[ Faraday heals, which is a miracle, as the folks in town like to tell him.
As much evidence as there is to the contrary, Faraday isn't an idiot. He knows well enough that the primary reason for his survival is the wolf's curse – something that increases his resiliency, something that makes him stronger. He knows he's straddling that odd place between mortality and other, and knows that if he had suffered those wounds in the daylight hours, he would've been scooped up and dumped into a pine wood box, colder than a wagon wheel.
It's the wolf that kept him alive – though Vasquez had a decent hand in it, too. And a stupider person might wonder why he calls it a curse when its greatest impact is mostly a matter of inconvenience. When it has the benefit of allowing him to survive a war.
Faraday wouldn't have an answer for them, aside from bristling and snapping on instinct.
(but some days, he wonders the same thing.)
The full moon draws closer, and uneven as Faraday's temperament is at the best of times, it only gets worse with each passing day. He can feel the wolf prowling in his chest, biding its time, and each night when it rises to the surface, it becomes more and more brutal, tearing its way to freedom.
Drinking himself silly beforehand helps ease the way, but only a little.
There are too many people – fewer now, thanks to the battle, but enough. The brightening moon has the drawback and benefit of heightening his senses, sometimes to the point of overload, until his head aches and stomach clenches with it. The stench of sweat and the beating of hearts, the rushing of blood through veins—
It's enough to drive a man mad.
He thinks a little too long and hard about the last full moon, about the state the wolf had Vasquez in by sunrise the next day. He remembers the stench and taste of the vampire's blood, remembers the cold, choking fear that had hit him when he thought the wolf had done Vasquez in. At the time, Vasquez had been a stranger, had felt more like an annoyance than an ally, but—
They've spent weeks together, now. Faraday wouldn't claim to understand Vasquez, and neither would he deign to admit that Vasquez might understand him, but— he thinks there's still a kinship between them, being what they are.
(God above, Faraday doesn't want to lose that.)
This time, though, he abandons his previous moratorium on drinking before the full moon in favor of downing a handful of shots.
When Vasquez comes to collect him, Faraday goes without protest – hell, he hardly says a word, preoccupied as he is with all the variables. The wounds he still carries should slow the wolf down, he thinks, or else it'll infuriate it, leave it desperate. The alcohol should make the wolf sluggish, should give Vasquez an edge in keeping it in check, when the need arises – but it'll also make it unpredictable. Vasquez knows he has free reign to claim whatever blood he needs – both from the wolf and Faraday – but Faraday knows the vampire's intention is to subdue, not eliminate.
Faraday can't help but feel that's a mistake.
Even before they reach the shed, Faraday balks at the revolting stench of the dried wolfsbane, and he has to force himself to move closer, in spite of the way his stomach churns. Once they've passed the circle, once Vasquez has admitted them into the flimsy shed and barred the door, Faraday lets himself sink down to the floor. ]
Oh, it's fine. Never better.
[ He breathes it out, something close to a laugh, as he lays his crutch beside him. He carefully stretches out the leg in question, resting his palm atop the scar.
There's still time before the sun fully sets, and he leans back against the wall, catching his breath. He wipes cold sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. ]
no subject
As much evidence as there is to the contrary, Faraday isn't an idiot. He knows well enough that the primary reason for his survival is the wolf's curse – something that increases his resiliency, something that makes him stronger. He knows he's straddling that odd place between mortality and other, and knows that if he had suffered those wounds in the daylight hours, he would've been scooped up and dumped into a pine wood box, colder than a wagon wheel.
It's the wolf that kept him alive – though Vasquez had a decent hand in it, too. And a stupider person might wonder why he calls it a curse when its greatest impact is mostly a matter of inconvenience. When it has the benefit of allowing him to survive a war.
Faraday wouldn't have an answer for them, aside from bristling and snapping on instinct.
(but some days, he wonders the same thing.)
The full moon draws closer, and uneven as Faraday's temperament is at the best of times, it only gets worse with each passing day. He can feel the wolf prowling in his chest, biding its time, and each night when it rises to the surface, it becomes more and more brutal, tearing its way to freedom.
Drinking himself silly beforehand helps ease the way, but only a little.
There are too many people – fewer now, thanks to the battle, but enough. The brightening moon has the drawback and benefit of heightening his senses, sometimes to the point of overload, until his head aches and stomach clenches with it. The stench of sweat and the beating of hearts, the rushing of blood through veins—
It's enough to drive a man mad.
He thinks a little too long and hard about the last full moon, about the state the wolf had Vasquez in by sunrise the next day. He remembers the stench and taste of the vampire's blood, remembers the cold, choking fear that had hit him when he thought the wolf had done Vasquez in. At the time, Vasquez had been a stranger, had felt more like an annoyance than an ally, but—
They've spent weeks together, now. Faraday wouldn't claim to understand Vasquez, and neither would he deign to admit that Vasquez might understand him, but— he thinks there's still a kinship between them, being what they are.
(God above, Faraday doesn't want to lose that.)
This time, though, he abandons his previous moratorium on drinking before the full moon in favor of downing a handful of shots.
When Vasquez comes to collect him, Faraday goes without protest – hell, he hardly says a word, preoccupied as he is with all the variables. The wounds he still carries should slow the wolf down, he thinks, or else it'll infuriate it, leave it desperate. The alcohol should make the wolf sluggish, should give Vasquez an edge in keeping it in check, when the need arises – but it'll also make it unpredictable. Vasquez knows he has free reign to claim whatever blood he needs – both from the wolf and Faraday – but Faraday knows the vampire's intention is to subdue, not eliminate.
Faraday can't help but feel that's a mistake.
Even before they reach the shed, Faraday balks at the revolting stench of the dried wolfsbane, and he has to force himself to move closer, in spite of the way his stomach churns. Once they've passed the circle, once Vasquez has admitted them into the flimsy shed and barred the door, Faraday lets himself sink down to the floor. ]
Oh, it's fine. Never better.
[ He breathes it out, something close to a laugh, as he lays his crutch beside him. He carefully stretches out the leg in question, resting his palm atop the scar.
There's still time before the sun fully sets, and he leans back against the wall, catching his breath. He wipes cold sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. ]
Sam gave you the silver?