[ The second the door slams shut behind him, Faraday has to lean back against it to catch his breath, to calm some of the fire still rampaging through him. (That was just one of his many problems, his mama had always said. Too filled with the Devil's own rage. Too blinded by it, just like his daddy.)
But not long after that, he moves around the small room with a renewed purpose. Gathering up the few odds and ends he had brought with him or had collected in his short stay in this godforsaken neighborhood. He had ridden in with little more than the clothes on his back and his few sparse belongings, including his guns, which means riding out should be just as easy. Minus a few things, plus a few new things – simple.
It takes him longer than he wanted, though. He lingers on the new things the grateful people of Rose Creek offered him on his return. A scarf, for the approaching cold season. New clothing to replace that which was torn and soaked through with blood. "Get Well" cards from people whose names Faraday never bothered to learn, having been so sure he would either die or leave before the dust settled.
How odd, finding a place where people might actually like him. Or at least, appreciate the idea of him.
The buzzing behind his breastbone like a hive of enraged wasps quickly reminds him not to settle, not to stop, because growing these connections was messy.
So hours after their blowout, sometime past midnight, Faraday steps out of his room, a bag slung over his shoulder. Weeks in town have amounted to little in the way of material things, but the bag still feels like a heavy weight on his back. He doesn't linger, though his gait is made awkward by his wounded leg and made even worse by the fact that he gave himself little time to actually rest after his therapy session today. His entire body feels like one bundle of knotted muscle, and his steps are stilted as he makes his escape.
One awkward brush against a wall, as he pauses for breath. One clumsy bump into the corner of a table, and he hisses out a curse as it jostles the things atop it. The creaking of a door, and Faraday's head shoots up to scowl into the dark. Emma's awake, it seems, and not wanting another shouting match, Faraday turns away. He closes the small space between him and the front door and slips through, not bothering to mask his exit. ]
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But not long after that, he moves around the small room with a renewed purpose. Gathering up the few odds and ends he had brought with him or had collected in his short stay in this godforsaken neighborhood. He had ridden in with little more than the clothes on his back and his few sparse belongings, including his guns, which means riding out should be just as easy. Minus a few things, plus a few new things – simple.
It takes him longer than he wanted, though. He lingers on the new things the grateful people of Rose Creek offered him on his return. A scarf, for the approaching cold season. New clothing to replace that which was torn and soaked through with blood. "Get Well" cards from people whose names Faraday never bothered to learn, having been so sure he would either die or leave before the dust settled.
How odd, finding a place where people might actually like him. Or at least, appreciate the idea of him.
The buzzing behind his breastbone like a hive of enraged wasps quickly reminds him not to settle, not to stop, because growing these connections was messy.
So hours after their blowout, sometime past midnight, Faraday steps out of his room, a bag slung over his shoulder. Weeks in town have amounted to little in the way of material things, but the bag still feels like a heavy weight on his back. He doesn't linger, though his gait is made awkward by his wounded leg and made even worse by the fact that he gave himself little time to actually rest after his therapy session today. His entire body feels like one bundle of knotted muscle, and his steps are stilted as he makes his escape.
One awkward brush against a wall, as he pauses for breath. One clumsy bump into the corner of a table, and he hisses out a curse as it jostles the things atop it. The creaking of a door, and Faraday's head shoots up to scowl into the dark. Emma's awake, it seems, and not wanting another shouting match, Faraday turns away. He closes the small space between him and the front door and slips through, not bothering to mask his exit. ]