This is not a surprising fact. He is routinely an ass – had been in life, has been in undeath, and that’s not likely to change.
But specifically, a handful of days after their argument, he began to think, I might have gone too far. And a full week afterward, with guilt eating away at him from the inside out, he started thinking, Joshua Faraday, you are a complete and utter son of a bitch.
He replays the fight over and over and over in his head – because being what he is, he has an abundance of free time, has no need of sleep to while away the hours, no need to work to make a living – and he knows it was a mistake to say those things, to let his anger boil over so brilliantly. For as mean a cuss as he is, as much of a bastard as he is, Faraday knows his faults and pretends to wear them with pride – but deep down, he’s ashamed of them. He’s been called worse things than what Emma called him on that day, but Emma is the first and only person in his life and unlife to drag all of those faults into the light, to rip open those old scars and pour salt all over them.
She was right, of course, on every count, and that had hurt. But it hurt even more to hear it all in her voice, cold and impassive.
A week of waiting isn’t a lot of time, all things considered, but it’s enough for him to know this problem won’t go away, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. It’s enough to know that he should make amends, though Faraday has no idea how to go about it or how welcome his presence would be. (Probably not at all, considering what he said and what she said, and all the bad blood left in between.) So he does small things by way of apology. Chopping wood comes pretty easily, as does tending to the fire. Coffee is a little more difficult – he tends to make it strong – but he manages it all the same.
Faraday spends his time nearby, or wandering through town, or in that in-between state, neither awake nor asleep. And he’s lonely, but he reckons that’s what he deserves for the awful things he said. Deserves a lot worse, really, like another smack across the face at the very least. And that’s a funny thing, that getting slapped is even possible, but apparently it is now.
He hasn’t tested out his newfound physicality, not on another person; every time he reached out to grasp someone’s arm, he reconsidered. Probably for the best – he didn’t want to startle someone into a heart attack. But he’s— different now, and he doesn’t know why or how. Still invisible, surely, still inaudible, but different. When he grabs for an axe, he can feel the wood grain of the handle. When he stands at Emma’s hearth and tends to the fire, he feels the heat of flame, the roughness of the iron poker. When he drops a blanket over her, he feels the softness of the material. And he tests it in the dead of night with the stack of playing cards in his hands, feels the way the paper rasps against his palms as the cards riffle and bridge. The old tricks come back easily – palming cards, hiding them behind his fingers, double-lifting them as he deals. Something like relief flows through him – although it’s tempered by… everything that’s happened.
It’s been a bad week.
He’s drifting through when Emma calls for him, and he pauses. For a second, he considers ignoring her, because he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear what she has to say, isn’t sure if he’s ready to apologize. The sting of her words are still as fresh as the day they were said, and part of him worries she’s trying for a second round, trying to tell him that his gestures are unappreciated and that he needed to leave her alone for good. He starts turning away, intent on saving this conversation for another day—
Until he notices the cards.
They hadn’t been his personal deck – the set that had been with him on the day of his death – but he’d grown accustomed to them, all the same. Attached, even, though that’s a silly thing (though maybe not so silly, considering they’re about the only things on this mortal plane that Faraday considers his.) And when she actually starts counting, and a sort of nervousness clenches in his stomach.
Faraday lets her get as far as four, and just as she’s inhaling, forming the word five, he appears about two arms’ lengths away – a marked difference from the norm, where he’d materialize directly beside her just to make her jump. For a second, he just stares at her with a guarded expression, arms akimbo, before he reaches out with his right hand. ]
no subject
This is not a surprising fact. He is routinely an ass – had been in life, has been in undeath, and that’s not likely to change.
But specifically, a handful of days after their argument, he began to think, I might have gone too far. And a full week afterward, with guilt eating away at him from the inside out, he started thinking, Joshua Faraday, you are a complete and utter son of a bitch.
He replays the fight over and over and over in his head – because being what he is, he has an abundance of free time, has no need of sleep to while away the hours, no need to work to make a living – and he knows it was a mistake to say those things, to let his anger boil over so brilliantly. For as mean a cuss as he is, as much of a bastard as he is, Faraday knows his faults and pretends to wear them with pride – but deep down, he’s ashamed of them. He’s been called worse things than what Emma called him on that day, but Emma is the first and only person in his life and unlife to drag all of those faults into the light, to rip open those old scars and pour salt all over them.
She was right, of course, on every count, and that had hurt. But it hurt even more to hear it all in her voice, cold and impassive.
A week of waiting isn’t a lot of time, all things considered, but it’s enough for him to know this problem won’t go away, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. It’s enough to know that he should make amends, though Faraday has no idea how to go about it or how welcome his presence would be. (Probably not at all, considering what he said and what she said, and all the bad blood left in between.) So he does small things by way of apology. Chopping wood comes pretty easily, as does tending to the fire. Coffee is a little more difficult – he tends to make it strong – but he manages it all the same.
Faraday spends his time nearby, or wandering through town, or in that in-between state, neither awake nor asleep. And he’s lonely, but he reckons that’s what he deserves for the awful things he said. Deserves a lot worse, really, like another smack across the face at the very least. And that’s a funny thing, that getting slapped is even possible, but apparently it is now.
He hasn’t tested out his newfound physicality, not on another person; every time he reached out to grasp someone’s arm, he reconsidered. Probably for the best – he didn’t want to startle someone into a heart attack. But he’s— different now, and he doesn’t know why or how. Still invisible, surely, still inaudible, but different. When he grabs for an axe, he can feel the wood grain of the handle. When he stands at Emma’s hearth and tends to the fire, he feels the heat of flame, the roughness of the iron poker. When he drops a blanket over her, he feels the softness of the material. And he tests it in the dead of night with the stack of playing cards in his hands, feels the way the paper rasps against his palms as the cards riffle and bridge. The old tricks come back easily – palming cards, hiding them behind his fingers, double-lifting them as he deals. Something like relief flows through him – although it’s tempered by… everything that’s happened.
It’s been a bad week.
He’s drifting through when Emma calls for him, and he pauses. For a second, he considers ignoring her, because he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear what she has to say, isn’t sure if he’s ready to apologize. The sting of her words are still as fresh as the day they were said, and part of him worries she’s trying for a second round, trying to tell him that his gestures are unappreciated and that he needed to leave her alone for good. He starts turning away, intent on saving this conversation for another day—
Until he notices the cards.
They hadn’t been his personal deck – the set that had been with him on the day of his death – but he’d grown accustomed to them, all the same. Attached, even, though that’s a silly thing (though maybe not so silly, considering they’re about the only things on this mortal plane that Faraday considers his.) And when she actually starts counting, and a sort of nervousness clenches in his stomach.
Faraday lets her get as far as four, and just as she’s inhaling, forming the word five, he appears about two arms’ lengths away – a marked difference from the norm, where he’d materialize directly beside her just to make her jump. For a second, he just stares at her with a guarded expression, arms akimbo, before he reaches out with his right hand. ]
Give ‘em here.