peacemakers: (005)

it is beautiful is what it is

[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-10 04:54 pm (UTC)(link)
[ A man with no need to sleep suffers no nightmares.

It’s a blessing, maybe. It’s one of the few good things to come out of this – that Faraday no longer sleeps and no longer dreams of blood and death. And logically speaking, it makes sense – he can’t be haunted by his old ghosts if he is one, himself.

So when the rest of the world sleeps, Faraday drifts. Wanders through the town, sometimes, taking a look at the differences all of these months have made, marks out the spots he remembers. There, where he sat with some of the town’s children, showing them magic trick after magic trick until work called him back. There, where he blew up a shed. There, where Vasquez had killed one of Bogue’s men in Faraday’s name – the man who had shot him, who had killed him slowly.

Sometimes, he blinks out of existence, goes wherever it is he goes to rest – like he’s in a separate room watching the world from a window. Aware, but not present. Like falling into a daze and waiting to be roused.

And other times, he waits around, sits in Emma’s kitchen with a deck of cards with the light of the moon to accompany him. Practice, in a way. Strengthening. Shuffling the deck with a quiet focus, like he’s learning the skill all over again – because he is. In life, manipulating the cards came as easy as breathing, but it had taken years of practice to get there. And now, slightly removed from existence as he is, it takes concentration to grasp the cards, to cut and twist the deck. Sometimes, when he loses focus, it becomes a game of fifty-two card pick up, and he grunts in frustration as he kneels down to fix his mess.

A cry pierces the silence of the house, and the cards fall through his fingers – a small, contained mess on the kitchen table. And normally Faraday would throw his hands up, frustrated to the point of banging his head against a wall, except he’s no longer there.

He appears in Emma’s room with hardly a thought. ]


Emma. Hey, Emma—

[ He steps forward, reaches out a hand to wake her – remembers what he is, and flinches back. She described it to him once, how it felt to pass through him. Like getting doused in ice water. Like feeling something crawl up your spine.

That… probably won’t help.

It’s a bad one tonight, he thinks helplessly, hovering beside her as she tosses and turns. It’s nights like these that he hates what he is, because he can’t simply just touch her, put a hand on her shoulder and end the dream with a gentle shake. He winces when she cries out again, moves forward to sit on the edge of the bed.

Tries again, uncertain, ]


Emma, wake up. It’s— it’s just a dream.
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[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-10 06:14 pm (UTC)(link)
[ When she scrambles away, Faraday rocks back, both hands up to look as unthreatening as possible. With the way she panics, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had tried to throw something or tried to land a blow – neither of which would have had an effect, but it would’ve been startling for them both, all the same.

He ought to try to soothe her, try to be reassuring or flash her a smile, but— that was bad, what he just witnessed. Reminded him of his own nightmares. And all he can manage is a quiet frown, a worried sort of look. When she remembers where she is and seems to calm a little, he drops his hands to his lap. Faraday waits for the sleep to leave her, for her to gather her wits enough to speak. Once she does – and there’s his name again; one of these days, he’ll stop pausing in confusion at it – he tries to smile a little. ]


You were makin’ enough noise fit to rouse the dead.

[ Yes, he’s making a ghost joke, as he occasionally does. It’s in poor taste, every time.

But the smile fades, and he watches her with undisguised concern. ]


You alright?
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[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-10 07:02 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Her disapproving look is met with a helpless little smile and shrug, as if he’s trying to say, I couldn’t help it.

He waits again as she tries to compose herself, gives her time to catch her breath, doesn’t push her to speak or demand answers. Faraday almost never had company whenever he woke from his nightmares, but he remembers thinking how much he wished he had someone there with him. He remembers how disgustingly lonely it could be, sitting in the dark with the shadows still flitting around in his head, lying in wait. And maybe he didn’t want to talk about it, and maybe he didn’t want their pity, but just having someone there would have helped.

(And he had someone there for him exactly once, in the night before his death. Emma, keeping him company on a sleepless night, throwing back whiskey and distracting him from his demons.

It had been… it had been a relief, if he’s honest.) ]


Nothin’ to be sorry for. Didn’t bother me none.

[ He says it honestly with another small shrug, because he has a vague idea of how she is, how she doesn’t like making people worry. Doesn’t like being a burden, proud woman that she is.

They say the nightmares never go away, he had told her. A warning, really, a word of caution, though not to deter her from the battle. Faraday knew almost from the start that Emma belonged with the rest of the men, fighting Rose Creek’s fight, but he also knows actions have consequences. He know that once someone starts dealing in lead, it tends to haunt them.

In this case, he doesn’t like being right.

He shifts a little where he sits, unsure of how to proceed. A little awkwardly, ]


You— you need anything?
peacemakers: (017)

[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-10 07:39 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Faraday wasn’t sure what he expected from his question. Maybe something concrete he could do, like fetching her some water or preparing some coffee. Or maybe she would have waved him away, told him to give her some privacy while she sorted through her thoughts – which he would have done with reluctance, given that he’s reasonably sure the last thing she ought to be is alone.

But still, he hoped it would be something straightforward. Something simple.

Her actual request, though, makes him pause, but he nods all the same – slowly, and slightly unsure, but there it is. He even bites back his first inclination to make some joke, as he tends to do when he’s uncomfortable, because he knows how difficult that request must have been for her. He’s not sure, were their places switched, if he would’ve had the courage to do the same. ]


Yeah. [ Softly, as he dredges up a small smile. ] ‘Course. I can do that.

[ It’s the least he can do, even if he’s not entirely certain how much help he can be. Faraday is a talker, sure. He can spin tales and make people laugh until tears roll down their eyes. Comfort, though, is not something he has any practice in providing.

Easy things first, then. He stands from the bed, drifting over to light the lantern. He adjusts the wick, sets the light low – just enough to push back the dark. He doesn’t need the light, himself; he found he could see just as well in the dark as he does in the day. Still, he found a bit of light always helped him to pull himself out of his dreams. Maybe the same will help Emma.

With his attention on the little flickering flame, he says softly, ]


You don’t gotta talk about it none, if you don’t want, but—

[ he pauses, risks a glance over. ]

‘S not usually that bad, is it?
peacemakers: (017)

[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-10 10:03 pm (UTC)(link)
[ He nods slowly at the answer. That’s something, at least, that they don’t often set her screaming and thrashing, like he’d just seen. Sometimes he happens to be nearby to pull her from a few bad dreams, hearing soft sounds that might be wordless protests, but he hasn’t seen it this bad before.

Part of him wonders what she saw this time as she slept, wonders if it’s Bogue’s vengeful spirit haunting her. He doesn’t ask, though; he figures it’s too fresh in her mind to talk comfortably about it.

With the lamp lit, he wanders back to her bed, sits down on its edge and turns slightly to face her. (The mattress doesn’t dip; the blankets don’t give way to leave an impression.) Her question gives him pause, and— shockingly, he doesn’t feel that old spur in his side at the thought of his old nightmares, or that dizzying feeling of vertigo, like he’s standing on the edge of some dark precipice.

Death must have given him some much needed perspective, perhaps, because the idea of speaking about them, of bringing them into the light, isn’t as terrifying as it might have been all those months ago. Before, the idea of talking about it felt akin to dragging a monster out into the open, made it feel like he was baring his throat to let it dig in its teeth.

Now, though, it feels like a far-off, unpleasant memory. They haven’t plagued him in so long, those nightmares, and the distance feels safer, somehow. So he parrots back simply, quietly, ]


Not always. Not every time.

[ His mouth draws into a thin line, and he tips his head back to inspect the ceiling. ]

But sometimes, they were… bad. Real bad. And felt real enough that sometimes, I thought they would surely follow me out into the daylight.

[ He breathes out a rueful little laugh, looking over to her again. ]

Never did though, thank God, though I’m certain they were sorely tempted to.
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[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-11 12:16 am (UTC)(link)
[ He winces at her admission, at the way she folds in on herself. It’s all too familiar, really, and something he grappled with without success for years before Chisolm dragged him along to Rose Creek. The dreams always came, no matter how much he ran, no matter how much he drank, no matter how much he staved off sleep.

Now, he has some form of peace, and as terrible as his nightmares were, they no longer plague him; but he can’t exactly offer “try dying” as a valid form of advice. Faraday may be a fool, but he’s not that much of a bastard to make a joke like that. ]


Wish I knew, myself.

[ And there’s a touch of regret in his voice. Emma has been kind to him for ages now, despite his tricks, despite his purposeful attempts at being infuriating, despite the two of them not being the best of friends in life. She’s suffered his presence with surprising aplomb, and naturally, when it comes time for him to return the favor in some meaningful way, he comes up short.

Isn’t that just the way? ]


Never really could shake ‘em. Tried my damnedest, though. Ran and ran and ran, but they always caught up.

[ He pauses, tries for another little smile, even if she isn’t looking his way. ]

So I can at least suggest not tryin’ that.
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[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-11 03:44 am (UTC)(link)
[ He sees the hollow sort of determination in her eyes, and feels a twinge of sympathy. That look reminds him of betting it all in a hand of poker, already knowing you've lost. It's like looking down the barrel of a gun.

It's not a look that suits her, and he wishes he could do something to take it away.

And then she keeps staring, watching him, and the attention unnerves him, in a way. Like a hawk staring into a field, looking for prey. He can practically hear the gears turning in her head as she formulates some idea, and he has a brief second to wonder, Why do I get the feelin' I won't like this?

He was right, in a way.

Because when she moves forward, reaches out for him, he shifts back on instinct. He laughs a little, more out of unease than finding anything particularly humorous. ]


You hate when I touch you.

[ He says it like he's delivering a fact, like he's reminding her the sky is blue, rather than in an accusatory way. Emma has never said it so explicitly, but she had told him how it felt when she accidentally fell through him – it hardly sounded enjoyable. And eagle-eyed as he is, Faraday noticed the way she took pains to avoid coming into contact with him. ]
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[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-11 04:11 am (UTC)(link)
[ He frowns at that, mouth twisting a little to one side in displeasure. He's not sure why he's so hesitant to do this; it's a simple enough request, but the stark reminder of what he is, how unpleasant he is, leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

(If he could still taste, that is.)

But, well, Faraday is frequently the one bringing it up, making light of it (as was his way), so he supposes he should stop feeling put out about it. If what he is can be made useful, then it's more than he could've hoped for when he was simply a corpse buried in a pine box, six feet underground.

(... technically, he is still a corpse in box, deep beneath the earth.

He stops thinking on that near immediately.)

It's never been quite so terrible for Faraday, moving through folks – so long as it was only a brush of contact, something as minor as the grazing of shoulders. Moving through folks, though, or having them move through him – that tended to fill him with a brief sense of dread, like staring down a long, long drop, there and gone in a flash.

Warily, he lifts his own hand. He hesitates for a second, then forces some levity into his voice as he grumbles, ]


Just so you'n'I are clear? This is likely the only time a woman has ever asked me to take her hand, and it's likely to be the only time I do it.

I just want you to appreciate that.

[ After that, he closes the distance, and rather than grasping her extended fingers, his hand passes through hers. It lasts for little more than a second, and he's quick to take his hand back, clenching it into a fist on his lap. ]
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[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-11 04:59 am (UTC)(link)
[ The shift in the room is practically audible – one moment, quiet with dread. The next, chilled and tense, like stepping out in the dead of winter. Faraday drops his gaze, looks off into a corner of the room to avoid looking at Emma.

(Because he knows what he'll see on her face, that look of wide-eyed fear, that reminder of how wrong he is.)

He keeps his silence, waits for the coldness of death's touch – or whatever the hell he ought to call what he did – to pass. When she speaks, his gaze doesn't move, remains fixed on the shadowy little corner, and—

He barks out a laugh. Of all the things to ask, he thinks, that's the first that came to mind? What an odd woman, Emma Cullen. ]


It might surprise you to know, but I ain't exactly the courtin' type. Nor was most'a' the women I went with.

[ Probably an improper topic of conversation to have with a lady, but he merely shrugs. ]

Holdin' hands weren't exactly the first thing that came to mind.
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[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-11 07:47 am (UTC)(link)
[ He laughs again, though the sound doesn't quite approach mirthful; reminders of his last moments rarely elicit anything but a grim look, a slight creasing of his brow. Faraday will speak of most things with unnerving ease – including his state of nonexistence – but dying, feeling the life leave him bit by painful but, is still a dangerous topic.

They held hands then, yes, but not out of affection. It was desperation. It was fear. It was one final link to the living, a last-ditch attempt to anchor himself. ]


No, I wouldn't rightly say either instance has been what a person might call intimate.

[ Because that's what it is, really. Intimate. Something sweethearts do, something families do. People with softness in them. Faraday doesn't consider himself one of those people, covered in cactus needles and barbs as he is, all rough edges and sharp words.

He never felt he lacked for it, that intimacy. That familiarity. He also felt himself incapable of it.

He still thinks those things, even in death.

Thinks that, but when he glances up to see her bundling herself in her blankets, he frowns, half rises from where he sits. ]


You want me to build up the fire for you?
peacemakers: (016)

[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-11 10:07 pm (UTC)(link)
[ He nods as he stands. Stoking the fire is easy enough, by now, and takes much less concentration than it did before. Practice makes perfect, he supposes, and with the colder weather setting in, he's had a decent amount of practice. Might as well make himself useful, after all, when he offers little with his presence.

He feels the expectant weight of her gaze on him, though, and he pauses, waits for her to say whatever is still on her mind. An apology hadn't been what he was expecting, and for a second, he pauses, looks down at the wooden floor to collect his thoughts. ]


'S fine.

[ is what he decides on. Assuming one uses a very loose definition for the word "fine." There was a lot wrong with his situation, but— he makes do. As he always has. As he always does.

He shrugs, tipping his head slightly to one side, as if to say, What can you do? ]


Let's not go makin' somethin' out of nothin', alright?
peacemakers: (003)

[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-12 12:06 am (UTC)(link)
[ He offers a puzzled sort of smile at the request, as he stokes the fire with the poker; he glances over long enough to ask, ]

Thought you said I wasn't havin' an influence on you?

[ But he offers no further argument as he sets the iron aside. His cards were left haphazardly on the table – more of a messy pile, considering the way they fell through his hands earlier – and he collects the cards, stacking them neatly. In a blink, he returns to her side, sitting on the edge of her bed again with the cards in his hands. Idly, he cuts the deck – nothing particularly fancy; just something to do with his hands. ]

You mean to go into the fine business of hustlin', Miss Emma?
peacemakers: (011)

[personal profile] peacemakers 2016-10-12 02:09 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's easier to stomach the title when she knows she's just trying to get a rise out of him, and he answers it with a smirk. ]

Never know till you try. You might find you have a knack for it.

[ It takes a little more focus now than it did before. Simple actions – lifting, pushing, pulling – come easier now with time and practice. Acts of dexterity, though, of fine little movements and adjustments, have been a little more difficult.

But he's been practicing that, too, when the world is asleep and he has time to himself. He holds the deck in his hand, lifts the top card to reveal the suicide king, the King of Hearts, whose sword runs straight through his head. Faraday flips it back over atop the deck, hiding it among the rest, then cuts it in half and riffles the halves together. The cards bridge into a single deck after that, the paper snapping softly as the cards move back into place. Another cut in half, then he cuts the deck into three parts, moves them around in his hands until he arranges them neatly into a stack. He flicks the top card over onto the bed.

The suicide king, once again. ]

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