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[ Joshua Faraday is a Baptist in name only.
That is, he's a God-fearing man, to an extent. Knows quite a bit about sin, about vices, about how many of those Ten Commandments he's broken, time and time again. He knows there's a Heaven, that there's a Hell, and that he's most certainly destined for one of those – three guesses as to which. And that one day, when the right bullet finds him, he'll take that plunge.
Turns out, it's not one bullet but a half dozen that do him in. But at least he got to blow something up.
Death had been— terrifying. Painful. About the worst thing he had ever experienced, but— he wasn't alone. He had Emma holding his hand, shepherding him through to the other side, and that was a blessing. That was a miracle in itself, that a miserable bastard like him would warrant the attention of a kind woman like Emma Cullen.
The angel ushering warriors to their afterlife. Valkyries, he remembers. They were called Valkyries.
But remembering is— hard. He feels a flash of it, every now and again, like his mind focuses long enough that he can think, that he's actually Josh Faraday, and then he's gone. Like he's a droplet on a window pane, collecting bits of himself as he's pulled downward, splitting when he hits some imperfection. It's— it's hard. It's difficult.
Then sometimes, it's not. Sometimes, there's a flash, and he sees a sun-drenched street, sees men and women alike, carrying tools and wood. Bandaged men, the freshly wounded, hobbling around the porches of buildings and doing their best to pitch in, hammering planks to walls, painting over scorch marks with pristine white paint. Sees children laughing and playing and suffering the lectures of their school-ma'am. Sees a familiar flash of red hair. He wonders if she smiles, these days, if she—
And then he's gone.
It's probably three months later before he's aware again, that he's Faraday again, and he finds himself standing against the wall of a familiar saloon, the mood somber but so much lighter than he had ever seen it before. He spots a fresh bottle of gin sitting on a table and feels a peculiar sort of longing, like he hasn't had anything to drink in ages, though he feels no thirst. A woman with a pitcher passes directly in front of him, and he asks, "How much for a drink?"
She ignores him completely, and before he can complain, he scatters.
It happens faster and faster, after that; instead of three months, it's two months later, appearing in an empty field, where men and horses and a wagon stood. Then one month later, near a dead tree, where he remembers talking about nightmares and reaching a silly agreement about names, of all things. Then two weeks, sitting on one of the chairs on the saloon's porch – completely disregarded, though he speaks to the other patrons, louder and louder and louder, but he disappears just as he's about to start hollering. Then one, standing in front of the church and thinking, "What the hell is happening?" The preacher's steps crunch in the gravel behind him, and he turns, reaches out to grab hold of the man, except—
Faraday's hand passes through him, and the preacher continues forward, none the wiser.
And he's gone once again.
A few days later, and he finds himself up the path from Emma Cullen's house at around sundown, sitting in the dirt with his face buried in his hands, because— he doesn't know what this is. He doesn't know what he is. It feels like some terrible dream, and if he just waits, maybe he'll finally wake up from it. ]
That is, he's a God-fearing man, to an extent. Knows quite a bit about sin, about vices, about how many of those Ten Commandments he's broken, time and time again. He knows there's a Heaven, that there's a Hell, and that he's most certainly destined for one of those – three guesses as to which. And that one day, when the right bullet finds him, he'll take that plunge.
Turns out, it's not one bullet but a half dozen that do him in. But at least he got to blow something up.
Death had been— terrifying. Painful. About the worst thing he had ever experienced, but— he wasn't alone. He had Emma holding his hand, shepherding him through to the other side, and that was a blessing. That was a miracle in itself, that a miserable bastard like him would warrant the attention of a kind woman like Emma Cullen.
The angel ushering warriors to their afterlife. Valkyries, he remembers. They were called Valkyries.
But remembering is— hard. He feels a flash of it, every now and again, like his mind focuses long enough that he can think, that he's actually Josh Faraday, and then he's gone. Like he's a droplet on a window pane, collecting bits of himself as he's pulled downward, splitting when he hits some imperfection. It's— it's hard. It's difficult.
Then sometimes, it's not. Sometimes, there's a flash, and he sees a sun-drenched street, sees men and women alike, carrying tools and wood. Bandaged men, the freshly wounded, hobbling around the porches of buildings and doing their best to pitch in, hammering planks to walls, painting over scorch marks with pristine white paint. Sees children laughing and playing and suffering the lectures of their school-ma'am. Sees a familiar flash of red hair. He wonders if she smiles, these days, if she—
And then he's gone.
It's probably three months later before he's aware again, that he's Faraday again, and he finds himself standing against the wall of a familiar saloon, the mood somber but so much lighter than he had ever seen it before. He spots a fresh bottle of gin sitting on a table and feels a peculiar sort of longing, like he hasn't had anything to drink in ages, though he feels no thirst. A woman with a pitcher passes directly in front of him, and he asks, "How much for a drink?"
She ignores him completely, and before he can complain, he scatters.
It happens faster and faster, after that; instead of three months, it's two months later, appearing in an empty field, where men and horses and a wagon stood. Then one month later, near a dead tree, where he remembers talking about nightmares and reaching a silly agreement about names, of all things. Then two weeks, sitting on one of the chairs on the saloon's porch – completely disregarded, though he speaks to the other patrons, louder and louder and louder, but he disappears just as he's about to start hollering. Then one, standing in front of the church and thinking, "What the hell is happening?" The preacher's steps crunch in the gravel behind him, and he turns, reaches out to grab hold of the man, except—
Faraday's hand passes through him, and the preacher continues forward, none the wiser.
And he's gone once again.
A few days later, and he finds himself up the path from Emma Cullen's house at around sundown, sitting in the dirt with his face buried in his hands, because— he doesn't know what this is. He doesn't know what he is. It feels like some terrible dream, and if he just waits, maybe he'll finally wake up from it. ]
[ it's almost surreal how easily rose creek falls back into its own sense of normalcy. they won their freedom from bogue, dumped his body in an unmarked, unmourned grave (even if that's more grace than he deserved), and moved on. oppositely, the men who gave their lives have been properly buried, added to the exponentially larger cemetery of the town — while the four of the seven whose bodies were laid to rest were given a well-honored place on the hillside, their names carved into wooden crosses in a gesture of reverence.
they wouldn't be forgotten — not by rose creek, and certainly not by emma.
she still goes to faraday's grave almost every sunday after church, leaves all four a handful of flowers and dusts off the markers to keep them clean. it's the least she can do, she rationalizes, because while they deserve so much more, it's everything she can offer.
she so often and so vividly relives that day, the fight, and her last moments with faraday, usually at night when she's trying to fall asleep, because she truly has traded her old ghosts for new ones. matthew— matthew has seen justice, and she no longer feels haunted by his memory, even if occasionally she'll wake, reaching for the empty half of her too-big bed. but despite that, she doesn't feel plagued the way she had, because she's had her righteousness and she's had her revenge.
and then there's faraday. joshua. the final minutes together when he'd given her his name and used her own while he slowly bled out in the grass— she sees that often in her dreams. she knows that she can't feel responsible for his death, because it's not like she's failed him, that she could have truly prevented it, but he had been there in rose creek because of her and her quest for justice.
she'd gotten it, certainly, but at quite a price.
sometimes, she thinks she catches glimpses of him outside of her dreams. it's quick, brief, and always not-quite-there, but there's still a short moment that her heart leaps in excitement — and then she turns to look, and quickly realizes that it must be her overactive imagination.
faraday is gone, after all. he died right in front of her, she helped put him in the ground, and she knows there's no coming back from this.
life goes on, like it has to, like it always will, but she still wishes things could have gone differently.
it's been nearly half a year since rose creek took on bogue, nearly half a year of living with her new ghosts, and in the falling evening light, emma comes home to find a strange figure sitting on the ground near her house. she pauses mid-step, frowning as she pulls a small shawl tighter around her shoulders. she can't see his face, obscured as it is by his hands, but there's something familiar about him in the dying light. ]
Are you needin' some help there?
they wouldn't be forgotten — not by rose creek, and certainly not by emma.
she still goes to faraday's grave almost every sunday after church, leaves all four a handful of flowers and dusts off the markers to keep them clean. it's the least she can do, she rationalizes, because while they deserve so much more, it's everything she can offer.
she so often and so vividly relives that day, the fight, and her last moments with faraday, usually at night when she's trying to fall asleep, because she truly has traded her old ghosts for new ones. matthew— matthew has seen justice, and she no longer feels haunted by his memory, even if occasionally she'll wake, reaching for the empty half of her too-big bed. but despite that, she doesn't feel plagued the way she had, because she's had her righteousness and she's had her revenge.
and then there's faraday. joshua. the final minutes together when he'd given her his name and used her own while he slowly bled out in the grass— she sees that often in her dreams. she knows that she can't feel responsible for his death, because it's not like she's failed him, that she could have truly prevented it, but he had been there in rose creek because of her and her quest for justice.
she'd gotten it, certainly, but at quite a price.
sometimes, she thinks she catches glimpses of him outside of her dreams. it's quick, brief, and always not-quite-there, but there's still a short moment that her heart leaps in excitement — and then she turns to look, and quickly realizes that it must be her overactive imagination.
faraday is gone, after all. he died right in front of her, she helped put him in the ground, and she knows there's no coming back from this.
life goes on, like it has to, like it always will, but she still wishes things could have gone differently.
it's been nearly half a year since rose creek took on bogue, nearly half a year of living with her new ghosts, and in the falling evening light, emma comes home to find a strange figure sitting on the ground near her house. she pauses mid-step, frowning as she pulls a small shawl tighter around her shoulders. she can't see his face, obscured as it is by his hands, but there's something familiar about him in the dying light. ]
Are you needin' some help there?
[ 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. ]
(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. ]
[ the moment faraday lifts his head to look at her, emma stops cold; her expression goes slack, eyes widening impossibly as she stumbles backwards a step. this goes far and beyond her nightmares or the flickers of her imagination, because here he is, directly in front of her, while she's wide awake. she presses trembling fingers to her lips as he speaks, and she tells herself she must be going insane; ghosts don't exist, ghosts don't talk to the living, and she knows, knows there's no way he could truly be here.
faraday is as dead as he could possibly get, but— but he's talking to her, and before she can even think to manage a response...
...he disappears.
the ground where he sat looks wholly undisturbed, affected only by the soft light of the evening sun, and there's just—nothing. nothing at all.
emma is left shaking and confused, quickly walking past the spot where moments ago he'd said her name, and she barricades herself in her home for the rest of the night.
she doesn't know if she should look for him again or pretend that it had never happened, but when she leaves again the next day, everything seems exactly as it was, nothing different, nothing strange.
...maybe she is going insane.
deciding to pretend that it was just exhaustion setting in, that it was a brief moment of grief combined with a long day, she tries not to think about the encounter (as much as she can).
however, despite all of this, she still goes to the graves every sunday.
she brings flowers again as she climbs the grassy hill. the breeze gently whips her hair across her face, obscuring her view of the markers until she reaches the top, until she can push the brilliant red locks from her face to see a figure already standing by the cross.
again, she doesn't see his face, not until she steps closer, gets a better look and then— no.
not again.
she drops the flowers without realizing it, and she can't even move for a moment. ]
What— are you?
[ it's all she can ask, all she can manage. ]
faraday is as dead as he could possibly get, but— but he's talking to her, and before she can even think to manage a response...
...he disappears.
the ground where he sat looks wholly undisturbed, affected only by the soft light of the evening sun, and there's just—nothing. nothing at all.
emma is left shaking and confused, quickly walking past the spot where moments ago he'd said her name, and she barricades herself in her home for the rest of the night.
she doesn't know if she should look for him again or pretend that it had never happened, but when she leaves again the next day, everything seems exactly as it was, nothing different, nothing strange.
...maybe she is going insane.
deciding to pretend that it was just exhaustion setting in, that it was a brief moment of grief combined with a long day, she tries not to think about the encounter (as much as she can).
however, despite all of this, she still goes to the graves every sunday.
she brings flowers again as she climbs the grassy hill. the breeze gently whips her hair across her face, obscuring her view of the markers until she reaches the top, until she can push the brilliant red locks from her face to see a figure already standing by the cross.
again, she doesn't see his face, not until she steps closer, gets a better look and then— no.
not again.
she drops the flowers without realizing it, and she can't even move for a moment. ]
What— are you?
[ it's all she can ask, all she can manage. ]
[ The sound of the wind through the grass and the trees masks her approach, this time, as he stares down at the four markers. Billy. Goodnight. Jack. Poor bastards, he thinks. Billy and Goodnight couldn’t have gone too long before or after him, he thinks. He faintly recalls hearing Goodnight’s whoops at his back, his war cry, wonders if that’s how he sounded during the war, too. Horne, though – he wonders what got him. Wonders if he found any peace, wonders if he’s with that family he talked about all those ages ago.
And then Emma’s voice is at his back, and he whips around, startled – and that would have rarely happened in life, to be taken so off-guard. These days, or at least the brief snippets of days when he’s enough of himself to think, his mind is beset with unraveling this mystery.
So when she asks, what are you?, all he can croak out is, ]
I— I don’t know, myself.
[ Admittedly, he wasn’t doing a very good job at solving this particular puzzle. He knows what he should be (dead), knows what he most certainly is not (alive), but he has yet to put a pin on what he is.
His gaze flits down to the bundle of flowers at her feet, to the shock written across every inch of her face, and that warm little flicker licks in his chest again. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, though he’s reluctant to let it show, afraid to suffer disappointment again. ]
But you can see me, can’t you? [ Then, a touch desperately, ] Tell me you can see me.
And then Emma’s voice is at his back, and he whips around, startled – and that would have rarely happened in life, to be taken so off-guard. These days, or at least the brief snippets of days when he’s enough of himself to think, his mind is beset with unraveling this mystery.
So when she asks, what are you?, all he can croak out is, ]
I— I don’t know, myself.
[ Admittedly, he wasn’t doing a very good job at solving this particular puzzle. He knows what he should be (dead), knows what he most certainly is not (alive), but he has yet to put a pin on what he is.
His gaze flits down to the bundle of flowers at her feet, to the shock written across every inch of her face, and that warm little flicker licks in his chest again. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, though he’s reluctant to let it show, afraid to suffer disappointment again. ]
But you can see me, can’t you? [ Then, a touch desperately, ] Tell me you can see me.
[ oh lord, he's talking to her. responding to her. she's trying to steady herself, make sense of what's going on, but when a dead man is standing before her, plain as day, while she's surely wide awake, there's no way to explain it.
not in any rational manner. ]
Of c-course I can see you.
[ he looks just as clear and alive as he had months ago, before he'd taken those bullets to the chest, before they'd buried him six feet deep. ]
And I— god almighty, I must be losin' my mind.
[ she looks away from him, like she expects he'll vanish in the space of a heartbeat, like it can't truly be real if she doesn't see him. this has to be a cruel trick her mind has conjured up in an effort to fix his death, she thinks, to make it like he'd never even been gone, because the other options...well.
emma cullen has never been a woman to believe in ghosts.
swallowing around the building trepidation, emma tries to compose herself; it wouldn't do her any good to fall apart in front of something so inexplicable. she takes a slow breath, her fingers curling at her side as she forces herself to turn her eyes up, to just look at faraday, really take him in. ]
You're dead. [ her words are slow, careful. ] I saw you die, Faraday.
not in any rational manner. ]
Of c-course I can see you.
[ he looks just as clear and alive as he had months ago, before he'd taken those bullets to the chest, before they'd buried him six feet deep. ]
And I— god almighty, I must be losin' my mind.
[ she looks away from him, like she expects he'll vanish in the space of a heartbeat, like it can't truly be real if she doesn't see him. this has to be a cruel trick her mind has conjured up in an effort to fix his death, she thinks, to make it like he'd never even been gone, because the other options...well.
emma cullen has never been a woman to believe in ghosts.
swallowing around the building trepidation, emma tries to compose herself; it wouldn't do her any good to fall apart in front of something so inexplicable. she takes a slow breath, her fingers curling at her side as she forces herself to turn her eyes up, to just look at faraday, really take him in. ]
You're dead. [ her words are slow, careful. ] I saw you die, Faraday.
[ Relief washes over him, when she answers in the affirmative – a feeling so palpable it might as well be an ocean wave. Tension drains from his frame and he exhales sharply – which is a funny thing, considering he has no need for breath – and falls back a step. One person, then. One person for whom he’s real. That’s something. ]
Don’t think any else can, save you. Can’t hear me, neither. Might as well be a window, for all that people been lookin’ through me.
[ But apparently he spoke too soon, and when she looks away, he feels unease coil in his chest, sharp as any bullet could be. For a moment that would have stopped his heart (if he had a heart to beat), he wonders if she means to turn away, to ignore him as fully as the others in town. And that would surely drive him as mad as she fears she is.
Another bit of relief when she looks at him (at him, and that hope sings through him again), though the relief is short-lived, given her words. His gaze drops to the dropped flowers, to the four white crosses and the wilted flowers sitting at the foot of each marker. ]
I remember dyin’, Miss Emma. [ Snappish, defensive, though he doesn’t rightly know why. And oh, how quickly they forget the small allowance they had granted each other of their given names. ] But I’m here now, ain’t I?
[ He spins on his heel to face his grave, the tidy little headstone bearing his name, and kneels down. Hesitantly, he reaches out his hand, shrinking back just before touching it, and with one impatient huff to steel his nerves, he pushes forward.
His hand passes through to the other side of the cross, fingers stretching as if to prove a point, and he looks over his shoulder at her. He scowls. ]
I sure as hell ain’t alive, though. That much is for damn certain.
Don’t think any else can, save you. Can’t hear me, neither. Might as well be a window, for all that people been lookin’ through me.
[ But apparently he spoke too soon, and when she looks away, he feels unease coil in his chest, sharp as any bullet could be. For a moment that would have stopped his heart (if he had a heart to beat), he wonders if she means to turn away, to ignore him as fully as the others in town. And that would surely drive him as mad as she fears she is.
Another bit of relief when she looks at him (at him, and that hope sings through him again), though the relief is short-lived, given her words. His gaze drops to the dropped flowers, to the four white crosses and the wilted flowers sitting at the foot of each marker. ]
I remember dyin’, Miss Emma. [ Snappish, defensive, though he doesn’t rightly know why. And oh, how quickly they forget the small allowance they had granted each other of their given names. ] But I’m here now, ain’t I?
[ He spins on his heel to face his grave, the tidy little headstone bearing his name, and kneels down. Hesitantly, he reaches out his hand, shrinking back just before touching it, and with one impatient huff to steel his nerves, he pushes forward.
His hand passes through to the other side of the cross, fingers stretching as if to prove a point, and he looks over his shoulder at her. He scowls. ]
I sure as hell ain’t alive, though. That much is for damn certain.
[ emma is too uneasy, too startled to use his given name right now; she doesn't know how to process what's before her, but it's hard to deny that he's there, right in front of her very eyes.
she can hear the change in his voice, and through all of the shock and confusion, she realizes that...perhaps this is just as startling for him. if he's not some trick her mind is playing, if this isn't a dream, then he must be as lost as she is — maybe even more so. he's the one who's changed, after all.
it bothers her that apparently no one else in the town can see him; she wonders if that adds credence to her concerns of madness, because if she's the only one who knows he's there, could it just be her? ]
But you're sure somethin'.
[ steeling herself, she steps closer to him as he kneels before his own cross, his name carved clear as day to show the world who's been laid to rest on that hill. (and at least it's a real grave, a properly marked place, because despite everything joshua faraday had been in life, the people of rose creek would never have left him to rot, and emma certainly wouldn't have let him go unremembered.) ]
...if no one else can see you, how am I to know this is real? That you're actually here?
[ her voice isn't accusatory, more...cautious, and a little frightened. this is so far beyond the realm of her understanding, and she doesn't have even the slightest idea where to start trying to grasp what's going on.
part of her wants to reach out and touch him, like that might help explain something, but given what happened with the cross, she's afraid of going right through him. she holds back instead, but she takes a few more steps forward, until she stands directly beside him, looking down at the marker. ]
I'm not askin' because I don't want to believe it. I just—
[ she pauses before continuing. ]
It's just I had thought that I— that I'd accepted I wouldn't be seeing you again.
[ she'd seen him in her nightmares, even in some of the more pleasant dreams, but this...this is worlds away from that. ]
she can hear the change in his voice, and through all of the shock and confusion, she realizes that...perhaps this is just as startling for him. if he's not some trick her mind is playing, if this isn't a dream, then he must be as lost as she is — maybe even more so. he's the one who's changed, after all.
it bothers her that apparently no one else in the town can see him; she wonders if that adds credence to her concerns of madness, because if she's the only one who knows he's there, could it just be her? ]
But you're sure somethin'.
[ steeling herself, she steps closer to him as he kneels before his own cross, his name carved clear as day to show the world who's been laid to rest on that hill. (and at least it's a real grave, a properly marked place, because despite everything joshua faraday had been in life, the people of rose creek would never have left him to rot, and emma certainly wouldn't have let him go unremembered.) ]
...if no one else can see you, how am I to know this is real? That you're actually here?
[ her voice isn't accusatory, more...cautious, and a little frightened. this is so far beyond the realm of her understanding, and she doesn't have even the slightest idea where to start trying to grasp what's going on.
part of her wants to reach out and touch him, like that might help explain something, but given what happened with the cross, she's afraid of going right through him. she holds back instead, but she takes a few more steps forward, until she stands directly beside him, looking down at the marker. ]
I'm not askin' because I don't want to believe it. I just—
[ she pauses before continuing. ]
It's just I had thought that I— that I'd accepted I wouldn't be seeing you again.
[ she'd seen him in her nightmares, even in some of the more pleasant dreams, but this...this is worlds away from that. ]
[ He yanks his arm away from the marker and falls back to sit heavily in the dirt – not that the dirt seems to care overly much, considering how undisturbed it is, how little noise he makes. Not even a speck falls out of place, and that should bother him, except his mind is focused on other things, right now. The impossibility of all of this. The possibility that this brief reprieve from his loneliness might end all too soon, if she chooses to ignore him and pretend he was a figment of her imagination.
If he were in her shoes, he probably would do the same. Or else he would drink and drink and drink until he believed any and all the voices and images he saw.
A weird mess of feelings churns in his chest. Fear and anger and uncertainty, made all the worse when he realizes he doesn’t have an answer for any of her questions. How the hell can he prove he’s real, when anything he does or says can be written off as some kind of madness or trick of the mind? He’s still not entirely sure, himself, if he’s some dream or not.
She continues on, though, steps up beside him, and that gives him pause, makes his lips draw into a thin line. Reluctantly, he looks up at her (and he should squint, except the sun beating down on his face doesn’t bother him as much as it should), and his loss for words shows in his eyes. ]
Well, then.
[ Gruffly, slowly, gaze searching her face. ]
Suppose that makes two of us.
[ He didn’t know what he expected to see at the end of it all. Golden light or hellfire, angels or devils – a slowly recovering Rose Creek, a slowly recovering Emma Cullen never factored in. It’s a relief, in a way; he suspects eternal peace or eternal damnation would have both driven him insane. ]
I dunno how to prove— [ He stops and gestures helplessly to himself, to the headstone. ] —this. Only thing I know is I’m here, after a fashion. And that you’re the only one who’s taken any notice.
If he were in her shoes, he probably would do the same. Or else he would drink and drink and drink until he believed any and all the voices and images he saw.
A weird mess of feelings churns in his chest. Fear and anger and uncertainty, made all the worse when he realizes he doesn’t have an answer for any of her questions. How the hell can he prove he’s real, when anything he does or says can be written off as some kind of madness or trick of the mind? He’s still not entirely sure, himself, if he’s some dream or not.
She continues on, though, steps up beside him, and that gives him pause, makes his lips draw into a thin line. Reluctantly, he looks up at her (and he should squint, except the sun beating down on his face doesn’t bother him as much as it should), and his loss for words shows in his eyes. ]
Well, then.
[ Gruffly, slowly, gaze searching her face. ]
Suppose that makes two of us.
[ He didn’t know what he expected to see at the end of it all. Golden light or hellfire, angels or devils – a slowly recovering Rose Creek, a slowly recovering Emma Cullen never factored in. It’s a relief, in a way; he suspects eternal peace or eternal damnation would have both driven him insane. ]
I dunno how to prove— [ He stops and gestures helplessly to himself, to the headstone. ] —this. Only thing I know is I’m here, after a fashion. And that you’re the only one who’s taken any notice.
[ when his eyes turn up to her face, she meets his gaze, this time, refusing to look away. she's confused, frightened, even, but for faraday to find himself suddenly invisible in the world he'd known before, to fade in and out of existence and never truly be seen? that must be his own kind of hell.
carefully, still considering him, she slowly lowers herself down into the grass to kneel beside him. hands clasped in her lap, her eyes are filled with apprehension, but they still hold that special kind of unflappable determination emma has near perfected. she doesn't know what this is, if it's even real, but she's never been the sort of woman to turn away from something just because it's frightening. (she'd seen things through to the very end with bogue, after all, and that had been all manner of terrifying — so why shouldn't she do the same for faraday?) ]
Have you been here this entire time? Since you— since everything ended?
[ had he just been flickering in and out of the periphery of the town's consciousness, appearing and disappearing and all the while going unseen?
...did that mean that all the times she'd thought she'd caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye— that was real? ]
And how long do you...stay like this?
[ because the last time she'd seen him, he'd been gone just as quickly as he'd appeared; something doesn't sit right with her over the idea that she'd catch these brief moments with him, only to watch him vanish before she can even breathe.
she wonders if this is nearly worse than knowing he's at peace. even with the finality of death, it had been with the knowledge that she wouldn't see him again because she couldn't, but this? hearing his voice, being near him, it reminds her all over again of the ache that came with having to say goodbye in the first place. ]
I— [ she stops herself, going quiet.
i'm glad to see you.
is that even what she means to say? is it something she ought to say?
no, she decides. in case this really is just a trick of her mind, it may be best not to let herself truly feel like this is similar to seeing him alive again. ]
carefully, still considering him, she slowly lowers herself down into the grass to kneel beside him. hands clasped in her lap, her eyes are filled with apprehension, but they still hold that special kind of unflappable determination emma has near perfected. she doesn't know what this is, if it's even real, but she's never been the sort of woman to turn away from something just because it's frightening. (she'd seen things through to the very end with bogue, after all, and that had been all manner of terrifying — so why shouldn't she do the same for faraday?) ]
Have you been here this entire time? Since you— since everything ended?
[ had he just been flickering in and out of the periphery of the town's consciousness, appearing and disappearing and all the while going unseen?
...did that mean that all the times she'd thought she'd caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye— that was real? ]
And how long do you...stay like this?
[ because the last time she'd seen him, he'd been gone just as quickly as he'd appeared; something doesn't sit right with her over the idea that she'd catch these brief moments with him, only to watch him vanish before she can even breathe.
she wonders if this is nearly worse than knowing he's at peace. even with the finality of death, it had been with the knowledge that she wouldn't see him again because she couldn't, but this? hearing his voice, being near him, it reminds her all over again of the ache that came with having to say goodbye in the first place. ]
I— [ she stops herself, going quiet.
i'm glad to see you.
is that even what she means to say? is it something she ought to say?
no, she decides. in case this really is just a trick of her mind, it may be best not to let herself truly feel like this is similar to seeing him alive again. ]
[ It’s a comfort, when she settles in beside him, even though the nervousness in her eyes shines as clear as a beacon. He can’t blame her, really, considering what he is – whatever the hell that might be.
He always did appreciate that about her, the way she could grapple with her fear as easily as holding down a mewling kitten. Saw it the first time, when she slept in the company of wanted criminals and murderers in stark defiance of common sense. Saw it again as she practiced with her rifle, her revolver, proclaimed that she would be fighting alongside them to defend her home.
If it could only be one person that saw him, he’s damn happy it’s Emma.
And he’s glad when she asks different questions – things he can actually answer. ]
… In a sense. [ In response to, “have you been here the entire time?”
They’re not good answers, but they’re answers, nevertheless. ]
‘S like— [ He frowns, reaches over to the wilted flowers on his gravestone, just to do something with his hands, before thinking better of it, remembering he can’t actually touch anything. ] I’m here, sometimes. And then I’m— not. Like fallin’ asleep and wakin’ up. Pretty sure it wasn’t too long after…
[ He swallows, jerks his chin toward the small cross, as if to say, You know. ]
Then I kept comin’ back. A few seconds, then a few minutes. Shorter naps between, longer time awake.
[ A pause, as he presses his lips together. ]
Dunno how much longer I’ve got here, to tell you the truth.
[ He drags his gaze away from the cross at her false start, frowning at her, wondering what she meant to say. More disbelief, he reckons. Some quiet murmur about losing her mind. Can’t blame her, in either case. He chews on his lower lip for a quick second before trying for a smile, trying to force some brightness in his voice. ]
What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.
He always did appreciate that about her, the way she could grapple with her fear as easily as holding down a mewling kitten. Saw it the first time, when she slept in the company of wanted criminals and murderers in stark defiance of common sense. Saw it again as she practiced with her rifle, her revolver, proclaimed that she would be fighting alongside them to defend her home.
If it could only be one person that saw him, he’s damn happy it’s Emma.
And he’s glad when she asks different questions – things he can actually answer. ]
… In a sense. [ In response to, “have you been here the entire time?”
They’re not good answers, but they’re answers, nevertheless. ]
‘S like— [ He frowns, reaches over to the wilted flowers on his gravestone, just to do something with his hands, before thinking better of it, remembering he can’t actually touch anything. ] I’m here, sometimes. And then I’m— not. Like fallin’ asleep and wakin’ up. Pretty sure it wasn’t too long after…
[ He swallows, jerks his chin toward the small cross, as if to say, You know. ]
Then I kept comin’ back. A few seconds, then a few minutes. Shorter naps between, longer time awake.
[ A pause, as he presses his lips together. ]
Dunno how much longer I’ve got here, to tell you the truth.
[ He drags his gaze away from the cross at her false start, frowning at her, wondering what she meant to say. More disbelief, he reckons. Some quiet murmur about losing her mind. Can’t blame her, in either case. He chews on his lower lip for a quick second before trying for a smile, trying to force some brightness in his voice. ]
What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.
[ emma listens as he explains himself and the situation, or at least what he knows of it. she's amazed he's been around this long, but she realizes there might be some comfort in knowing that he hadn't been trapped spending every moment in a town where no one sees him, where not a single person would acknowledge that some part of him is still there.
because if this is real, if this isn't just her mind convincing itself that she can see him, if he is trapped in this odd, barely-there form...then she supposes the less time he has to spend being ignored and disregarded may be better for him.
but now that he's here? now that she's faced with him and this opportunity to talk to him again, in whatever strange fashion this is, she finds herself struggling with the idea of him disappearing so suddenly again. ]
But you'll be back then?
[ she tries not to sound hopeful, she really does.
but that attempt at brightness, the twitch of a smile at his lips, draws emma's thoughts away from the inevitability of his disappearance, and back to the moment she has beside him. the corner of her mouth turns up, just a touch, in what's not quite a smile. she's not sure she can smile about this yet, no matter the jokes he may crack, if only because she's still processing all of this, and she's got to suss this out for herself first. ]
I do believe that's exactly what I've seen, Joshua.
[ and there's that given name — not "faraday," no "mister" attached.
just joshua.
she reaches out to the dying flowers at the base of his marker, gently gathering them up into her lap. the flowers she brought with her are a few paces behind her, and she'll replace them before she goes, she decides, but if his time here is so limited, she certainly doesn't want to waste it — whatever this time really is. ]
because if this is real, if this isn't just her mind convincing itself that she can see him, if he is trapped in this odd, barely-there form...then she supposes the less time he has to spend being ignored and disregarded may be better for him.
but now that he's here? now that she's faced with him and this opportunity to talk to him again, in whatever strange fashion this is, she finds herself struggling with the idea of him disappearing so suddenly again. ]
But you'll be back then?
[ she tries not to sound hopeful, she really does.
but that attempt at brightness, the twitch of a smile at his lips, draws emma's thoughts away from the inevitability of his disappearance, and back to the moment she has beside him. the corner of her mouth turns up, just a touch, in what's not quite a smile. she's not sure she can smile about this yet, no matter the jokes he may crack, if only because she's still processing all of this, and she's got to suss this out for herself first. ]
I do believe that's exactly what I've seen, Joshua.
[ and there's that given name — not "faraday," no "mister" attached.
just joshua.
she reaches out to the dying flowers at the base of his marker, gently gathering them up into her lap. the flowers she brought with her are a few paces behind her, and she'll replace them before she goes, she decides, but if his time here is so limited, she certainly doesn't want to waste it — whatever this time really is. ]
Edited (html u jerk) 2016-10-07 01:33 (UTC)
[ The strange tone of voice, the use of his name, both cause his gaze to snap to her again. Because that almost sounded like— no, he thinks. It wouldn't make sense for her to sound like she wants him back. He's imagining things, surely. He's imagining that she might actually want some ungodly thing, neither alive nor dead, trailing after her, haunting her town.
He nods uncertainly at her question – uncertain, because he doesn't know the limits of what he is yet, lacks the confidence to say for sure, "I'll see you again soon." He might, he might not, but he hopes, even if she doesn't.
(He does a whole lot of that, lately. Hoping. It's beginning to get dangerous.)
As she plucks up the dead flowers, he examines them, sees they aren't too far gone, all things considered – not that he knows a single thing about flowers, aside from a general idea of how they look fresh, or how they look when they're very, very dead. These still have a bit of color to them, a bit of softness.
He suddenly wonders, How often does she come here? and his gaze flits away. ]
You ain't gotta do that for me, you know.
[ Discomfort in his voice, in the way he rolls his shoulders. ]
Goodnight and Billy and Horne, by all means. But— I don't need it.
He nods uncertainly at her question – uncertain, because he doesn't know the limits of what he is yet, lacks the confidence to say for sure, "I'll see you again soon." He might, he might not, but he hopes, even if she doesn't.
(He does a whole lot of that, lately. Hoping. It's beginning to get dangerous.)
As she plucks up the dead flowers, he examines them, sees they aren't too far gone, all things considered – not that he knows a single thing about flowers, aside from a general idea of how they look fresh, or how they look when they're very, very dead. These still have a bit of color to them, a bit of softness.
He suddenly wonders, How often does she come here? and his gaze flits away. ]
You ain't gotta do that for me, you know.
[ Discomfort in his voice, in the way he rolls his shoulders. ]
Goodnight and Billy and Horne, by all means. But— I don't need it.
[ there's something at war inside of emma. is it better if she never sees him again, never encounters this strange, ghostly man so he can go back to haunting rose creek, unseen and unheard? is it better if he lives in her nightmares, in the flashes of blood and half-hearted jokes and cold, trembling grief? is that better than whatever strange moments these are, that there may continue to be, of truly seeing faraday again?
he's not alive, that much is abundantly clear, but he's here, and maybe that's something.
but is it better?
emma looks down at the flowers in her hands, brushing her fingers across the wilted petals. she never leaves them at the markers long enough for them to truly decay, replacing them every week, or at least tidying up the crosses to make sure they're never left looking unkempt. this gently fading bouquet still has a few days left in it, she's sure, but it's near ritualistic for her at this point, and it's...a nice gesture, she thinks.
glancing over at faraday, she gives him a mildly unimpressed look. ]
You know good and well that if I'm leavin' these flowers for them, I'll be putting some here for you. Not a matter of needing them or not.
[ she doesn't need to do it, but...she wants to. she wants to see this place maintained and revered, and, above all, remembered.
these men deserve that. ]
You thought I wouldn't be doin' this after you were gone?
[ her eyebrow raises, just slightly. emma has always been and continues to be the type of person to pay her respects to the dead, especially those she deems significant. on these sundays, she always visits matthew's grave, too, and brings him flowers just the same. ]
he's not alive, that much is abundantly clear, but he's here, and maybe that's something.
but is it better?
emma looks down at the flowers in her hands, brushing her fingers across the wilted petals. she never leaves them at the markers long enough for them to truly decay, replacing them every week, or at least tidying up the crosses to make sure they're never left looking unkempt. this gently fading bouquet still has a few days left in it, she's sure, but it's near ritualistic for her at this point, and it's...a nice gesture, she thinks.
glancing over at faraday, she gives him a mildly unimpressed look. ]
You know good and well that if I'm leavin' these flowers for them, I'll be putting some here for you. Not a matter of needing them or not.
[ she doesn't need to do it, but...she wants to. she wants to see this place maintained and revered, and, above all, remembered.
these men deserve that. ]
You thought I wouldn't be doin' this after you were gone?
[ her eyebrow raises, just slightly. emma has always been and continues to be the type of person to pay her respects to the dead, especially those she deems significant. on these sundays, she always visits matthew's grave, too, and brings him flowers just the same. ]
[ If Faraday were an honest man, he'd tell her exactly what he expected:
His passing would go unmarked. His body would go unmourned. His grave, whatever form that took, whether his body was piled into a ditch or left in the fields, would grow grass and thorny weeds until the freshly turned earth finally dried.
He expected to be forgotten. In life, that felt like a tragedy, but it also felt like what he deserved.
What he says aloud, though, is this: ]
Dunno what I thought.
[ But it figures, really, that she'd tend to their graves. Emma always did have a strong moral sense, from the little Faraday has seen, is perfect in righteousness, has a whole mess of other qualities that Faraday desperately lacked. Stubborn as a mule, but someone who sought fairness and decency in all things.
Little wonder she was the one to bring down a devil as prolific as Bartholomew Bogue.
He feels like he should offer some word of appreciation to her – for this, for everything – but Faraday is not the type of person for whom sincerity or gratitude comes easily. Feels odd, besides, to thank someone for tidying his grave, prettying it up, because he's starting to realize that these markers are for the living more than they're for the dead.
The dead don't give a shit, after all. On account of being dead.
But he may not see her again, and Emma has been nothing but decent to him, even when he tried his hardest to form a terrible impression in their first few days together. He really ought to return the favor, at long last. ]
... Listen. I— Before I go. If I— don't come back—
[ He takes a deep breath. (He doesn't need to breathe.) ]
Thank you, for what you've done. What you did, back when I...
[ He trails off with something of a grimace. ]
Anyway. I appreciate it. I do. Or, well— [ He fidgets a little where he sits. ] I did, I suppose, at the time. You've done me a better kindness than I ever warranted, so— thank you.
His passing would go unmarked. His body would go unmourned. His grave, whatever form that took, whether his body was piled into a ditch or left in the fields, would grow grass and thorny weeds until the freshly turned earth finally dried.
He expected to be forgotten. In life, that felt like a tragedy, but it also felt like what he deserved.
What he says aloud, though, is this: ]
Dunno what I thought.
[ But it figures, really, that she'd tend to their graves. Emma always did have a strong moral sense, from the little Faraday has seen, is perfect in righteousness, has a whole mess of other qualities that Faraday desperately lacked. Stubborn as a mule, but someone who sought fairness and decency in all things.
Little wonder she was the one to bring down a devil as prolific as Bartholomew Bogue.
He feels like he should offer some word of appreciation to her – for this, for everything – but Faraday is not the type of person for whom sincerity or gratitude comes easily. Feels odd, besides, to thank someone for tidying his grave, prettying it up, because he's starting to realize that these markers are for the living more than they're for the dead.
The dead don't give a shit, after all. On account of being dead.
But he may not see her again, and Emma has been nothing but decent to him, even when he tried his hardest to form a terrible impression in their first few days together. He really ought to return the favor, at long last. ]
... Listen. I— Before I go. If I— don't come back—
[ He takes a deep breath. (He doesn't need to breathe.) ]
Thank you, for what you've done. What you did, back when I...
[ He trails off with something of a grimace. ]
Anyway. I appreciate it. I do. Or, well— [ He fidgets a little where he sits. ] I did, I suppose, at the time. You've done me a better kindness than I ever warranted, so— thank you.
[ of all the things emma expected to get out of faraday, this honest, open gratitude is certainly not one of them. she doesn't gape or gawk (she's too composed for that), and she has the good sense to realize that now is not the time to give him grief over such a change. there's vulnerability in his words and in his face, and she has far more tact than to poke fun at such well-meaning thanks.
she's quiet for a moment, taking in his words, and then she just gives a small nod. ]
What you did for me and for this town— I think that makes all of this plenty warranted. You stood with us against Bogue when so many wouldn't, and you turned the tides in far more ways than I think you realize.
[ she shakes her head softly. ]
I think that makes any kindness I can extend plainly due — then or now.
[ even if it's something as simple as tending these graves, she wants to do that for them. ]
And...you know I wouldn't have rather been anywhere else, on that day.
[ as much as she still sees faraday's final moments in her mind, she's glad she was there for it and for him.
she's glad he didn't have to die alone. ]
And, Joshua—
[ she looks back at him, a bit of turmoil in her eyes, but she seems determined all the same to continue speaking. ]
If you can come back this way again...I'd like it if you'd come find me.
[ maybe it's the wrong choice, maybe it's an unhealthy or unholy one, but if she can see him again like this, she's decided that she wants to. it could be months from now, she realizes, or it could be as soon as days, and that would suit her just fine. she doesn't know what he is or what's keeping him tied to this world, but if by some misfortune he's still here, then...at least he wouldn't have to be alone. ]
she's quiet for a moment, taking in his words, and then she just gives a small nod. ]
What you did for me and for this town— I think that makes all of this plenty warranted. You stood with us against Bogue when so many wouldn't, and you turned the tides in far more ways than I think you realize.
[ she shakes her head softly. ]
I think that makes any kindness I can extend plainly due — then or now.
[ even if it's something as simple as tending these graves, she wants to do that for them. ]
And...you know I wouldn't have rather been anywhere else, on that day.
[ as much as she still sees faraday's final moments in her mind, she's glad she was there for it and for him.
she's glad he didn't have to die alone. ]
And, Joshua—
[ she looks back at him, a bit of turmoil in her eyes, but she seems determined all the same to continue speaking. ]
If you can come back this way again...I'd like it if you'd come find me.
[ maybe it's the wrong choice, maybe it's an unhealthy or unholy one, but if she can see him again like this, she's decided that she wants to. it could be months from now, she realizes, or it could be as soon as days, and that would suit her just fine. she doesn't know what he is or what's keeping him tied to this world, but if by some misfortune he's still here, then...at least he wouldn't have to be alone. ]
[ Stilted as his thanks are, it would've been even worse if she had interrupted. He would have gladly suffered a joke, though, considering what he was in life – what he is now. Always did like a good joke, Faraday, always could've done with a bit of ribbing to poke holes in his arrogance.
He might've done better with a bit of ridicule, even, because her sincerity makes him itch. Appreciative as he is for her kindness, he doesn't think he's ever had so much directed at him all at once in his life. It's a strange feeling – something caught between discomfited and proud at once. He thinks it might actually feel kind of nice, as much as it chafes.
But there's his name again, formed in her voice. (He hasn't been called Joshua in so many years. He can count on one hand the number of people in this state alone to whom he's personally told his name.) The shock of it makes him look up again, makes him catch her eyes with his. Apprehension and uncertainty warring with that fiery resolve he's come to understand as so purely Emma Cullen.
For a little while, he just nods at her words – it's all he can manage, really, because a lump manifests in his throat, traps up his voice. But there's surprise on his face, and relief, too, and he thinks that maybe this existence, whatever the hell it might be, might not be so bad if he's got at least one person to talk to.
Assuming he comes back, that is. It hadn't been a concern before, but it's a concern now, and he feels worry start to gnaw in his gut. This might be it. Faraday, as he knows himself, might very well be gone after this very moment. But... maybe if he holds on to that dangerous sort of hope, things might be alright.
Quietly, in a voice strained and roughened by his gratitude, he says, ] I'll try.
Emma... tha—
[ And he disappears from sight. ]
He might've done better with a bit of ridicule, even, because her sincerity makes him itch. Appreciative as he is for her kindness, he doesn't think he's ever had so much directed at him all at once in his life. It's a strange feeling – something caught between discomfited and proud at once. He thinks it might actually feel kind of nice, as much as it chafes.
But there's his name again, formed in her voice. (He hasn't been called Joshua in so many years. He can count on one hand the number of people in this state alone to whom he's personally told his name.) The shock of it makes him look up again, makes him catch her eyes with his. Apprehension and uncertainty warring with that fiery resolve he's come to understand as so purely Emma Cullen.
For a little while, he just nods at her words – it's all he can manage, really, because a lump manifests in his throat, traps up his voice. But there's surprise on his face, and relief, too, and he thinks that maybe this existence, whatever the hell it might be, might not be so bad if he's got at least one person to talk to.
Assuming he comes back, that is. It hadn't been a concern before, but it's a concern now, and he feels worry start to gnaw in his gut. This might be it. Faraday, as he knows himself, might very well be gone after this very moment. But... maybe if he holds on to that dangerous sort of hope, things might be alright.
Quietly, in a voice strained and roughened by his gratitude, he says, ] I'll try.
Emma... tha—
[ And he disappears from sight. ]
[ his disappearance is so sudden that emma has to blink a few times to realize that he's gone again. it's quick, just like the first time, but that doesn't mean she isn't startled; it's odd enough to have had him right there, only for him to vanish, leaving behind not even a depression in the grass.
like he'd never even existed.
it sets emma on edge again, because it's so hard not to have any solid proof that this faraday is some kind of real. it's easier to convince herself that she's just imagining things when he isn't right in front of her, and she decides she still hasn't wholly written off "madness" as an explanation.
after staring at the same spot for a good minute, she finally drags her eyes away, glancing back at faraday's marker. she finds herself wondering if the other three are stuck in the same kind of limbo, if they're haunting rose creek just as much, but continuing to go unseen by the people of the town. what manner of hellish purgatory that must be, she thinks, before quickly shaking away the thought.
she busies herself with gathering up the gently wilted flowers, setting them aside and replacing them all with the new ones she'd brought along. it's fairly ritualistic, at this point, to simply clean the graves, leave the flowers, and say a prayer for them all, and then return to the town. usually, she feels at peace after visiting the crosses, but today, her mind is turning itself over and over trying to make sense of faraday's appearance. she's not sure what he truly was or how he'd gotten there or what to do about it, but—
if she's honest, it was good to see him.
that thought bothers her more than she can truly articulate, mostly because she's not certain why — just that it had been, almost like a salve had been applied to the aching memories of rose creek's short, painful war.
she tries not to dwell, because she realizes that, in reality, she may not even have the chance to see him again, and if that was one last goodbye, it was probably a good one. ]
like he'd never even existed.
it sets emma on edge again, because it's so hard not to have any solid proof that this faraday is some kind of real. it's easier to convince herself that she's just imagining things when he isn't right in front of her, and she decides she still hasn't wholly written off "madness" as an explanation.
after staring at the same spot for a good minute, she finally drags her eyes away, glancing back at faraday's marker. she finds herself wondering if the other three are stuck in the same kind of limbo, if they're haunting rose creek just as much, but continuing to go unseen by the people of the town. what manner of hellish purgatory that must be, she thinks, before quickly shaking away the thought.
she busies herself with gathering up the gently wilted flowers, setting them aside and replacing them all with the new ones she'd brought along. it's fairly ritualistic, at this point, to simply clean the graves, leave the flowers, and say a prayer for them all, and then return to the town. usually, she feels at peace after visiting the crosses, but today, her mind is turning itself over and over trying to make sense of faraday's appearance. she's not sure what he truly was or how he'd gotten there or what to do about it, but—
if she's honest, it was good to see him.
that thought bothers her more than she can truly articulate, mostly because she's not certain why — just that it had been, almost like a salve had been applied to the aching memories of rose creek's short, painful war.
she tries not to dwell, because she realizes that, in reality, she may not even have the chance to see him again, and if that was one last goodbye, it was probably a good one. ]
[ There are a lot more graves in the churchyard than he remembers.
He supposes it follows, really, considering how many casualties were incurred that blood-drenched day. Seems like an awful lot more burial mounds than there should be, though – and it occurs to him that Bogue’s men must have been interred alongside the rest of the town’s lost. Their graves were marked by simple crosses, left mostly forgotten toward the back. Six months and some bits is enough time for nature to stake a claim, and weeds began to gather around their markers.
Still, it was decent of Rose Creek to have buried them along with their dead; when the dust settled, it must have been one hell of a shouting match to allow those men even that much of a courtesy. He wonders if one of those plots is Bogue, left to rot in the dirt, or if Rose Creek had left his body to a different fate.
(If it were up to Faraday, Bogue would have been left to the elements, tossed somewhere for the wildlife to pick at. It’s only half of what he had coming for him, for taking away the lives of good men. But then again, very few people leave things up Faraday – or at least they never had when he still had breath – and for good reason.)
Faraday leans against the wrought iron fence wrapped around the graveyard, one foot kicked up on the lower rail. Some names he recognizes – men with whom he briefly spoke in that week leading up to his death (and theirs, too, he supposes) – and he watches as somber women and children tend to graves. Faraday offers something like a quick prayer for them. (Is it too peculiar for a ghost to pray for the dead?) He spies the name “Matthew Cullen” and wonders what sort of man he was to inspire a town to go to war.
It’s been a few weeks now, since he spoke with Emma beside his own grave, and he’s been present in some form for nearly every one of those days, drifting around her. (Haunting her, more accurately, but his use of the term earns him a glare every time.) His bouts of existence are getting longer, now, almost like he’s getting his strength back. Like he’s practicing, getting accustomed to a new skill. No one sees him, still, no one hears him, no matter how much of a ruckus he tries to make, save for Emma.
It’s not perfect, whatever this is. It’s not ideal. But few things ever are, and he makes do.
He learns a few things, during that time. Like how he can walk through walls and doors and people, or how he can be some place in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, he can let himself drift – invisible even to Emma’s eyes, but still aware, in a way, of his chosen surroundings and of time passing. He also learns that trying to go too far out of Rose Creek sends something buzzing through him, makes him feel a tug in his gut, and the discomfort only goes away when he wanders back toward the town. Tethered to something, though he can’t tell what.
Faraday pushes away from the fence, turns a little to look in the direction of the hill, where Goody, Billy, and Jack lie. (His own body, too, though he tries not to think too hard on it.) He offers them a brief nod – almost like a fond sort of greeting. After that, he disappears—
— and reappears in Emma Cullen’s kitchen. He grins. ]
Boo.
He supposes it follows, really, considering how many casualties were incurred that blood-drenched day. Seems like an awful lot more burial mounds than there should be, though – and it occurs to him that Bogue’s men must have been interred alongside the rest of the town’s lost. Their graves were marked by simple crosses, left mostly forgotten toward the back. Six months and some bits is enough time for nature to stake a claim, and weeds began to gather around their markers.
Still, it was decent of Rose Creek to have buried them along with their dead; when the dust settled, it must have been one hell of a shouting match to allow those men even that much of a courtesy. He wonders if one of those plots is Bogue, left to rot in the dirt, or if Rose Creek had left his body to a different fate.
(If it were up to Faraday, Bogue would have been left to the elements, tossed somewhere for the wildlife to pick at. It’s only half of what he had coming for him, for taking away the lives of good men. But then again, very few people leave things up Faraday – or at least they never had when he still had breath – and for good reason.)
Faraday leans against the wrought iron fence wrapped around the graveyard, one foot kicked up on the lower rail. Some names he recognizes – men with whom he briefly spoke in that week leading up to his death (and theirs, too, he supposes) – and he watches as somber women and children tend to graves. Faraday offers something like a quick prayer for them. (Is it too peculiar for a ghost to pray for the dead?) He spies the name “Matthew Cullen” and wonders what sort of man he was to inspire a town to go to war.
It’s been a few weeks now, since he spoke with Emma beside his own grave, and he’s been present in some form for nearly every one of those days, drifting around her. (Haunting her, more accurately, but his use of the term earns him a glare every time.) His bouts of existence are getting longer, now, almost like he’s getting his strength back. Like he’s practicing, getting accustomed to a new skill. No one sees him, still, no one hears him, no matter how much of a ruckus he tries to make, save for Emma.
It’s not perfect, whatever this is. It’s not ideal. But few things ever are, and he makes do.
He learns a few things, during that time. Like how he can walk through walls and doors and people, or how he can be some place in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, he can let himself drift – invisible even to Emma’s eyes, but still aware, in a way, of his chosen surroundings and of time passing. He also learns that trying to go too far out of Rose Creek sends something buzzing through him, makes him feel a tug in his gut, and the discomfort only goes away when he wanders back toward the town. Tethered to something, though he can’t tell what.
Faraday pushes away from the fence, turns a little to look in the direction of the hill, where Goody, Billy, and Jack lie. (His own body, too, though he tries not to think too hard on it.) He offers them a brief nod – almost like a fond sort of greeting. After that, he disappears—
— and reappears in Emma Cullen’s kitchen. He grins. ]
Boo.
[ emma is struck by how oddly easy it's been to adjust to having faraday around so regularly. it isn't constant, but since that sunday on the hill, she's seen him for some amount of time every day. surprising, is what it is, but also...less lonely. emma isn't necessarily reclusive, by any means, and she still interacts with the people of rose creek just fine, but, well, she otherwise lives by herself, widowed as she is — though she's made it perfectly clear to those that worry after her that she's more than capable of providing for her own needs. she isn't helpless, by any means, and never ought to be considered such.
she carries on, is what she does.
but she's not above admitting that the silence is often heavy and more than she's used to. in those times, she's come to be grateful for faraday's company and the lightness of his humor; it fills her empty hours more than anything else has, though she really doesn't much care for calling what he does "haunting." she feels like that goes on to imply some sort of malicious intent, and truly, the worst he's done is move something while she's just about to reach for it.
he's a pain, but he's not a ghoul of any kind, that's for sure.
the downside to having him around, trailing after her so often, is that she can't acknowledge him when she's around other people. she has to treat his presence with the most impassable face she can manage. she can't look like she's conversing with plain air, after all, so she's always stuck waiting until they're alone again.
however, there's also an unpredictability to his appearances. he comes and goes so frequently that emma can never figure when he'll be back again, and it's usually a surprise when he is.
like now, for instance.
she starts at the sound of his voice, in the otherwise silent house, and it's jarring enough that she yelps in the most undiginified way — and, inconvenience of inconveniences, but she just so happened to be preparing dinner, and her hand slips on the vegetables she'd been cutting, leaving a (fortunately shallow) slice on her finger.
turning to glare at him, she reaches for a nearby rag, pressing it to her hand. ]
Now that was perfectly uncalled for.
she carries on, is what she does.
but she's not above admitting that the silence is often heavy and more than she's used to. in those times, she's come to be grateful for faraday's company and the lightness of his humor; it fills her empty hours more than anything else has, though she really doesn't much care for calling what he does "haunting." she feels like that goes on to imply some sort of malicious intent, and truly, the worst he's done is move something while she's just about to reach for it.
he's a pain, but he's not a ghoul of any kind, that's for sure.
the downside to having him around, trailing after her so often, is that she can't acknowledge him when she's around other people. she has to treat his presence with the most impassable face she can manage. she can't look like she's conversing with plain air, after all, so she's always stuck waiting until they're alone again.
however, there's also an unpredictability to his appearances. he comes and goes so frequently that emma can never figure when he'll be back again, and it's usually a surprise when he is.
like now, for instance.
she starts at the sound of his voice, in the otherwise silent house, and it's jarring enough that she yelps in the most undiginified way — and, inconvenience of inconveniences, but she just so happened to be preparing dinner, and her hand slips on the vegetables she'd been cutting, leaving a (fortunately shallow) slice on her finger.
turning to glare at him, she reaches for a nearby rag, pressing it to her hand. ]
Now that was perfectly uncalled for.
[ That noise she made makes him grin all the more widely – but his amusement is short lived when he hears the clatter of her knife on the cutting board, sees the little flicker of red on her hand before she covers it with the rag. The smile leaves his face in almost an instant, replaced with concern, and he starts forward. ]
Sorry, sorry— I didn’t mean—
[ Faraday had always been the type of man to make do with what he’s given. Life wasn’t fair, but he grew to accept that, learned to take it all on the chin and keep on grinning. Tended to piss off a lot of people when he didn’t simply stay down, but it was better than the alternative – cowering in some corner and withering away.
Apparently death couldn’t keep him down, either – at least, not very well – and he makes do with this, too. Haunts Emma Cullen (because that’s what it rightly is, no matter how she glares, considering the state of him), pulls little jokes in town when he follows her there, offers a running commentary on the other people she passes on the wooden walkways—
(“I believe that man has goose down glued all over his chin.” “Oof, how long’s that woman’s face been like that? You think she smelled some curdled milk and it got stuck?” “When’s the last time you think he’s seen his feet, with that paunch?” “Someone should tell that man he ought to have his wife braid his mole hair to keep it outta the way.”)
—knowing perfectly well that Emma wouldn’t be able to respond immediately. Couldn’t smack him for his rudeness after the fact, either.
And sometimes he gets a cheap laugh from startling her, too, but he never means to do any real harm. He looks properly contrite, shoulders hunching a little. Not unlike a child caught stealing sweets, really. ]
How bad is it?
Sorry, sorry— I didn’t mean—
[ Faraday had always been the type of man to make do with what he’s given. Life wasn’t fair, but he grew to accept that, learned to take it all on the chin and keep on grinning. Tended to piss off a lot of people when he didn’t simply stay down, but it was better than the alternative – cowering in some corner and withering away.
Apparently death couldn’t keep him down, either – at least, not very well – and he makes do with this, too. Haunts Emma Cullen (because that’s what it rightly is, no matter how she glares, considering the state of him), pulls little jokes in town when he follows her there, offers a running commentary on the other people she passes on the wooden walkways—
(“I believe that man has goose down glued all over his chin.” “Oof, how long’s that woman’s face been like that? You think she smelled some curdled milk and it got stuck?” “When’s the last time you think he’s seen his feet, with that paunch?” “Someone should tell that man he ought to have his wife braid his mole hair to keep it outta the way.”)
—knowing perfectly well that Emma wouldn’t be able to respond immediately. Couldn’t smack him for his rudeness after the fact, either.
And sometimes he gets a cheap laugh from startling her, too, but he never means to do any real harm. He looks properly contrite, shoulders hunching a little. Not unlike a child caught stealing sweets, really. ]
How bad is it?
[ it could obviously be much worse, which is largely why emma isn't too put out over it. her finger still stings and gives the occasional unpleasant throb, but the pressure she's putting on it with the rag helps.
she pulls back the cloth to take a look at her finger, and it's determined to keep oozing blood down her palm — which she's quick to wipe away. ]
Not nearly so bad you need worry yourself over it.
[ it hurts, certainly, but emma is far from the kind to be dramatic over such a small wound (rather, she'd even downplay it, if it was bad), and she's even less so prone to squeamishness over her own blood. most of her ire is gone with the look of apology on his face, but she still fixes him with a most displeased look. ]
Sneakin' up on me's not quite a bright idea when I'm cooking.
[ because she doesn't find it nearly as amusing when he makes her leap outta her skin from time to time, and when there's clearly more opportune times to do it, she's absolutely going to scold him.
wrapping her finger back up in the bloody cloth, she reaches over to pick up the now-dirty knife, wiping it clean on the rag just the same. she means to get back to dinner in a moment, when her finger decides to stop bleeding, but for now, she's left to wait on it. she's actually had to get out of the habit of offering faraday food, because when he makes himself known while she's cooking, it's near instinct to try to feed company — but that, obviously, is not something faraday's capable of now. ]
I could've cut my finger clean off, you know.
[ well, not really, but she still has to rib him a bit for it. ]
she pulls back the cloth to take a look at her finger, and it's determined to keep oozing blood down her palm — which she's quick to wipe away. ]
Not nearly so bad you need worry yourself over it.
[ it hurts, certainly, but emma is far from the kind to be dramatic over such a small wound (rather, she'd even downplay it, if it was bad), and she's even less so prone to squeamishness over her own blood. most of her ire is gone with the look of apology on his face, but she still fixes him with a most displeased look. ]
Sneakin' up on me's not quite a bright idea when I'm cooking.
[ because she doesn't find it nearly as amusing when he makes her leap outta her skin from time to time, and when there's clearly more opportune times to do it, she's absolutely going to scold him.
wrapping her finger back up in the bloody cloth, she reaches over to pick up the now-dirty knife, wiping it clean on the rag just the same. she means to get back to dinner in a moment, when her finger decides to stop bleeding, but for now, she's left to wait on it. she's actually had to get out of the habit of offering faraday food, because when he makes himself known while she's cooking, it's near instinct to try to feed company — but that, obviously, is not something faraday's capable of now. ]
I could've cut my finger clean off, you know.
[ well, not really, but she still has to rib him a bit for it. ]
[ He grimaces at the scolding, arms folding over his chest and shoulders hunching up a little around his ears. Defensive. A bit like a hissing cat.
Apparently he’s unused to being on the receiving end of a lecture, or at least unused to having to actually sit through one. Usually any attempts to tell him he’d done wrong went in one ear, out the other, or he’d decide not to suffer it and wander off. Harder to do either of those things when the person doing the haranguing is literally the only person he can talk to.
When was the last time he was reprimanded like this, anyway? Surely not since he was old enough to think a skinned knee or a ripped shirt was enough to bring about the end of days.
He finds he doesn’t like it. ]
I said I was sorry, didn’t I?
[ It’s not the first time he’s had to apologize for scaring her, but usually those apologies were lip service at best, said while he was still grinning or laughing. This is likely the first time he says it with any hint of sincerity. He shifts his weight, glancing over at the vegetables on the board to avoid meeting her gaze, but when she continues on, his contrite (if embarrassed) expression turns flat. His arms drop to his sides, hands resting on his hips, and he looks over at her, finally, unimpressed. ]
Alright. Now you’re just bein’ dramatic. If you were hackin’ away at carrots like that, I think we’d have bigger things to worry about.
Apparently he’s unused to being on the receiving end of a lecture, or at least unused to having to actually sit through one. Usually any attempts to tell him he’d done wrong went in one ear, out the other, or he’d decide not to suffer it and wander off. Harder to do either of those things when the person doing the haranguing is literally the only person he can talk to.
When was the last time he was reprimanded like this, anyway? Surely not since he was old enough to think a skinned knee or a ripped shirt was enough to bring about the end of days.
He finds he doesn’t like it. ]
I said I was sorry, didn’t I?
[ It’s not the first time he’s had to apologize for scaring her, but usually those apologies were lip service at best, said while he was still grinning or laughing. This is likely the first time he says it with any hint of sincerity. He shifts his weight, glancing over at the vegetables on the board to avoid meeting her gaze, but when she continues on, his contrite (if embarrassed) expression turns flat. His arms drop to his sides, hands resting on his hips, and he looks over at her, finally, unimpressed. ]
Alright. Now you’re just bein’ dramatic. If you were hackin’ away at carrots like that, I think we’d have bigger things to worry about.
Edited 2016-10-07 23:05 (UTC)
[ emma's a bit impressed he actually stands there for the scolding, much as he obviously dislikes it; he's not skulking off or turning invisible, like he absolutely could, and that look on his face is amusing as hell on its own.
it's easier for emma to find her sense of humor these days, now that things are thoroughly settled with bogue, but she never smiles quite the same as she does when faraday's around — even if she's just as much rolling her eyes at him with a hint of mirth tugging at her lips. she's occasionally rather galled by his jokes, and those are, of course, greeted with the usual disapporving glare, but when he makes her laugh— well, that's special all on its own. ]
It could've just as easy been somethin' that needed a firmer hand.
[ she gives him a pointed look, but it's all in an attempt to keep the small grin off of her face long enough to keep giving him a level of good-natured grief. she wants to keep that serious expression, meet his unimpressed gaze with one of her own, and she just mirrors his posture with her own hands on her hips, her eyebrow cocking up expectantly. the rag has slipped slightly from her hand, not pressed so firmly over the cut that now seeps blood slowly onto her white apron.
she, of course, doesn't notice, fixated though she is on faraday. ]
It wouldn't be just small as this, then, and it would've been your pranks that cost me a whole finger.
it's easier for emma to find her sense of humor these days, now that things are thoroughly settled with bogue, but she never smiles quite the same as she does when faraday's around — even if she's just as much rolling her eyes at him with a hint of mirth tugging at her lips. she's occasionally rather galled by his jokes, and those are, of course, greeted with the usual disapporving glare, but when he makes her laugh— well, that's special all on its own. ]
It could've just as easy been somethin' that needed a firmer hand.
[ she gives him a pointed look, but it's all in an attempt to keep the small grin off of her face long enough to keep giving him a level of good-natured grief. she wants to keep that serious expression, meet his unimpressed gaze with one of her own, and she just mirrors his posture with her own hands on her hips, her eyebrow cocking up expectantly. the rag has slipped slightly from her hand, not pressed so firmly over the cut that now seeps blood slowly onto her white apron.
she, of course, doesn't notice, fixated though she is on faraday. ]
It wouldn't be just small as this, then, and it would've been your pranks that cost me a whole finger.
[ He can see the way the smile tries to shine through even as she fights it off, and rather than taking her lecture to heart, as he's sure he's meant to be doing, it just encourages him, really. ]
I mean, would it really be my fault, if you're actin' as careless as all that with cutlery? Choppin' like that is surely a sign of a troubled mind.
[ He rocks back, shifting his weigh to one leg and putting on a slightly smug look.
He likes it best when they're like this, trading jokes back and forth. It was a form of conversation they had only briefly brushed against, when he was alive; there hadn't been time or inclination – not on both sides, at least. Faraday had built his life on laughing even when things all went to shit, which wasn't always appreciated.
So it's better like this, he thinks, now that Emma has had time to breathe, now that the storm has passed, for the most part. The clouds still hang around, he knows, but they're not quite so dark anymore. ]
Really, I done you a favor. You oughta be more—
[ careful, is how he meant to finish that, except he tenses when he sees the bit of blood flowering on her apron and unconsciously steps forward. ]
Emma, your hand.
I mean, would it really be my fault, if you're actin' as careless as all that with cutlery? Choppin' like that is surely a sign of a troubled mind.
[ He rocks back, shifting his weigh to one leg and putting on a slightly smug look.
He likes it best when they're like this, trading jokes back and forth. It was a form of conversation they had only briefly brushed against, when he was alive; there hadn't been time or inclination – not on both sides, at least. Faraday had built his life on laughing even when things all went to shit, which wasn't always appreciated.
So it's better like this, he thinks, now that Emma has had time to breathe, now that the storm has passed, for the most part. The clouds still hang around, he knows, but they're not quite so dark anymore. ]
Really, I done you a favor. You oughta be more—
[ careful, is how he meant to finish that, except he tenses when he sees the bit of blood flowering on her apron and unconsciously steps forward. ]
Emma, your hand.
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