[ 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.
[ emma's hit with an odd sense of relief when faraday settles back onto the bed with her, just sitting on the edge; he's close, but not too close, and for now that's...that's enough. she's not alone, which has been one of the absolute worst parts of losing matthew — she's had no one there with her to help her cope with these nights, the bad ones, and though she's determined to make it through on her own, that she doesn't need anyone because of how damn proud she is...
sometimes, she needs someone, and it's just plain harder to force herself through these nights pretending that she's fine. she's always appreciated the times faraday has woken her from less serious dreams, because she knows that it's been obvious when she's struggled, but...she's managed to keep him from witnessing this magnitude of night terror, and this has added a new level of reality to the seriousness of her nightmares.
she listens as he speaks, almost shocked that he's elaborating on the otherwise ignored concept. they were both vividly aware of the nightmares they each suffered, but they never delved into them, never talked about them, and she just keeps her eyes fixed on faraday, on his face. she takes in the way his lips move, the small changes in his expression, and the level of focus is soothing in its own odd way, like it gives her something to fixate on that doesn't happen to be the memories tugging at the back of her mind. she worries that if she sleeps again now, she'll just drop right back into the nightmares with little to no reprieve, and she can't face that yet.
not yet. ]
They do feel— so awfully real.
[ it's a quiet admission, and she can't quite look faraday in the eyes when she says it, even if he's also just copped to it. ]
Like I can't get away, and I just— I don't rightfully know what I ought to do.
[ she slides her hand up into her hair, letting her forehead fall against her knees. she feels helpless with these nightmares, because she has no control of them, no control of what her mind forces her to relive, and it's driving her to these miserable nights that often end with her staying awake until morning. ]
[ 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. ]
[ faraday's words aren't the most reassuring, because it's a bit difficult hearing affirmation that this will never go away, and his coping mechanisms obviously hadn't solved the problem much at all. he'd lived with those nightmares for so much of his life, until now, in death, he had some semblance of peace for them.
much as emma struggled, she wasn't looking to die just yet. she spends so much of her time with a dead man, but she's still so tied to the world of the living, thank you kindly.
she gives a quiet, humorless laugh before lifting her head, leaning it back against the wall so she can stare at the ceiling. ]
I doubt I'd be much good at runnin' your way, anyhow.
[ she's not one to drown her demons in spirits, and, realistically, she knows that leaving rose creek won't chase off the nightmares any more than staying might.
she tips her chin to finally look back at faraday, her eyes holding that fierceness that's so entirely emma, but it's almost hollow, filled with exhaustion and the flickers of old ghosts instead of her usual fire. the nightmares stifle a part of her, because emma just does not do well feeling like she's lost. she needs to know where she stands, how to fix things, herself included, but these nightmares strike such a primal nerve inside of her that she can't grasp a solution.
she can't fix herself.
she keeps staring at him for a drawnout moment, and then a flash of an idea hit hers. she sits forward, sticking out her hand to him with determination. ]
Touch me.
[ it's a demand, leaving little room to question. the way he moves right through her when they make contact, it's so startling and cold and she reckons that that may startle her out of this exhaustion just enough that she won't be tempted to try closing her eyes all over again.
if it'll keep her awake, then the unpleasantness is worth it. that, or actually splash herself with ice water. ]
[ 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. ]
[ her gaze doesn't waver, and she doesn't pull her hand back at the pointed reminder. oh, she heartily dislikes the near unearthly sensations that come with touching faraday, especially on the one occasion her entire body fell right into him — through him — and left her feeling like she'd touched death itself, all freezing cold and prickling skin.
but what it did do was wake her the hell up. ]
That's the point.
[ she doesn't reach for him, because she's actually trying to be polite about this (even if she's asking for something fairly strange). ]
Faraday, I touch you and I am wide awake. I have no desire to let myself accidentally drift into those dreams again tonight, so if you would kindly oblige me and simply touch my hand, I'd be mighty grateful. But if not, I'll find myself some cold water and try to do just about the same.
[ icy water will wake her up, sure, and while it's the closest thing she can associate with touching a ghost, it's not nearly as effective at making every inch of her feel alert. ]
[ 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. ]
[ faraday's words actually startle emma, and she wishes she had more than a moment to react to what he's said, but then his hand is passing right through hers and her entire body seizes up.
there is it: that flash of desperate cold that she swears near freezes the blood in her veins, like her whole body has been dunked under a wintery lake, and despite the fact that it only lasts the briefest of moments, she's left wide-eyed and shivering.
well. she's sure awake now.
she pulls her hand back, gently gripping her arm and near hugging herself to ward off that flash of death her nerves seem to instinctively realize they've encountered. death and something not of this world: she supposes that's what faraday is, but it's only when she feels something like this that she remembers it.
she leans against the wall behind her bed, eyes far more alert as she looks at faraday now, some of those ghosts banished with her exhaustion. instead of a "thank you," she says instead: ]
You've– never been asked to hold a woman's hand before?
[ she feels a flicker of regret, then, that this is the manner in which he's held hers (if it could even be called that), and she's caught off guard by the odd ache in her chest that wishes she could have foregone the ghostly contact for something more substantial, like actually feeling faraday's hand on hers again.
(in better circumstances, maybe, than on the hill as he lay dying. she'd held his hand then, but that had been far different.)
[ 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.
[ she's glad to see faraday laugh in the aftermath of— that. the adamant way he looked away from her didn't leave a pleasant feeling in her gut, but she doesn't blame him. it's rare that these brutal reminders shake their time together, because despite faraday's casual cracks about his undead existence, it's still...easy to forget the reality.
she has the good grace to turn a little pink when he explains himself, but she shrugs it off dismissively. ]
I suppose that's a fair point.
[ from what she'd known of faraday before he'd died, she certainly wouldn't have expected him to be the kind of man to attempt courting a woman (not like matthew had been), so she supposes she understands, but...she'd greatly enjoyed that sort of simple contact from her husband; it's such a basic way to show affection, and there was something soothing about it. ]
But I wouldn't say that's the only time you'd held my hand — though by that count, neither circumstance has been especially ideal.
[ while he was dying or while he fades right through her: what strange moments, she decides, shaking the thought away.
reaching for her blankets, she gathers them up to wrap around her shoulders, bundle up a tad. the house itself is cold, on account of the fire burning far lower, and the leftover chills she feels from faraday's touch warrant the extra layers. tucking it all around herself, she watches him from her makeshift nest of bedclothes; she looks awake now, something she's grateful for, and she doesn't feel near as close to drifting off out of sheer exhaustion again. ]
[ 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. ]
emma scoffs slightly at the word, as if possibly defining either moment in such a way is absurd to her.
by no stretch of the imagination would she call either instance "intimate," but she finds a strange sense of similarity in seeking an anchor out of the contact. he'd clung to her hand like it was the only rock in an ortherwise brutal, unrepentant storm, and emma had sought means by which to ground herself, even if that had been in faraday's touch (or lack thereof). unpleasant as the sensation may have been, it had given her an anchor of her own, forcefully rooting her in the reality of the moment because now? she didn't feel the same tug of her nightmares; the forceful drag of sleep is momentarily gone, and she knows it's her body's way of responding to something that it can't understand.
but that's rightfully better than drifting off without meaning to and spending hours more in bright and hellish dreams. it may not be death that she seeks to tether herself from, but faraday had provided a much needed anchor to the waking world, and she's beyond grateful for it.
as he starts to rise, she nods, resting her chin on her knees. ]
I'd be much obliged if you'd see to it.
[ she appreciates it, because she still doesn't feel that she's ready to get her feet under her. she glances towards his face again, her expression not quite troubled, but thoughtful. ]
Also.
[ she hesitates, then sighs softly. ]
I apologize if I overstepped my bounds asking that of you - to touch me, I mean.
[ it had helped, certainly, but she'd seen the look on his face, knew that the reminder of what he is was not a pleasant one. ]
[ 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?
[ emma isn't sure she feels right continuing to push faraday for more of an acknowledgement than that. it's not fine, she can see that much from his posture, his tone, and the general fact of this existence. ]
Fair enough.
[ talking much about these sorts of situations isn't her forte, and she's far likelier to let it lie than continue prodding him — partially to avoid her own line of thoughts about the matter. it's still so surreal to have him effectively living with her ("living"), but ghost that he is, he's still more of a person than she'd otherwise have around her so often.
it's nice, she realizes, to not feel so alone (not that she'll admit that aloud to him). ]
Faraday.
[ she shifts forward, some of the blankets falling from around her shoulders as the room starts to warm. ]
Since I'm now fairly awake—
[incredibly awake. ]
—might I take you up on that offer to show me those trick shuffles of yours?
[ not so she can actually play poker or indulge of any of his other vices, but it's admittedly fascinating to watch his hands move with the cards.
(and it's also something to keep her busy while it's still the dead of night.) ]
[ 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?
[ emma has started to adjust to his quick reappearances, barely jolting when he popped back up at the side of her bed. her lips twitch into a bit of amusement, and she straightens, folding her knees underneath her and making sure her shift is properly adjusted before she refocuses on what faraday does with his hands. ]
Mister Faraday, you know all too well I've no need for that sort of business — and I would hardly measure card shufflin' as an influence.
[ she tacks the "mister" on as a means of teasing him, these days, less so out of propriety. ]
But I've always been awful fascinated by the way you move the cards.
[ it's impressive, no matter what he uses it for, and what better way to while away the dark evening hours than practicing a skill? she certainly can't go out to shoot, after all, so this is something, and it's something that includes faraday. ]
[ 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.
Perhaps. But I think I'd much rather find myself a less dangerous line of work.
[ people tended to get awful steamed when they realize they've been cheated, and on top of emma's genuine nature, she's not sure it would ever sit right with her to purposefully trick others out of their money.
it's just not in her.
she watches faraday shuffle the cards, over and over, until he produces the king of hearts, yet again. her eyebrows raise, and though she's seen him do it multiple times, it still impresses her (even more so now when she finds herself struck by the reality of what he is and that he can still interact with the cards like this). odd, she decides, but she can't find an explanation for his existence on its own, let alone why he can pick up the cards like he's just as corporeal as she is. ]
Now, how did you do that?
[ because this? for hustling or not, this catches her attention. ]
[ He smiles a little, catching the interest in her eyes. Truth is, that wasn't even one of his best shuffles, but the more difficult ones are just beyond his capabilities, given what he is. He can move packets around easily, but the tricks that take palming cards or hiding them behind his fingers is a level of dexterity he hasn't quite remastered. ]
Once again, I feel the need to inform you that this is the only time I've ever acquiesced to answerin' a question like that. A magician never reveals his secrets, on pain of death.
But seein' as how I'm already colder than a wagon wheel...
[ He puts the King of Hearts back on top of the deck, face up so it's easier for Emma to track. He does the same shuffle – slower this time. Two halves riffled together, then bridged, only he pauses this time, turns his hands slightly to reveal the two halves haven't quite settled together, their long edges not quite flush. A clever cut partially concealed by his hands separates the unsettled halves, putting the packet with the King of Hearts back on top once again. The cards haven't been shuffled at all.
The three cuts he makes after that are little more than smoke and mirrors; a fancy sort of rearrangement in his hands, moving and twisting and spinning the packets of cards from one side to the other – but sure enough, the King of Hearts ends right back on top.
He flicks the suicide king onto the bed again, making a flourish with his free hand and dipping his head in a truncated bow. ]
[ with the second shuffle, she watches without taking her eyes off of the motion of the cards. it's far easier to track when he slows it for her, and she realizes where the card is going this time. she's trying to memorize how he moves the halves of the deck, how he's mindful of the selected card, keeping it effective separated until he produces it all over again.
an amused smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and she picks up the king, brushing her thumb across the face of the card, before looking back up at faraday. ]
Still mightily impressive, Faraday. How did you learn this yourself?
[ she holds the card back out to him, figuring she could do with another demonstration before she tries to do it herself (which will inevitably be a bit embarrassing, trying to adjust to it). ]
[ He takes the proffered card, mindful of his distance to keep from brushing against her fingers. That particular performance was one that didn't bear repeating, in his eyes. ]
Tried hustlin' the wrong man, one night.
[ He performs the shuffle again at the same speed – the false riffle, the false cuts, but he speaks as he does it. Something close to his usual magician's patter, speaking as a distraction, weaving words to redirect the eyes. ]
When I was young, didn't know too well how to swindle folks. Thought keepin' a face card or two in my pocket was clever, and it worked— see how I keep the cards separate here? You gotta twist 'em a little while you make the bridge.
Anyway. Played a game one night, won a couple hands 'fore another man stepped in, took the place'a' some poor bastards who'd called it quits. Swept us all clean, had this grin on his face the whole time.
[ He starts the shuffle again from the top, the movements slow and smooth. ]
Turns out, he'd been swindlin' folks longer'n I'd been alive. Guess he thought it was funny, the way I was ploddin' my way through the games and still comin' out on top, so he took me under his wing. Showed me a few things.
[ With a final flourish, the suicide king arrives back on top of the deck, and Faraday flips the card face down back on top of the deck. He places the entire deck on the bed between them – less risk of accidental contact, that way – and gestures to the cards. He smiles a little in challenge. ]
You ever shuffle cards before? Can't imagine a fine, upstandin' lady like you ever comin' in touch with such sinful things.
[ emma's gaze flickers from between the cards to faraday's face as he talks, but on the last repetition, her eyes are entirely on the deck. each cut and bridge, she tries to commit to memory, even as she realizes it's going to take a good deal of practice for her to even get the motions down pat.
a good thing they have hours until sunrise, then.
he sets down the cards, and emma finally glances up again, catching the challenge in his smile — something she's all too familiar with coming from him. she doesn't say a single thing as she reaches out for the cards, runs her finger along the sides. she makes a bit of a show at first of carefully splitting the deck, thumbing the corners like she's trying to adjust her hold properly...
...and then she neatly riffles the cards together, pushes them into a high arch, and lets them quickly cascade back into a stack in the flat of her fingers. ]
I'm sure it goes somethin' like that.
[ she tries not to smile as she looks back up at faraday, quirking her eyebrow just slightly at him.
spending a great deal of time traveling, looking for a place to settle down with others in rose creek, there had been many a night where there was little to nothing to do. she wasn't one for poker, never had a taste for gambling or the habit of betting money, but other games? it was a means to while away the hours, and after watching the men shuffling the cards, it had become something for her to practice, to keep her hands busy.
just by nature of being a woman, she hadn't let that deter her from participation. ]
Nothin' sinful about a deck of cards, Faraday. It's rather what you'd do with them than the nature of their existence.
[ Well, well, Emma Cullen is just full of surprises, isn’t she?
As the cards snap back into a pile in her hands, Faraday blinks, eyebrows lifting a little. That was— surprisingly good. Much better than he had expected, honestly, and for a second, the surprise stands naked on his face. It disappears the second she glances up, though, with that cheeky little not-smile of hers, and he responds with a bit of a flat look – the same kind of look they offer when the other is being particularly irksome. ]
Fine, fine, that’s one less thing I gotta teach you, then.
Start with the trick bridge, then.
[ It’s a little harder to demonstrate without the cards in his own hands, but he does his best, explaining how to twist the cards a little so that when the cards fall back into place, the long edges of the two halves don’t lie flush together. ]
Who taught you how to shuffle, anyhow? Can’t imagine it’s a skill very many women have.
[ emma manages to keep her expression composed enough that she doesn't look entirely smug, but now that it's a bit clearer she's not so far behind, she simply follows his instructions. it takes a few times, and she initially struggles with keeping the cards from falling perfectly back into the same pile before she manages to separate them into halves again.
she looks up to faraday again once she's done it, finally replying, ]
Matthew.
[ she holds the deck carefully for the next step, her expression only slightly more distant. thinking about her now-dead husband would do that, because in reality, she didn't bring him up often, didn't like the reminder. he was on her mind regularly enough that she didn't much feel a need to draw him into her conversations — and it still aches a bit to remember that he's in the town's cemetery, rather than her bed tonight. ]
When we were travelin' to come here, some nights he'd be playing cards with the other men. Hearts and the like. I asked him to show me, and he did. Simple as that.
Edited (how tf can i not spell today) 2016-10-12 17:13 (UTC)
[ The mention of her late husband is enough to make his expression sober, and he glances away when she turns her attentions back to the cards. Faraday wonders, sometimes, what it was that brought him back to Rose Creek, diminished though he may be. He wonders if it was luck, good or bad, or fate, or just someone up there paying a dirty trick on him. And he wonders why it was him, of all people, why it wasn’t Goody or Billy or Jack, or hell, even Bogue. Cold son of a bitch that he was, it would almost seem natural for him to escape the clutches of death to terrorize the town again.
And very rarely, Faraday wonders why it wasn’t Matthew.
The thought never lasts very long, considering how little he knew of the man. Teddy Q had mentioned a thing or two, but never much. The sting of loss was still too fresh, Faraday figured, and he never cared to press. But of all of them, shouldn’t it have been him? The man with actual ties to this town, who had buried his roots so deep he was willing to die to single-handedly face down a tyrant?
The noise of the cards snapping together, of the fire crackling softly, fills in the silence between them as Faraday watches her bridge the cards again. Then, quietly (and oh, so carefully), ]
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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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sometimes, she needs someone, and it's just plain harder to force herself through these nights pretending that she's fine. she's always appreciated the times faraday has woken her from less serious dreams, because she knows that it's been obvious when she's struggled, but...she's managed to keep him from witnessing this magnitude of night terror, and this has added a new level of reality to the seriousness of her nightmares.
she listens as he speaks, almost shocked that he's elaborating on the otherwise ignored concept. they were both vividly aware of the nightmares they each suffered, but they never delved into them, never talked about them, and she just keeps her eyes fixed on faraday, on his face. she takes in the way his lips move, the small changes in his expression, and the level of focus is soothing in its own odd way, like it gives her something to fixate on that doesn't happen to be the memories tugging at the back of her mind. she worries that if she sleeps again now, she'll just drop right back into the nightmares with little to no reprieve, and she can't face that yet.
not yet. ]
They do feel— so awfully real.
[ it's a quiet admission, and she can't quite look faraday in the eyes when she says it, even if he's also just copped to it. ]
Like I can't get away, and I just— I don't rightfully know what I ought to do.
[ she slides her hand up into her hair, letting her forehead fall against her knees. she feels helpless with these nightmares, because she has no control of them, no control of what her mind forces her to relive, and it's driving her to these miserable nights that often end with her staying awake until morning. ]
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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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much as emma struggled, she wasn't looking to die just yet. she spends so much of her time with a dead man, but she's still so tied to the world of the living, thank you kindly.
she gives a quiet, humorless laugh before lifting her head, leaning it back against the wall so she can stare at the ceiling. ]
I doubt I'd be much good at runnin' your way, anyhow.
[ she's not one to drown her demons in spirits, and, realistically, she knows that leaving rose creek won't chase off the nightmares any more than staying might.
she tips her chin to finally look back at faraday, her eyes holding that fierceness that's so entirely emma, but it's almost hollow, filled with exhaustion and the flickers of old ghosts instead of her usual fire. the nightmares stifle a part of her, because emma just does not do well feeling like she's lost. she needs to know where she stands, how to fix things, herself included, but these nightmares strike such a primal nerve inside of her that she can't grasp a solution.
she can't fix herself.
she keeps staring at him for a drawnout moment, and then a flash of an idea hit hers. she sits forward, sticking out her hand to him with determination. ]
Touch me.
[ it's a demand, leaving little room to question. the way he moves right through her when they make contact, it's so startling and cold and she reckons that that may startle her out of this exhaustion just enough that she won't be tempted to try closing her eyes all over again.
if it'll keep her awake, then the unpleasantness is worth it. that, or actually splash herself with ice water. ]
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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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but what it did do was wake her the hell up. ]
That's the point.
[ she doesn't reach for him, because she's actually trying to be polite about this (even if she's asking for something fairly strange). ]
Faraday, I touch you and I am wide awake. I have no desire to let myself accidentally drift into those dreams again tonight, so if you would kindly oblige me and simply touch my hand, I'd be mighty grateful. But if not, I'll find myself some cold water and try to do just about the same.
[ icy water will wake her up, sure, and while it's the closest thing she can associate with touching a ghost, it's not nearly as effective at making every inch of her feel alert. ]
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(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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there is it: that flash of desperate cold that she swears near freezes the blood in her veins, like her whole body has been dunked under a wintery lake, and despite the fact that it only lasts the briefest of moments, she's left wide-eyed and shivering.
well. she's sure awake now.
she pulls her hand back, gently gripping her arm and near hugging herself to ward off that flash of death her nerves seem to instinctively realize they've encountered. death and something not of this world: she supposes that's what faraday is, but it's only when she feels something like this that she remembers it.
she leans against the wall behind her bed, eyes far more alert as she looks at faraday now, some of those ghosts banished with her exhaustion. instead of a "thank you," she says instead: ]
You've– never been asked to hold a woman's hand before?
[ she feels a flicker of regret, then, that this is the manner in which he's held hers (if it could even be called that), and she's caught off guard by the odd ache in her chest that wishes she could have foregone the ghostly contact for something more substantial, like actually feeling faraday's hand on hers again.
(in better circumstances, maybe, than on the hill as he lay dying. she'd held his hand then, but that had been far different.)
...what an odd impulse that sure is. ]
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(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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she has the good grace to turn a little pink when he explains himself, but she shrugs it off dismissively. ]
I suppose that's a fair point.
[ from what she'd known of faraday before he'd died, she certainly wouldn't have expected him to be the kind of man to attempt courting a woman (not like matthew had been), so she supposes she understands, but...she'd greatly enjoyed that sort of simple contact from her husband; it's such a basic way to show affection, and there was something soothing about it. ]
But I wouldn't say that's the only time you'd held my hand — though by that count, neither circumstance has been especially ideal.
[ while he was dying or while he fades right through her: what strange moments, she decides, shaking the thought away.
reaching for her blankets, she gathers them up to wrap around her shoulders, bundle up a tad. the house itself is cold, on account of the fire burning far lower, and the leftover chills she feels from faraday's touch warrant the extra layers. tucking it all around herself, she watches him from her makeshift nest of bedclothes; she looks awake now, something she's grateful for, and she doesn't feel near as close to drifting off out of sheer exhaustion again. ]
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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?
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emma scoffs slightly at the word, as if possibly defining either moment in such a way is absurd to her.
by no stretch of the imagination would she call either instance "intimate," but she finds a strange sense of similarity in seeking an anchor out of the contact. he'd clung to her hand like it was the only rock in an ortherwise brutal, unrepentant storm, and emma had sought means by which to ground herself, even if that had been in faraday's touch (or lack thereof). unpleasant as the sensation may have been, it had given her an anchor of her own, forcefully rooting her in the reality of the moment because now? she didn't feel the same tug of her nightmares; the forceful drag of sleep is momentarily gone, and she knows it's her body's way of responding to something that it can't understand.
but that's rightfully better than drifting off without meaning to and spending hours more in bright and hellish dreams. it may not be death that she seeks to tether herself from, but faraday had provided a much needed anchor to the waking world, and she's beyond grateful for it.
as he starts to rise, she nods, resting her chin on her knees. ]
I'd be much obliged if you'd see to it.
[ she appreciates it, because she still doesn't feel that she's ready to get her feet under her. she glances towards his face again, her expression not quite troubled, but thoughtful. ]
Also.
[ she hesitates, then sighs softly. ]
I apologize if I overstepped my bounds asking that of you - to touch me, I mean.
[ it had helped, certainly, but she'd seen the look on his face, knew that the reminder of what he is was not a pleasant one. ]
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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?
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Fair enough.
[ talking much about these sorts of situations isn't her forte, and she's far likelier to let it lie than continue prodding him — partially to avoid her own line of thoughts about the matter. it's still so surreal to have him effectively living with her ("living"), but ghost that he is, he's still more of a person than she'd otherwise have around her so often.
it's nice, she realizes, to not feel so alone (not that she'll admit that aloud to him). ]
Faraday.
[ she shifts forward, some of the blankets falling from around her shoulders as the room starts to warm. ]
Since I'm now fairly awake—
[ incredibly awake. ]
—might I take you up on that offer to show me those trick shuffles of yours?
[ not so she can actually play poker or indulge of any of his other vices, but it's admittedly fascinating to watch his hands move with the cards.
(and it's also something to keep her busy while it's still the dead of night.) ]
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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?
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Mister Faraday, you know all too well I've no need for that sort of business — and I would hardly measure card shufflin' as an influence.
[ she tacks the "mister" on as a means of teasing him, these days, less so out of propriety. ]
But I've always been awful fascinated by the way you move the cards.
[ it's impressive, no matter what he uses it for, and what better way to while away the dark evening hours than practicing a skill? she certainly can't go out to shoot, after all, so this is something, and it's something that includes faraday. ]
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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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[ people tended to get awful steamed when they realize they've been cheated, and on top of emma's genuine nature, she's not sure it would ever sit right with her to purposefully trick others out of their money.
it's just not in her.
she watches faraday shuffle the cards, over and over, until he produces the king of hearts, yet again. her eyebrows raise, and though she's seen him do it multiple times, it still impresses her (even more so now when she finds herself struck by the reality of what he is and that he can still interact with the cards like this). odd, she decides, but she can't find an explanation for his existence on its own, let alone why he can pick up the cards like he's just as corporeal as she is. ]
Now, how did you do that?
[ because this? for hustling or not, this catches her attention. ]
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Once again, I feel the need to inform you that this is the only time I've ever acquiesced to answerin' a question like that. A magician never reveals his secrets, on pain of death.
But seein' as how I'm already colder than a wagon wheel...
[ He puts the King of Hearts back on top of the deck, face up so it's easier for Emma to track. He does the same shuffle – slower this time. Two halves riffled together, then bridged, only he pauses this time, turns his hands slightly to reveal the two halves haven't quite settled together, their long edges not quite flush. A clever cut partially concealed by his hands separates the unsettled halves, putting the packet with the King of Hearts back on top once again. The cards haven't been shuffled at all.
The three cuts he makes after that are little more than smoke and mirrors; a fancy sort of rearrangement in his hands, moving and twisting and spinning the packets of cards from one side to the other – but sure enough, the King of Hearts ends right back on top.
He flicks the suicide king onto the bed again, making a flourish with his free hand and dipping his head in a truncated bow. ]
Your card.
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[ with the second shuffle, she watches without taking her eyes off of the motion of the cards. it's far easier to track when he slows it for her, and she realizes where the card is going this time. she's trying to memorize how he moves the halves of the deck, how he's mindful of the selected card, keeping it effective separated until he produces it all over again.
an amused smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and she picks up the king, brushing her thumb across the face of the card, before looking back up at faraday. ]
Still mightily impressive, Faraday. How did you learn this yourself?
[ she holds the card back out to him, figuring she could do with another demonstration before she tries to do it herself (which will inevitably be a bit embarrassing, trying to adjust to it). ]
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Tried hustlin' the wrong man, one night.
[ He performs the shuffle again at the same speed – the false riffle, the false cuts, but he speaks as he does it. Something close to his usual magician's patter, speaking as a distraction, weaving words to redirect the eyes. ]
When I was young, didn't know too well how to swindle folks. Thought keepin' a face card or two in my pocket was clever, and it worked— see how I keep the cards separate here? You gotta twist 'em a little while you make the bridge.
Anyway. Played a game one night, won a couple hands 'fore another man stepped in, took the place'a' some poor bastards who'd called it quits. Swept us all clean, had this grin on his face the whole time.
[ He starts the shuffle again from the top, the movements slow and smooth. ]
Turns out, he'd been swindlin' folks longer'n I'd been alive. Guess he thought it was funny, the way I was ploddin' my way through the games and still comin' out on top, so he took me under his wing. Showed me a few things.
[ With a final flourish, the suicide king arrives back on top of the deck, and Faraday flips the card face down back on top of the deck. He places the entire deck on the bed between them – less risk of accidental contact, that way – and gestures to the cards. He smiles a little in challenge. ]
You ever shuffle cards before? Can't imagine a fine, upstandin' lady like you ever comin' in touch with such sinful things.
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a good thing they have hours until sunrise, then.
he sets down the cards, and emma finally glances up again, catching the challenge in his smile — something she's all too familiar with coming from him. she doesn't say a single thing as she reaches out for the cards, runs her finger along the sides. she makes a bit of a show at first of carefully splitting the deck, thumbing the corners like she's trying to adjust her hold properly...
...and then she neatly riffles the cards together, pushes them into a high arch, and lets them quickly cascade back into a stack in the flat of her fingers. ]
I'm sure it goes somethin' like that.
[ she tries not to smile as she looks back up at faraday, quirking her eyebrow just slightly at him.
spending a great deal of time traveling, looking for a place to settle down with others in rose creek, there had been many a night where there was little to nothing to do. she wasn't one for poker, never had a taste for gambling or the habit of betting money, but other games? it was a means to while away the hours, and after watching the men shuffling the cards, it had become something for her to practice, to keep her hands busy.
just by nature of being a woman, she hadn't let that deter her from participation. ]
Nothin' sinful about a deck of cards, Faraday. It's rather what you'd do with them than the nature of their existence.
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As the cards snap back into a pile in her hands, Faraday blinks, eyebrows lifting a little. That was— surprisingly good. Much better than he had expected, honestly, and for a second, the surprise stands naked on his face. It disappears the second she glances up, though, with that cheeky little not-smile of hers, and he responds with a bit of a flat look – the same kind of look they offer when the other is being particularly irksome. ]
Fine, fine, that’s one less thing I gotta teach you, then.
Start with the trick bridge, then.
[ It’s a little harder to demonstrate without the cards in his own hands, but he does his best, explaining how to twist the cards a little so that when the cards fall back into place, the long edges of the two halves don’t lie flush together. ]
Who taught you how to shuffle, anyhow? Can’t imagine it’s a skill very many women have.
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she looks up to faraday again once she's done it, finally replying, ]
Matthew.
[ she holds the deck carefully for the next step, her expression only slightly more distant. thinking about her now-dead husband would do that, because in reality, she didn't bring him up often, didn't like the reminder. he was on her mind regularly enough that she didn't much feel a need to draw him into her conversations — and it still aches a bit to remember that he's in the town's cemetery, rather than her bed tonight. ]
When we were travelin' to come here, some nights he'd be playing cards with the other men. Hearts and the like. I asked him to show me, and he did. Simple as that.
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And very rarely, Faraday wonders why it wasn’t Matthew.
The thought never lasts very long, considering how little he knew of the man. Teddy Q had mentioned a thing or two, but never much. The sting of loss was still too fresh, Faraday figured, and he never cared to press. But of all of them, shouldn’t it have been him? The man with actual ties to this town, who had buried his roots so deep he was willing to die to single-handedly face down a tyrant?
The noise of the cards snapping together, of the fire crackling softly, fills in the silence between them as Faraday watches her bridge the cards again. Then, quietly (and oh, so carefully), ]
Did he teach you to play, too?
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