor, not over something as simple as a cut on her finger. ]
Besides, it's late; it'd be a bother over somethin' this small.
[ she puts some extra pressure on the cut, trying not to betray a wince at the sting. she doesn't want to make faraday fixate on her little slip-up, because really, she probably should have been more cautious with the knife so it didn't happen in the first place, frights or no.
she pulls the rag back to take a peek, then covers her finger again, glancing up at him with the same level of stubborness. ]
[ As with most things, he takes that look on the chin – returns it even, with full force. He watches her with a sharp gaze – a level of perception that served him well in life, and now, apparently, serves to catch the barest hint of a wince, as much as she tries to hide it. (That pang of guilt again, ringing like a church bell.
Lesson learned, apparently, and far quicker than any lecture might have taught him. No more frightening Emma.)
His gaze flicks down to her hands as she checks her cut, then back to her face, watching for tells – a skill he used in his card games, watching for facial tics or reading his opponent's body language. Faraday keeps his vigil for another second, before tilting his head slightly. ]
Why, Miss Emma Cullen.
[ He takes a second to peer at her, eyes narrowed and piercing, before he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. ]
You're lyin'. Don't they teach you up in that church it's a sin?
[ emma's eyebrows rise just a touch, and she looks near offended — but it's hard to look offended when she's doing her damndest not to smile again. ]
I do not know what you're talkin' about, Mister Faraday.
[ she sniffs dismissively, but she still curls the rag tighter around her finger to look less conscpicuous. ]
And to think you'd call me a liar? Shame on you.
[ but it's just a little white lie. her finger isn't gushing blood, by any means, it's just not letting up entirely, and that's not the worst it could be, she decides. not worth making a fuss when there are far worse things that could've happened to her.
she could be a ghost, after all.
(but then she probably wouldn't even need to consider medical attention.) ]
[ He falls silent for a half second before barking out a laugh. He rocks back again, as if to get a better look at her, gaze roving from her head to her toes. ]
Mrs. Cullen, as I live and breathe.
[ (Not that he's currently doing either of those things.)
He presses a hand to his chest, wearing a look of mock indignation. ]
You are telling complete falsehoods. Mistruths. To me. A veritable king of bullshit.
[ ... he probably shouldn't swear in front of a lady, but the Lord already struck him down once. The results of that are plain to both of them.
His hand drops, and the expression disappears, replaced with a frown. ]
I'm no doctor or anythin', but it seems to me you need some stitches.
[ it's when faraday really laughs that emma can't hold her own smile back. it's an open, warm smile — the kind of smile faraday would never have had the chance to see during his life, but here and now, she's so much freer with her humor. it doesn't fall by the wayside in favor of far stronger emotions, and if anyone is to bring it out of her, it's usually faraday. ]
King indeed.
[ she's hardly one to be scandalized by faraday's foul words anymore, given how much time she's spent with him, but she still scoffs for the sake of it. ]
That mouth of yours, Mister Faraday.
[ but she sees the seriousness back in his expression, and she considers the bloody rag around her finger with a reluctant frown. ]
I don't much care for stitches.
[ hated them, as a matter of fact. she'd sliced herself wide open on some barbed wire as a child and needed a fair helping of sutures, and since, she'd gone far out of her way to avoid needing them again. she vividly recalls her mother fretting over her while the doctor saw to some nasty cuts, while she bawled like a colicky infant the whole time.
of course, she's a grown woman now and not one to cry over a couple of stitches, but if she can avoid them, she certainly will. ]
Not a matter of carin', if you're gonna keep bleedin' out like that.
[ It's not the most serious of wounds, admittedly (and Faraday knows a thing or two about serious wounds, though he'd rather not admit as much aloud), but it's enough of one that Faraday appreciates the need for some proper attention.
He understands, though, after a fashion. He remembers the first time he'd been seriously wounded – a knife slash across his side when he was nearing his twenties, young and stupid, left there by a drunken swing when someone didn't take kindly to Faraday winning a high-stakes round of poker. He had stormed out after that, hand clamped over the wound, stubbornly refusing a doctor. (No such qualms for stitches, on his part; it was entirely about the money.) It was the bartender, in the end, who practically threw him over his shoulder and took him to get sewn up.
His worry is as much fueled by concern as it is by guilt, though. She wouldn't have been soaking the cloth with her blood if it hadn't been for his little prank, after all. His lips draw into a thin line, and he—
disappears—
—and reappears beside her front door. ]
If you don't get a move on, I'm gonna go'n'knock over as much of the doctor's things as I can. Don't think I won't.
[ it still startles emma a touch every time faraday vanishes into thin air — though, at least now it's far more because he chooses to and not because he's being wrenched out of the living world again. she'll still staring at the spot where he'd been, but the sound of his voice from her front door draws her attention back, her expression drawing into immediate disapproval. ]
Joshua Faraday, don't you dare.
[ the poor doctor certainly wouldn't deserve such a fright, but she wouldn't put it past faraday to do it just because he'd find it amusing.
with a noise that's nearly an exasperated huff, emma goes to grab a nearby shawl, wrapping it over her shoulders as she keeps the cloth snug around her finger. it's gotten colder in rose creek, not nearly the same kind of summer heat from six months past, and late as it is, she could use a bit of bundling up.
coming up beside him by the door, she looks up at him with an unimpressed glare. ]
You're makin' a fuss over nothing.
[ but she still opens the door to step outside into the chilly evening air. ]
[ The use of his full name doesn't cow him, as it should. In fact, it just makes him smile a touch smugly. While she wraps her shawl over her shoulders, he waits beside the door with his weight on one leg. ]
You'll thank me for makin' a fuss once you're not gettin' blood everywhere.
[ The weather doesn't bother him, and he wonders if one of these days, he'll start to miss it. The warmth on his skin or the chill in the air – he doesn't feel much of anything, though he's aware of both, in much the same way one might be aware of a spider in the next room. It's there, of course, but its presence isn't an immediate concern.
He wears what he wore the day he died, though thankfully without the splashes of red or the accompanying holes. Despite the chill, his sleeves remain pushed up to the elbows, and every brush of cold wind goes largely unnoticed. He can smell it in the air, though, the shift of seasons, sees it in the leafless trees and in the way people shiver when he and Emma pass. (Faraday tries to step around anyone who approaches, much as he did in life. He can pass through folks, but he doesn't care to. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's distinctly unpleasant. Feels like someone walking over his grave.)
Even with the sun tucked away behind the horizon, there are still some people wandering the town's streets, having their dinner with their friends in town rather than in their homes. Goody would probably say something poetic and solemn, were he here, something about war forging strong, unbreakable bonds. Faraday thinks they probably don't want to be alone with their memories. ]
That friend of yours, Teddy. Theodore. [ Light and teasing, in his usual fashion. No one immediately around them, for now. Faraday casts Emma a sidelong glance, as he tips his head toward the saloon. ] You know he keeps makin' eyes at you, right?
[ emma would make a comment about overexaggeration, but then the door is open and the chilly air hits her full in the face — and shivering is plenty distracting to keep at least a little of her sass at bay (for a moment).
she holds the shawl tighter around her shoulders as they walk, and she finds herself appreciating the low light, now that the sun is setting earlier and earlier these days. it's cold, certainly, and only due to get colder, but emma is hardly one to complain; in fact, she rather likes winter and the quiet peace that tends to accompany the shorter days. admittedly, she's less fond of working harder to keep warm during that time, but it's not unbearable, is what it truly comes down to.
glancing over when faraday breaks the silence, she quickly takes stock of their surroundings to ensure that they're by and large alone — no one to overhear her talking to what would look to be entirely empty air. ]
Then I'm afaid he may be due for a disappointment.
[ because, honestly, emma isn't interested in teddy. never has been and never expects to see that changing. he's a friend, certainly, and a sweet boy, but...she finds it difficult to see him as anything more. ]
[ The simplicity of her statement, the ease with which she says it, makes him bark out a quick laugh. Straight shooter, he thinks. Hardly any bullshit. Faraday finds he appreciates that about Emma, that she says what she means and means what she says. It was a rare quality. ]
He's not so bad, Teddy. Humorless li'l thing, bless his heart, but alright, all things considered.
[ They continue on in silence for a few more paces, interrupted by the soft murmur of conversation up ahead and the sound of Emma's footfalls. (Faraday walks alongside her, or at least seems to walk, but his steps make no noise on the packed dirt.) Before long, Faraday smirks a little and asks, ]
It's on account'a' the peach fuzz he calls a beard, isn't it?
[ it takes a whole mess of willpower not to actually laugh when faraday says that, and she covers it up with a cough behind her hand instead. she tries not to let her smile show as she glances over at the gambler. ]
I'd hardly count that as a reason, Faraday.
[ teddy just isn't her type, in reality. he's sweet, well-meaning, but, well. not the sort of man who would ever draw her eye. ]
I don't look at him that way, that's all.
[ she gives a dismissive shrug, before looking at faraday pointedly. ]
Why exactly do you bring it up? Are you tryin' to send me off to find some sort of gentleman caller?
[ Even as she hides it, Faraday sees the laugh threatening to bubble its way from her lips, the smile tugging at her mouth. (He likes coaxing them from her, surprises himself every time when he finds he likes to see her smiling. Sometimes, he even tricks himself into think she has a different sort of smile when she's alone with him.
Strange little thought, he tells himself later. Couldn't possibly be the case, either.)
At her pointed look, he holds up both hands, widens his eyes in what might be innocence, trying to placate her with the gesture. ]
No meaning behind it. Just wondered if you'd seen the way he mooned after you.
[ It was cute, in a sad sort of way, because Faraday didn't see much sense in the matching, himself. But he's not entirely truthful, either. Part of him wonders if Emma must be lonely, considering the loss of her husband. Considering she seemed slightly removed from the rest of Rose Creek – not a hermit by any means, but not as involved.
Loss tends to isolate people. Dark experiences even more so. The battle in Rose Creek seemed to set Emma apart while unifying the rest of the survivors, at least in his eyes, and he's not entirely sure why. ]
[ emma has been much more alone since the battle of rose creek, since bogue has been buried and their town has seen justice - since all of this, emma has been alone. she hasn't isolated herself, and she hasn't gone out of her way to avoid her neighbors and the people of her town, but she's no closer to them than she had been. since the loss of matthew, she hasn't exactly gone out looking for another suitor nor intended to do so - in fact, she's hardly looked at the men of her town as possible options. she's been...content, oddly, in the way she lives and with the company she keeps.
especially since that company has come to include faraday. ]
I've seen it. I do my best not to encourage him.
[ she doesn't want to get his hopes up, after all. that would be unkind, and while emma is straightforward, she doesn't go out of her way to be cruel. she will be honest, if it comes to that, but if she doesn't have to break his heart, she'd prefer not to. ]
Odd question, if you ask me.
[ she pulls the shawl tighter around her shoulders, trying to fight off the evening chill. ]
[ Faraday watches her carefully, trying to stare without staring (and it's a balance he has some practice in maintaining). When she offers her objection, Faraday shrugs and says quietly, ]
No arguments from me.
[ Although he has many arguments, little comments on how she hasn't quite settled back into the town. It reminds him a little of a bit of oil sitting atop water. Occupying the same space, but not exactly mingling, all things considered.
He worries, but he's not sure why. It's none of his business, that's for damn sure, and it's certainly not anything Emma would admit to or accept help with, proud and stubborn as she is. Not even really anything he could help with, if he's honest about all of it.
So why does he care?
(Probably because they're friends. He didn't have very many of those in life – lots of acquaintances, sure. Lots of folks who knew him and remembered his name, if they ever had occasion to cross paths a second time, but not anyone who would be liable to miss him. To care about him.
Ridiculous, really, how in his last days of life, he finally felt as if he had forged some lasting bonds. Even more ridiculous, that he and Emma could only stop butting heads after he had died.
Life really was unfair, wasn't it?)
He sees how she pulls her shawl around her, and he frowns. The doctor isn't too far away, and he speeds up his steps, as if to hurry her along. ]
We'll discuss how you can shatter Teddy's heart into millions of pieces later. C'mon.
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He supposes it follows, really, considering how many casualties were incurred that blood-drenched day. Seems like an awful lot more burial mounds than there should be, though – and it occurs to him that Bogue’s men must have been interred alongside the rest of the town’s lost. Their graves were marked by simple crosses, left mostly forgotten toward the back. Six months and some bits is enough time for nature to stake a claim, and weeds began to gather around their markers.
Still, it was decent of Rose Creek to have buried them along with their dead; when the dust settled, it must have been one hell of a shouting match to allow those men even that much of a courtesy. He wonders if one of those plots is Bogue, left to rot in the dirt, or if Rose Creek had left his body to a different fate.
(If it were up to Faraday, Bogue would have been left to the elements, tossed somewhere for the wildlife to pick at. It’s only half of what he had coming for him, for taking away the lives of good men. But then again, very few people leave things up Faraday – or at least they never had when he still had breath – and for good reason.)
Faraday leans against the wrought iron fence wrapped around the graveyard, one foot kicked up on the lower rail. Some names he recognizes – men with whom he briefly spoke in that week leading up to his death (and theirs, too, he supposes) – and he watches as somber women and children tend to graves. Faraday offers something like a quick prayer for them. (Is it too peculiar for a ghost to pray for the dead?) He spies the name “Matthew Cullen” and wonders what sort of man he was to inspire a town to go to war.
It’s been a few weeks now, since he spoke with Emma beside his own grave, and he’s been present in some form for nearly every one of those days, drifting around her. (Haunting her, more accurately, but his use of the term earns him a glare every time.) His bouts of existence are getting longer, now, almost like he’s getting his strength back. Like he’s practicing, getting accustomed to a new skill. No one sees him, still, no one hears him, no matter how much of a ruckus he tries to make, save for Emma.
It’s not perfect, whatever this is. It’s not ideal. But few things ever are, and he makes do.
He learns a few things, during that time. Like how he can walk through walls and doors and people, or how he can be some place in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, he can let himself drift – invisible even to Emma’s eyes, but still aware, in a way, of his chosen surroundings and of time passing. He also learns that trying to go too far out of Rose Creek sends something buzzing through him, makes him feel a tug in his gut, and the discomfort only goes away when he wanders back toward the town. Tethered to something, though he can’t tell what.
Faraday pushes away from the fence, turns a little to look in the direction of the hill, where Goody, Billy, and Jack lie. (His own body, too, though he tries not to think too hard on it.) He offers them a brief nod – almost like a fond sort of greeting. After that, he disappears—
— and reappears in Emma Cullen’s kitchen. He grins. ]
Boo.
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she carries on, is what she does.
but she's not above admitting that the silence is often heavy and more than she's used to. in those times, she's come to be grateful for faraday's company and the lightness of his humor; it fills her empty hours more than anything else has, though she really doesn't much care for calling what he does "haunting." she feels like that goes on to imply some sort of malicious intent, and truly, the worst he's done is move something while she's just about to reach for it.
he's a pain, but he's not a ghoul of any kind, that's for sure.
the downside to having him around, trailing after her so often, is that she can't acknowledge him when she's around other people. she has to treat his presence with the most impassable face she can manage. she can't look like she's conversing with plain air, after all, so she's always stuck waiting until they're alone again.
however, there's also an unpredictability to his appearances. he comes and goes so frequently that emma can never figure when he'll be back again, and it's usually a surprise when he is.
like now, for instance.
she starts at the sound of his voice, in the otherwise silent house, and it's jarring enough that she yelps in the most undiginified way — and, inconvenience of inconveniences, but she just so happened to be preparing dinner, and her hand slips on the vegetables she'd been cutting, leaving a (fortunately shallow) slice on her finger.
turning to glare at him, she reaches for a nearby rag, pressing it to her hand. ]
Now that was perfectly uncalled for.
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Sorry, sorry— I didn’t mean—
[ Faraday had always been the type of man to make do with what he’s given. Life wasn’t fair, but he grew to accept that, learned to take it all on the chin and keep on grinning. Tended to piss off a lot of people when he didn’t simply stay down, but it was better than the alternative – cowering in some corner and withering away.
Apparently death couldn’t keep him down, either – at least, not very well – and he makes do with this, too. Haunts Emma Cullen (because that’s what it rightly is, no matter how she glares, considering the state of him), pulls little jokes in town when he follows her there, offers a running commentary on the other people she passes on the wooden walkways—
(“I believe that man has goose down glued all over his chin.” “Oof, how long’s that woman’s face been like that? You think she smelled some curdled milk and it got stuck?” “When’s the last time you think he’s seen his feet, with that paunch?” “Someone should tell that man he ought to have his wife braid his mole hair to keep it outta the way.”)
—knowing perfectly well that Emma wouldn’t be able to respond immediately. Couldn’t smack him for his rudeness after the fact, either.
And sometimes he gets a cheap laugh from startling her, too, but he never means to do any real harm. He looks properly contrite, shoulders hunching a little. Not unlike a child caught stealing sweets, really. ]
How bad is it?
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she pulls back the cloth to take a look at her finger, and it's determined to keep oozing blood down her palm — which she's quick to wipe away. ]
Not nearly so bad you need worry yourself over it.
[ it hurts, certainly, but emma is far from the kind to be dramatic over such a small wound (rather, she'd even downplay it, if it was bad), and she's even less so prone to squeamishness over her own blood. most of her ire is gone with the look of apology on his face, but she still fixes him with a most displeased look. ]
Sneakin' up on me's not quite a bright idea when I'm cooking.
[ because she doesn't find it nearly as amusing when he makes her leap outta her skin from time to time, and when there's clearly more opportune times to do it, she's absolutely going to scold him.
wrapping her finger back up in the bloody cloth, she reaches over to pick up the now-dirty knife, wiping it clean on the rag just the same. she means to get back to dinner in a moment, when her finger decides to stop bleeding, but for now, she's left to wait on it. she's actually had to get out of the habit of offering faraday food, because when he makes himself known while she's cooking, it's near instinct to try to feed company — but that, obviously, is not something faraday's capable of now. ]
I could've cut my finger clean off, you know.
[ well, not really, but she still has to rib him a bit for it. ]
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Apparently he’s unused to being on the receiving end of a lecture, or at least unused to having to actually sit through one. Usually any attempts to tell him he’d done wrong went in one ear, out the other, or he’d decide not to suffer it and wander off. Harder to do either of those things when the person doing the haranguing is literally the only person he can talk to.
When was the last time he was reprimanded like this, anyway? Surely not since he was old enough to think a skinned knee or a ripped shirt was enough to bring about the end of days.
He finds he doesn’t like it. ]
I said I was sorry, didn’t I?
[ It’s not the first time he’s had to apologize for scaring her, but usually those apologies were lip service at best, said while he was still grinning or laughing. This is likely the first time he says it with any hint of sincerity. He shifts his weight, glancing over at the vegetables on the board to avoid meeting her gaze, but when she continues on, his contrite (if embarrassed) expression turns flat. His arms drop to his sides, hands resting on his hips, and he looks over at her, finally, unimpressed. ]
Alright. Now you’re just bein’ dramatic. If you were hackin’ away at carrots like that, I think we’d have bigger things to worry about.
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it's easier for emma to find her sense of humor these days, now that things are thoroughly settled with bogue, but she never smiles quite the same as she does when faraday's around — even if she's just as much rolling her eyes at him with a hint of mirth tugging at her lips. she's occasionally rather galled by his jokes, and those are, of course, greeted with the usual disapporving glare, but when he makes her laugh— well, that's special all on its own. ]
It could've just as easy been somethin' that needed a firmer hand.
[ she gives him a pointed look, but it's all in an attempt to keep the small grin off of her face long enough to keep giving him a level of good-natured grief. she wants to keep that serious expression, meet his unimpressed gaze with one of her own, and she just mirrors his posture with her own hands on her hips, her eyebrow cocking up expectantly. the rag has slipped slightly from her hand, not pressed so firmly over the cut that now seeps blood slowly onto her white apron.
she, of course, doesn't notice, fixated though she is on faraday. ]
It wouldn't be just small as this, then, and it would've been your pranks that cost me a whole finger.
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I mean, would it really be my fault, if you're actin' as careless as all that with cutlery? Choppin' like that is surely a sign of a troubled mind.
[ He rocks back, shifting his weigh to one leg and putting on a slightly smug look.
He likes it best when they're like this, trading jokes back and forth. It was a form of conversation they had only briefly brushed against, when he was alive; there hadn't been time or inclination – not on both sides, at least. Faraday had built his life on laughing even when things all went to shit, which wasn't always appreciated.
So it's better like this, he thinks, now that Emma has had time to breathe, now that the storm has passed, for the most part. The clouds still hang around, he knows, but they're not quite so dark anymore. ]
Really, I done you a favor. You oughta be more—
[ careful, is how he meant to finish that, except he tenses when he sees the bit of blood flowering on her apron and unconsciously steps forward. ]
Emma, your hand.
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she minds that much less. ]
A favor? Perhaps you need better remindin' of what a favor i—
[ she stops when he draws attention back to her bleeding hand, and she glances down at the gently throbbing wound; she'd tuned it out, if she's honest, but she sees it continuing to bleed on her nice, white apron, and she curses softly under her breath. she reaches back to untie the apron from her waist, gathering it up and setting it aside before she can stain it further, then carefully holds her hand up and out of the way. ]
Inconvenient, that's all it is.
[ but there's still blood slowly oozing down her palm, which she's going to go ahead and attribute to neglecting pressure on the wound (when, in reality, she could probably use a stitch or two, not that she'd own up to it). ]
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[ He scoops up the discarded rag. Over the past few weeks, the two of them found that if he concentrated, he could touch things, manipulate things. (Sometimes this meant snatching things away from Emma, when he was feeling particularly inclined to be an ass.) It shouldn't have been possible, but he supposes it makes sense; ghost stories were always on about vengeful spirits knocking pictures off walls or dropping bottles onto unsuspecting victims. If they could do it, why couldn't he?
Living things, though, things with heartbeats, he didn't have much effect on; passed through them all the same. (His presence spooked some animals, he finds. He wonders if they can sense him.) Probably for the best, considering the amount of mischief he could get up to if he could manipulate a person.
He holds the rag out to her pointedly, displeasure in the set of his jaw. ]
I thought you said it wasn't that bad.
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she makes a small noise that's nearly a huff, but she reaches up to take the rag from him, careful not to touch his hand and avoid the fairly unpleasant experience of passing through him. she's made that mistake before, even actually stumbled through him once, and it's not especially enjoyable; it's like being doused with ice water while something crawls right up your spine, and emma does her best not to suffer through that.
(even if she would be all right with the occasional contact, she reckons — before disregarding that line of thought.)
she mops some of the blood away from her palm and where it's trailed down her wrist, then wraps the rag around her finger again. ]
It's just a cut, Joshua. Hardly the kind of thing you need to get bent out of shape over.
[ she doesn't take concern especially well, doesn't like letting or making other people worry over her, and she's far too prideful to admit that the cut's bothering her or might need attention. ]
So, yes. Inconvenient.
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But above all, he learns that they're both as stubborn as mules and far too used to taking care of themselves.
The use of his first name still jars him, and for a second he blinks, surprised out of his annoyance. It's short-lived, though, and he huffs out a breath through his nose.
It should've stopped bleeding by now, he thinks, if it had been as minor as she said. The blood should've stopped itself up or gummed up a little and slowed to a trickle, at least, but it hasn't. (He feels a quick pang of guilt; he shouldn't have tried to scare her.) ]
Good Lord, you're planning on just bleedin' straight through that rag, ain't ya?
You need to get that tended to.
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There's no need for that.
[ she doesn't want to go to the town doctor, not over something as simple as a cut on her finger. ]
Besides, it's late; it'd be a bother over somethin' this small.
[ she puts some extra pressure on the cut, trying not to betray a wince at the sting. she doesn't want to make faraday fixate on her little slip-up, because really, she probably should have been more cautious with the knife so it didn't happen in the first place, frights or no.
she pulls the rag back to take a peek, then covers her finger again, glancing up at him with the same level of stubborness. ]
It's slowin' down already.
[ mostly. ]
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Lesson learned, apparently, and far quicker than any lecture might have taught him. No more frightening Emma.)
His gaze flicks down to her hands as she checks her cut, then back to her face, watching for tells – a skill he used in his card games, watching for facial tics or reading his opponent's body language. Faraday keeps his vigil for another second, before tilting his head slightly. ]
Why, Miss Emma Cullen.
[ He takes a second to peer at her, eyes narrowed and piercing, before he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. ]
You're lyin'. Don't they teach you up in that church it's a sin?
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I do not know what you're talkin' about, Mister Faraday.
[ she sniffs dismissively, but she still curls the rag tighter around her finger to look less conscpicuous. ]
And to think you'd call me a liar? Shame on you.
[ but it's just a little white lie. her finger isn't gushing blood, by any means, it's just not letting up entirely, and that's not the worst it could be, she decides. not worth making a fuss when there are far worse things that could've happened to her.
she could be a ghost, after all.
(but then she probably wouldn't even need to consider medical attention.) ]
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Mrs. Cullen, as I live and breathe.
[ (Not that he's currently doing either of those things.)
He presses a hand to his chest, wearing a look of mock indignation. ]
You are telling complete falsehoods. Mistruths. To me. A veritable king of bullshit.
[ ... he probably shouldn't swear in front of a lady, but the Lord already struck him down once. The results of that are plain to both of them.
His hand drops, and the expression disappears, replaced with a frown. ]
I'm no doctor or anythin', but it seems to me you need some stitches.
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King indeed.
[ she's hardly one to be scandalized by faraday's foul words anymore, given how much time she's spent with him, but she still scoffs for the sake of it. ]
That mouth of yours, Mister Faraday.
[ but she sees the seriousness back in his expression, and she considers the bloody rag around her finger with a reluctant frown. ]
I don't much care for stitches.
[ hated them, as a matter of fact. she'd sliced herself wide open on some barbed wire as a child and needed a fair helping of sutures, and since, she'd gone far out of her way to avoid needing them again. she vividly recalls her mother fretting over her while the doctor saw to some nasty cuts, while she bawled like a colicky infant the whole time.
of course, she's a grown woman now and not one to cry over a couple of stitches, but if she can avoid them, she certainly will. ]
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[ It's not the most serious of wounds, admittedly (and Faraday knows a thing or two about serious wounds, though he'd rather not admit as much aloud), but it's enough of one that Faraday appreciates the need for some proper attention.
He understands, though, after a fashion. He remembers the first time he'd been seriously wounded – a knife slash across his side when he was nearing his twenties, young and stupid, left there by a drunken swing when someone didn't take kindly to Faraday winning a high-stakes round of poker. He had stormed out after that, hand clamped over the wound, stubbornly refusing a doctor. (No such qualms for stitches, on his part; it was entirely about the money.) It was the bartender, in the end, who practically threw him over his shoulder and took him to get sewn up.
His worry is as much fueled by concern as it is by guilt, though. She wouldn't have been soaking the cloth with her blood if it hadn't been for his little prank, after all. His lips draw into a thin line, and he—
disappears—
—and reappears beside her front door. ]
If you don't get a move on, I'm gonna go'n'knock over as much of the doctor's things as I can. Don't think I won't.
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Joshua Faraday, don't you dare.
[ the poor doctor certainly wouldn't deserve such a fright, but she wouldn't put it past faraday to do it just because he'd find it amusing.
with a noise that's nearly an exasperated huff, emma goes to grab a nearby shawl, wrapping it over her shoulders as she keeps the cloth snug around her finger. it's gotten colder in rose creek, not nearly the same kind of summer heat from six months past, and late as it is, she could use a bit of bundling up.
coming up beside him by the door, she looks up at him with an unimpressed glare. ]
You're makin' a fuss over nothing.
[ but she still opens the door to step outside into the chilly evening air. ]
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You'll thank me for makin' a fuss once you're not gettin' blood everywhere.
[ The weather doesn't bother him, and he wonders if one of these days, he'll start to miss it. The warmth on his skin or the chill in the air – he doesn't feel much of anything, though he's aware of both, in much the same way one might be aware of a spider in the next room. It's there, of course, but its presence isn't an immediate concern.
He wears what he wore the day he died, though thankfully without the splashes of red or the accompanying holes. Despite the chill, his sleeves remain pushed up to the elbows, and every brush of cold wind goes largely unnoticed. He can smell it in the air, though, the shift of seasons, sees it in the leafless trees and in the way people shiver when he and Emma pass. (Faraday tries to step around anyone who approaches, much as he did in life. He can pass through folks, but he doesn't care to. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's distinctly unpleasant. Feels like someone walking over his grave.)
Even with the sun tucked away behind the horizon, there are still some people wandering the town's streets, having their dinner with their friends in town rather than in their homes. Goody would probably say something poetic and solemn, were he here, something about war forging strong, unbreakable bonds. Faraday thinks they probably don't want to be alone with their memories. ]
That friend of yours, Teddy. Theodore. [ Light and teasing, in his usual fashion. No one immediately around them, for now. Faraday casts Emma a sidelong glance, as he tips his head toward the saloon. ] You know he keeps makin' eyes at you, right?
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she holds the shawl tighter around her shoulders as they walk, and she finds herself appreciating the low light, now that the sun is setting earlier and earlier these days. it's cold, certainly, and only due to get colder, but emma is hardly one to complain; in fact, she rather likes winter and the quiet peace that tends to accompany the shorter days. admittedly, she's less fond of working harder to keep warm during that time, but it's not unbearable, is what it truly comes down to.
glancing over when faraday breaks the silence, she quickly takes stock of their surroundings to ensure that they're by and large alone — no one to overhear her talking to what would look to be entirely empty air. ]
Then I'm afaid he may be due for a disappointment.
[ because, honestly, emma isn't interested in teddy. never has been and never expects to see that changing. he's a friend, certainly, and a sweet boy, but...she finds it difficult to see him as anything more. ]
Teddy is not a man I would be likely to fancy.
[ simple as that. ]
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He's not so bad, Teddy. Humorless li'l thing, bless his heart, but alright, all things considered.
[ They continue on in silence for a few more paces, interrupted by the soft murmur of conversation up ahead and the sound of Emma's footfalls. (Faraday walks alongside her, or at least seems to walk, but his steps make no noise on the packed dirt.) Before long, Faraday smirks a little and asks, ]
It's on account'a' the peach fuzz he calls a beard, isn't it?
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I'd hardly count that as a reason, Faraday.
[ teddy just isn't her type, in reality. he's sweet, well-meaning, but, well. not the sort of man who would ever draw her eye. ]
I don't look at him that way, that's all.
[ she gives a dismissive shrug, before looking at faraday pointedly. ]
Why exactly do you bring it up? Are you tryin' to send me off to find some sort of gentleman caller?
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Strange little thought, he tells himself later. Couldn't possibly be the case, either.)
At her pointed look, he holds up both hands, widens his eyes in what might be innocence, trying to placate her with the gesture. ]
No meaning behind it. Just wondered if you'd seen the way he mooned after you.
[ It was cute, in a sad sort of way, because Faraday didn't see much sense in the matching, himself. But he's not entirely truthful, either. Part of him wonders if Emma must be lonely, considering the loss of her husband. Considering she seemed slightly removed from the rest of Rose Creek – not a hermit by any means, but not as involved.
Loss tends to isolate people. Dark experiences even more so. The battle in Rose Creek seemed to set Emma apart while unifying the rest of the survivors, at least in his eyes, and he's not entirely sure why. ]
Just speakin' aloud, is all.
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especially since that company has come to include faraday. ]
I've seen it. I do my best not to encourage him.
[ she doesn't want to get his hopes up, after all. that would be unkind, and while emma is straightforward, she doesn't go out of her way to be cruel. she will be honest, if it comes to that, but if she doesn't have to break his heart, she'd prefer not to. ]
Odd question, if you ask me.
[ she pulls the shawl tighter around her shoulders, trying to fight off the evening chill. ]
Besides. I think I'm doin' just fine.
[ without matthew. ]
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No arguments from me.
[ Although he has many arguments, little comments on how she hasn't quite settled back into the town. It reminds him a little of a bit of oil sitting atop water. Occupying the same space, but not exactly mingling, all things considered.
He worries, but he's not sure why. It's none of his business, that's for damn sure, and it's certainly not anything Emma would admit to or accept help with, proud and stubborn as she is. Not even really anything he could help with, if he's honest about all of it.
So why does he care?
(Probably because they're friends. He didn't have very many of those in life – lots of acquaintances, sure. Lots of folks who knew him and remembered his name, if they ever had occasion to cross paths a second time, but not anyone who would be liable to miss him. To care about him.
Ridiculous, really, how in his last days of life, he finally felt as if he had forged some lasting bonds. Even more ridiculous, that he and Emma could only stop butting heads after he had died.
Life really was unfair, wasn't it?)
He sees how she pulls her shawl around her, and he frowns. The doctor isn't too far away, and he speeds up his steps, as if to hurry her along. ]
We'll discuss how you can shatter Teddy's heart into millions of pieces later. C'mon.
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