[ He waits, and he waits, and he waits, for something to happen, for some spark of inspiration that would make this whole ordeal finally make sense. Surely there must be some reason for it. Maybe it is a dream, maybe he just needs to wait for a sign, or maybe he just needs to wait for consciousness to retake him, to put this whole nightmare behind him.
(Because that’s what this must be. A nightmare. Gregarious and talkative bastard that he is, he can imagine no greater hell than one where he is completely and utterly ignored.)
So he waits. The sunlight wanes. A quiet breeze sets in, brushing through the tall grass and the tree leaves. And he waits.
And then there are footsteps approaching, the soft sound of boots on dirt.
Faraday is slow to react – because he recognizes the voice. Emma. It would figure, really, that the next one to ignore him would be the woman who helped to ease his final moments, who did him the kindness of reminding him he wasn’t alone – only now he is, isn’t he? Unseen and unheard and unfelt. Why the hell not, right? Just heap insult onto the injury. Kick a man while he’s down. Wasn’t as though he was already riddled with holes and nearly blown to pieces. His hands reluctantly drop to his lap, and he lifts his head – not to look at her, but to glance around, see who she’s talking to.
The examination of his surroundings reminds him he’s the only soul around, save for Emma, and his brow wrinkles with a frown.
It’s another second before he finally turns his face up to her, confusion clear in the set of his mouth, the crease between his eyebrows. Her eyes are on him, not staring through him, and he feels that first little inkling of hope. ]
… Miss Emma? [ Quietly. Oh, so tentatively. He slowly – slowly, slowly – half-rises from where he sits. ] Can you— Please tell me you can see me.
[ And because life, such as it is, is a cruel mistress, he disappears.
Not for long, though. It’s a bright Sunday afternoon when he returns, standing on a hill and staring down at his own grave. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a dark, rueful smile as he tries to think of who pinned the card on his marker. ]
no subject
(Because that’s what this must be. A nightmare. Gregarious and talkative bastard that he is, he can imagine no greater hell than one where he is completely and utterly ignored.)
So he waits. The sunlight wanes. A quiet breeze sets in, brushing through the tall grass and the tree leaves. And he waits.
And then there are footsteps approaching, the soft sound of boots on dirt.
Faraday is slow to react – because he recognizes the voice. Emma. It would figure, really, that the next one to ignore him would be the woman who helped to ease his final moments, who did him the kindness of reminding him he wasn’t alone – only now he is, isn’t he? Unseen and unheard and unfelt. Why the hell not, right? Just heap insult onto the injury. Kick a man while he’s down. Wasn’t as though he was already riddled with holes and nearly blown to pieces. His hands reluctantly drop to his lap, and he lifts his head – not to look at her, but to glance around, see who she’s talking to.
The examination of his surroundings reminds him he’s the only soul around, save for Emma, and his brow wrinkles with a frown.
It’s another second before he finally turns his face up to her, confusion clear in the set of his mouth, the crease between his eyebrows. Her eyes are on him, not staring through him, and he feels that first little inkling of hope. ]
… Miss Emma? [ Quietly. Oh, so tentatively. He slowly – slowly, slowly – half-rises from where he sits. ] Can you— Please tell me you can see me.
[ And because life, such as it is, is a cruel mistress, he disappears.
Not for long, though. It’s a bright Sunday afternoon when he returns, standing on a hill and staring down at his own grave. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a dark, rueful smile as he tries to think of who pinned the card on his marker. ]