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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ emma swears there was a point in her life where she slept soundly; her head would hit the pillow, and she'd be out faster than she could count her first sheep. part of it, she thinks, was thanks to matthew, with her husband curled beside her, a warm, comfortable body to soothe her after a long day...it had been sublime, the most restful evenings she could have imagined.
easy, effortless, and plagued only by the simplest of nightmares.
after matthew's death, however, she truly began to grasp what it meant to have real nightmares — the kind that make you kick and cry out in your sleep, the sorts that have you waking in cold, fearful sweat, reaching into the dark for— nothing. it's the nightmares that feel so real she can practically taste the gunpowder in the air, but she knows — knows, she swears — that it's all a dream.
but lord help her, if it doesn't feel so achingly real some nights.
she'd thought the nightmares might get better once bogue was driven out of rose creek. she'd given matthew's memory the justice he deserved, but if anything, the terrors were worse — because this time, instead of seeing matthew's stricken face, she just sees all of the men into whom she'd so diligently sunk lead during that battle.
she'd never killed a man before that day, never shot one dead before he'd even had a chance to scream, never watched one collapse like a puppet with all his strings cut. but oh, that day, she'd seen it all: mountains of death, on their side and hers, and when she wasn't running so intensely on instinct and rage, it had all just hit her — the realization that there were men dead by her hand.
not for a moment does she regret it (which she thinks makes her feel worse), because it had been war; it was either kill or be killed, and emma had fallen squarely on the side of making it the hell out alive, and she had — but at a heavy price. part of her wonders how many of those men had families, children maybe, and how many little ones would grow up never seeing their daddy again. that aches. she feels smatterings of guilt over those possibilities, even if she knows she did the right thing, but in her dreams, she's still haunted by their faces and their screams.
it's bogue, however, over whom she feels no remorse. it's still a shock to her system to replay the moment when her bullet hit him square in the chest, when she'd watched him go limp in sam's arms, just at the last, precarious second — because she knows what could have easily happened if she hadn't been there.
it was sam's life for bogue's, and she has no qualms with that.
(bogue got what he deserved, after all.)
but she still sees that moment, over and over again, intermingled with the other lives she'd snuffed out in the fight — and then, occasionally, her mind revists not deaths for which she'd been responsible, but ones that had shaken her most deeply.
matthew.
and faraday.
matthew she sees taking the bullet, collapsing in a heap and gasping his final breath in her arms, and it's enough to make her tremble in her sleep, to have her waking with a pillow wet from tears — but for that, she has closure. matthew is put to rest, righteousness buried with him, as it should be.
faraday...well. it's awful different when she can simply wake from a fitful sleep and see his smiling face, always ready with a quick word to take her mind off of a terrible nightmare. when she dreams about him, however, she's reliving those last moments out in the field, faraday's bloody fingers in her own as he tries to make a few, final wisecracks — even while she can see the fear and pain in his eyes. she sees his scarlet smile and the blood she later realized she knelt in, sees him wince and gasp, grip her hand, until that last, slow moment when he was finally limp beside her.
at least, that day, she'd waited until the light had gone from his eyes before she shed a real tear.
(she hadn't wanted to let him see it, not in his final seconds.)
but god, here he is again, haunting her daily life and causing all sorts of mischeif, and—
—it's good.
she doesn't understand why, doesn't know how she's supposed to deal with the reality of his unearthly existence, but having faraday there brings light to her life in a way she didn't know was possible again.
she's grateful for that, but at the end of the day, it still doesn't drive out her nightmares. maybe a part of her carries an additional level of guilt that she'd found herself happy again; men are dead — matthew is dead — but she still smiles and lives her life and even finds joy in the company of another man (a dead man, more precisely, but a man nonetheless, her newest friend). it's the guilt, she reckons, that makes the nightmares so much worse, and on the truly bad nights, like tonight, she tosses and turns and occasionally just— cries out, loud as anything as her fingers grip the sheets and her breathing comes in unsteady gasps.
she feels trapped, on the worst nights, because she just can't shake herself free of the dreams. ]
[ after their blowout, emma legitimately thought faraday was gone for good — or as much as he could be, tied to the town as he was. but she knows he can make himself as visible as he likes, and if he didn't want her to see him, she wouldn't. it's what she expects, really, to (at the most) catch a glimpse of him before he's gone again, to see him out of the corner of her eye but never that warm, easy smile. never that roguish grin so often followed by an absurd joke or a tall tale. never faraday and that presence he'd brought around to brighten up her home.
she thinks he meant what he said, and she finds that loss sits in the pit of her stomach heavy as his death had done.
it's like he's died all over again, she realizes, and that aches. she can't put it into words, or describe why it hurts so terribly, but emma is hardly herself for days after, enough so that others in town notice. she brushes off their concern with a small smile, assures them that it's nothing more than a few restless nights keeping her up. (teddy is especially worried about her, expresses concern that she's out at that house all alone and that sure can't be good for a lady like herself.
she tells him exactly the same: that she's completely fine.)
it's not until things start to...move that she realizes faraday is actually there.
coffee already ready and waiting. a properly stoked fire when she knows she hasn't gone to touch it herself. newly chopped firewood to keep the house warm (because the winter chill has truly set in now, uncomfortable as it happens to be). she's utterly confused by the gestures at first, because while she knows it means faraday is there, she hasn't seen him, hasn't said a word to him, hasn't had the opportunity to so much as thank him.
she tries one night, to at least show her gratitude for the appearance of a blanket while she sat sleepily in a chair. she hadn't quite drifted, but she'd been nodding off, shivering a bit, and then that throw had been settled over her, the weight enough to make her open her eyes.
no one in the room; not a single whisper of faraday, but the gesture was there all the same.
"Faraday?"
when she hadn't gotten an answer, she just sighed and curled up with the blanket again, mumbling a quiet, "thank you," as she drifted.
the worst part is that she feels she owes him a real apology for their last interaction. the things she'd said had been far from kind, even pushing towards unfair, and she realizes after that making him feel so shamed and angry wasn't her intention at all. in fact, the entire thing had gotten so out of hand that she's embarrassed by how quick and cruel her temper had proved to be. even if he had caused a scene in town, he hadn't deserved that level of treatment, and she shouldn't have let him rile her up.
and she sure shouldn't have slapped him.
that still gives her pause when she thinks on it. she can still remember the feel of his skin under her palm, because she had hit him, truly had, and he'd felt just as much a person as the next man. he'd felt near alive, though she knew that was impossible. couldn't be reality.
not with his body six feet under in that pine box.
but all the same, she knows that she'd touched him, and if he's that solid, she nearly wonders if others in the town had bumped into him, if they had started to see him? what manner had his existence taken on that he was able to be so...human? spectre that he is, dead and gone for all intents and purposes, she didn't think it possible, that she'd always pass through him for that icy brush with death, but that had been far from the feel of a ghost.
they need to talk, she finally decides, and she wants to know if that physical aspect has remained or if he's just as noncorporeal as he'd been before (and she also wants to...try to apologize for the lines she crossed; "try" being the operative word). she's not sure how to get him to show up, given how much he's been avoiding her, but she does notice that the playing cards move every day, always in a new space, and well, it wouldn't surprise her to know he's still practicing his tricks.
one evening, after the sun's properly set, emma finds the cards on her table. pursing her lips, she scoops up the deck, carrying them over to her dying fire, and holds them straight out over the embers. ]
Joshua Faraday, you have to the count of five, and then I'm droppin' these right into the hearth.
One. Faraday and Emma were... friends. Friendly? Probably friends, though Faraday had so few of those, he wasn't entirely sure. Close, at least, or close enough that having parted from one another's company for that short (long. interminably long.) week had soured the two of them to the idea of being apart again. Faraday, because he'd grown used to the way Emma would rib at him, would tease him in a way she never had while he was alive, and he found he was fond of it. Emma, for reasons that were purely her own, but he hopes it has something to do with enjoying his company, rather than enjoying the way he fills the silence of her home, like white noise.
Two. Faraday could— feel again. Physically, that is. Could touch and discern textures and temperature, when before it was simply a matter of pressure. He knew how much strength was too much or too little, but little more than that, before. Now, though, he could count the number of cards passing over his fingers, could pick apart when he had passed over two or one. He could feel the heat of fire (though it still didn't hurt him), the chill of the cold air. And Lord, he hadn't realized how much he missed it until he had recovered that sense.
Three. Faraday was something approaching solid again. He could still pass through things if he wanted, but it required a conscious effort. Before, he would need to think on grasping something, or else he would merely phase through. Now, he needs to think on phasing through, or else he would bump right into it. An odd change, and something he was still mastering – which made walking through town a little treacherous. These days, when he had occasion to follow Emma through Rose Creek, the two of them avoided crowded areas; he's bumped into someone at least once or twice, left them bewildered and cursing their clumsiness. Amusing as it is, he doesn't care to keep repeating the mistake, or else the town could fall into a paranoid frenzy.
And four. Apparently this change in Faraday had become a source of some curiosity and amusement for Emma, because not a day passed without her testing his solidity at least a handful of times. Sometimes in small ways, by brushing a hand across his arm or poking him in the side. Sometimes in large ways, by throwing something soft across the room at him or jabbing at his chest with whatever tool she happened to have on hand at the time. There was some novelty to it, the first few times – because rarely had Faraday seen Emma partake in something as whimsical as this – but as the experiments continued, Faraday found himself simply exasperated by it.
As is the case now.
The sun had long ago set, and the two of them sit side-by-side in front of the flickering fire. The warmth suffuses the room, fills it with a cozy sort of light, as Faraday shows her a basic card skill – a quick lesson in how to backpalm a card. He demonstrates again how he tucks the card between his fingers, how he flicks his middle and ring finger beneath to flip it over and back—
—when the edge of a blanket is abruptly thrown over his head.
Faraday falls silent for a moment, his hands dropping to his lap, letting the blanket simply hang there to cover his face.
Then, in a flat voice slightly muffled by the fabric, ]
[ Faraday drifts over Rose Creek in the early hours of the morning, just before the sun crests over the horizon. The dirty, grey light of pre-dawn. The town is quiet and still. Changed, in so many ways, and a little more grown than what he recalls from those handful of days while he was still alive. New buildings, new shops. The Imperial Saloon's sign is much grander than it was before, needing replacement after the battle with Bogue and his men had left it riddled with bullet holes. The Elysium Hotel has a few new painted ladies, as he recalls. Some of the women had returned when the dust settled, others were newcomers to the town, and all of them were dozing away the night in the upper floor with some lingering customers.
He wanders and waits for the town to start waking, for folks to yawn and stretch and complain as they're forced to start their day. It's Sunday, which means church, which means following Emma on her weekly ritual – hovering a distance away as she kneels beside the grave of her late husband, watching folks pass by to give her some privacy. Helping her tidy up the markers on the hill.
The colder months makes it more difficult to gather flowers, but as the cold well and truly set in, Faraday took the task upon himself. He wasn't bothered by the weather, after all, and though he didn't see the sense in keeping up the tradition for his own grave (an idea he still had difficult wrapping his mind around), he agreed to it all the same for the others. He didn't have quite the eye that Emma did, but whatever he gathered always seemed to please her well; and sometimes, just keeping the graves free of weeds was enough to satisfy her. His gaze darts away from his own marker every time, and he instead focuses on Billy's, on Goody's, on Jack's. They're the ones in need of remembering, after all. He's still kicking up trouble, though he's not sure if he'll ever know why.
(Maybe he has unfinished business, though hell if even he knows what that is. Or maybe he was just as restless in death as he was in life, which kicked his spirit straight out of Heaven or Hell and back to Earth.)
He hopes they're all happy, wherever they ended up. It's the least they deserved.
The more time he spends at Emma's side, the more that curling bit of heat in his chest grows. And by now, it's admittedly something of a modest fire. Comfortable. Warm. Safe, as much as it is dangerous, for reasons he still doesn't quite understand. She smiles so much more, laughs and teases; even the exasperation she puts on when he steps a little too far over a boundary makes him grin all the same. The uncertainty of his state goes forgotten, most of the time, the wrongness of it, and now he just settles for being.
This is a second chance he never asked for, but he's glad for it, all the same.
It's a few hours past noon when the two of them settle back into Emma's home, and Faraday sits at the table with his cards as she fixes herself lunch, laying out a game of patience he had learned from a miner some years ago. A crunch of dirt just outside catches his attention, and he vanishes—
—to reappear at the front window, careful not to touch the curtains as he peeks out. His eyes narrow, jaw clenching, though he's hardly aware of it. ]
Your associate is makin' his way up the path.
[ A reference to the first day he met Emma and Teddy Q. He speaks brightly, even if he feels a bitter twist in his gut. ]
He's lookin' awful waxed up, and—
[ He lets out a quiet sound, forces himself to sound amused. ]
[ things had been...a little tense since that odd spill she and faraday had taken onto the floor. it had put them in a position to be far closer than emma anticipated or intended them to be, and it had left her rankled, uncertain, and heartily confused. emma cullen is not a woman who often finds herself flustered (or, truly, ever does), but in that moment with faraday, laid out on the wood floor with their faces mere inches apart— oh, she'd been flustered.
and possibly moreso in the aftermath. because, if she's remotely honest with herself, she'd liked it and the flutter it had set off in her chest. of course, she's taken to denying that just as fiercely, out of a sense of...what? self-preservation? fear? distaste? no, not the last one, she thinks, because while her introduction to faraday all those months ago, before the battle, before his death, had been less than charming, she's spent so much time with him now that she doesn't find him or his company disagreeable.
in fact, she's almost come to...depend on him. he sees her through her long, lonely days, offers her a reprieve from the silence of her small town and empty house, or simply gives her the opportunity to be close to someone else — whether they speak or sit together in comfortable peace. it means something to her, but after that mild incident, she's finally realizing that it means— more than she'd expected. perhaps a different meaning than she'd anticipated, and that's caught her so off-guard that in the week following their spill, she's been particularly careful to just...not touch him.
the casual way she'd gone about it before, little brushes of contact, the occasional smack on his arm or a playful nudge ("just checking") — she's dropped it in the last week, without even a poke or prod here and there. it's harder than she expected, and she's caught herself a few times, about to reach out, before pulling back again. she speaks to him the same way (or at least tries to), with the occasional ribbing and joke at his expense, but she catches herself being more mindful of her words. she's not as free as she'd become, and she finds she doesn't like it.
the worst part, however, is that she doesn't think withholding from him has made her feel particularly better about...any of it. the moment (now long gone) and the way she'd felt, the way she continues to dwell— pulling away hasn't made it lessen or disappear like she'd hoped.
why can't it be simple?
after nearing a second week of the limited contact, emma finally decides she's had more than enough of it. she doesn't like dancing around him or what could have (but didn't) happen, and she doesn't like the way she's isolated herself by refusing to be...well, herself with faraday. he's given her the chance to open up and unwind in ways she hadn't since matthew, let her feel warmth and joy and filled her home with laughter again, and— she wants that. she wants to keep that close, and she knows that means keeping him close.
she can't do that if she shuts him out.
unfortunately, being that emma is emma, her pride isn't going to let her just outright apologize to him. of course not. she can't summon up the words, not when she hasn't necessarily done anything; it's more like she hasn't done something, and that's difficult to atone for anyway.
instead, she purchases a bottle of bourbon (which earns her the most startled of looks from rose creek's dutiful bartender), along with a second deck of cards. the bourbon she explains away as a gift, while the cards she says she intends to leave up on the hill, in front of the gently worn cross with faraday's name carved into the wood. that receives far less question, because of course the townspeople still remember what faraday and the others did for rose creek, and given the gambler's penchant for cards and tricks that had delighted the children, it's deemed more than understandable that emma would purchase something so sentimental.
a lovely gesture, she's told.
emma can only manage a smile.
she hasn't seen faraday near so much in the last few days (not that she can blame him, given how uncomfortable she's seemed around him), so she isn't entirely sure when he'll reappear. she doesn't care for that thought, but she can't do an awful lot for it, and instead, just leaves the bottle and the cards at her small table.
it'll be there and waiting for him, whenever he does decide to make himself known. ]
[ emma doesn't see much of faraday over the next few days.
she doesn't go out of her way to avoid him like she could, but in so many ways, she's caught in her own thoughts and in trying to parse out what that small, seemingly insignificant encounter in the field with jack had brought up for her. if nothing else, she's preoccupied enough that she doesn't seek faraday out or go looking for his company as she tries to understand what's going on and what she truly believes about the odd nature of the gambler's existence.
is he real? why can only she see him? has she been imagining it all? and if not, what is he?
what, indeed.
she'd promised faraday she wouldn't shut him out again, and she doesn't this time — not intentionally. but with how much she grapples with a reality she's set aside for months now, she doesn't find the opportunity to pay him the kind of mind she usually does, so she doesn't notice quite so much when he spends his time in the town rather than specifically at her side.
someone else notices, however.
there's only one other person who notices faraday whenever he walks beside emma, who sees him pull his pranks or look for something to alleviate his boredom. he watches with a careful eye and never speaks up, never tries to catch either of their attention because...well.
he knows emma will just look right through him.
matthew cullen has filtered in and out of rose creek since the day of his death. he'd seen the way his wife pulled the town out from under bogue's heel with the help of her little mismatched army, and he was proud. his consciousness was always vague, always barely there, and by the time he could finally coalesce for anything worthwhile, emma just never saw him.
it's good, he's told himself. keeps her from dwelling when he knows she needs to move forward with her life, to persevere in that way emma is so good at, but— that was until faraday returned to the world of the living. matthew realizes quickly that faraday is just as much a dead man as matthew when he watches faraday follow emma around, sees how she carefully avoids acknowledging him around the townsfolk, and he knows that unlike himself, emma sees the gambler.
but strangely, he doesn't feel the heavy pangs of regret over this fact. if anything, matthew feels incredibly at peace with his existence, even if emma can't see him. she doesn't need to, is what it comes down to. emma has put him and his spirit at rest, and though he still finds himself returning to the town here and there to see his wife's progress, matthew doesn't feel trapped or unsettled.
emma found righteousness for him, and he's seen his justice.
however, it makes him keenly aware of the reasons emma is still a woman haunted by another ghost.
and what strange reasons they are.
lately, matthew sees faraday in town without emma. odd, given how frequently inseparable they are, he thinks. at first, he doesn't try to get faraday's attention, instead choosing to observe, to see when and how long faraday hangs around by himself, and after a few days of it, matthew's curiosity gets the better of him.
he waits by the imperial saloon, leaning casually against one of the beams supporting the building's balcony as he keeps an eye on the other ghost.
quiet for a long while, before he calls out, keen blue eyes fixed firmly on faraday, ]
Seems like it's not often you wander through here by yourself these days.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
oh jesus this is long, i'm sorry
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. ]
never apologize for this beauty
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
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.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
christ almighty this is wordy
easy, effortless, and plagued only by the simplest of nightmares.
after matthew's death, however, she truly began to grasp what it meant to have real nightmares — the kind that make you kick and cry out in your sleep, the sorts that have you waking in cold, fearful sweat, reaching into the dark for— nothing. it's the nightmares that feel so real she can practically taste the gunpowder in the air, but she knows — knows, she swears — that it's all a dream.
but lord help her, if it doesn't feel so achingly real some nights.
she'd thought the nightmares might get better once bogue was driven out of rose creek. she'd given matthew's memory the justice he deserved, but if anything, the terrors were worse — because this time, instead of seeing matthew's stricken face, she just sees all of the men into whom she'd so diligently sunk lead during that battle.
she'd never killed a man before that day, never shot one dead before he'd even had a chance to scream, never watched one collapse like a puppet with all his strings cut. but oh, that day, she'd seen it all: mountains of death, on their side and hers, and when she wasn't running so intensely on instinct and rage, it had all just hit her — the realization that there were men dead by her hand.
not for a moment does she regret it (which she thinks makes her feel worse), because it had been war; it was either kill or be killed, and emma had fallen squarely on the side of making it the hell out alive, and she had — but at a heavy price. part of her wonders how many of those men had families, children maybe, and how many little ones would grow up never seeing their daddy again. that aches. she feels smatterings of guilt over those possibilities, even if she knows she did the right thing, but in her dreams, she's still haunted by their faces and their screams.
it's bogue, however, over whom she feels no remorse. it's still a shock to her system to replay the moment when her bullet hit him square in the chest, when she'd watched him go limp in sam's arms, just at the last, precarious second — because she knows what could have easily happened if she hadn't been there.
it was sam's life for bogue's, and she has no qualms with that.
(bogue got what he deserved, after all.)
but she still sees that moment, over and over again, intermingled with the other lives she'd snuffed out in the fight — and then, occasionally, her mind revists not deaths for which she'd been responsible, but ones that had shaken her most deeply.
matthew.
and faraday.
matthew she sees taking the bullet, collapsing in a heap and gasping his final breath in her arms, and it's enough to make her tremble in her sleep, to have her waking with a pillow wet from tears — but for that, she has closure. matthew is put to rest, righteousness buried with him, as it should be.
faraday...well. it's awful different when she can simply wake from a fitful sleep and see his smiling face, always ready with a quick word to take her mind off of a terrible nightmare. when she dreams about him, however, she's reliving those last moments out in the field, faraday's bloody fingers in her own as he tries to make a few, final wisecracks — even while she can see the fear and pain in his eyes. she sees his scarlet smile and the blood she later realized she knelt in, sees him wince and gasp, grip her hand, until that last, slow moment when he was finally limp beside her.
at least, that day, she'd waited until the light had gone from his eyes before she shed a real tear.
(she hadn't wanted to let him see it, not in his final seconds.)
but god, here he is again, haunting her daily life and causing all sorts of mischeif, and—
—it's good.
she doesn't understand why, doesn't know how she's supposed to deal with the reality of his unearthly existence, but having faraday there brings light to her life in a way she didn't know was possible again.
she's grateful for that, but at the end of the day, it still doesn't drive out her nightmares. maybe a part of her carries an additional level of guilt that she'd found herself happy again; men are dead — matthew is dead — but she still smiles and lives her life and even finds joy in the company of another man (a dead man, more precisely, but a man nonetheless, her newest friend). it's the guilt, she reckons, that makes the nightmares so much worse, and on the truly bad nights, like tonight, she tosses and turns and occasionally just— cries out, loud as anything as her fingers grip the sheets and her breathing comes in unsteady gasps.
she feels trapped, on the worst nights, because she just can't shake herself free of the dreams. ]
it is beautiful is what it is
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
how do you adult
she thinks he meant what he said, and she finds that loss sits in the pit of her stomach heavy as his death had done.
it's like he's died all over again, she realizes, and that aches. she can't put it into words, or describe why it hurts so terribly, but emma is hardly herself for days after, enough so that others in town notice. she brushes off their concern with a small smile, assures them that it's nothing more than a few restless nights keeping her up. (teddy is especially worried about her, expresses concern that she's out at that house all alone and that sure can't be good for a lady like herself.
she tells him exactly the same: that she's completely fine.)
it's not until things start to...move that she realizes faraday is actually there.
coffee already ready and waiting. a properly stoked fire when she knows she hasn't gone to touch it herself. newly chopped firewood to keep the house warm (because the winter chill has truly set in now, uncomfortable as it happens to be). she's utterly confused by the gestures at first, because while she knows it means faraday is there, she hasn't seen him, hasn't said a word to him, hasn't had the opportunity to so much as thank him.
she tries one night, to at least show her gratitude for the appearance of a blanket while she sat sleepily in a chair. she hadn't quite drifted, but she'd been nodding off, shivering a bit, and then that throw had been settled over her, the weight enough to make her open her eyes.
no one in the room; not a single whisper of faraday, but the gesture was there all the same.
"Faraday?"
when she hadn't gotten an answer, she just sighed and curled up with the blanket again, mumbling a quiet, "thank you," as she drifted.
the worst part is that she feels she owes him a real apology for their last interaction. the things she'd said had been far from kind, even pushing towards unfair, and she realizes after that making him feel so shamed and angry wasn't her intention at all. in fact, the entire thing had gotten so out of hand that she's embarrassed by how quick and cruel her temper had proved to be. even if he had caused a scene in town, he hadn't deserved that level of treatment, and she shouldn't have let him rile her up.
and she sure shouldn't have slapped him.
that still gives her pause when she thinks on it. she can still remember the feel of his skin under her palm, because she had hit him, truly had, and he'd felt just as much a person as the next man. he'd felt near alive, though she knew that was impossible. couldn't be reality.
not with his body six feet under in that pine box.
but all the same, she knows that she'd touched him, and if he's that solid, she nearly wonders if others in the town had bumped into him, if they had started to see him? what manner had his existence taken on that he was able to be so...human? spectre that he is, dead and gone for all intents and purposes, she didn't think it possible, that she'd always pass through him for that icy brush with death, but that had been far from the feel of a ghost.
they need to talk, she finally decides, and she wants to know if that physical aspect has remained or if he's just as noncorporeal as he'd been before (and she also wants to...try to apologize for the lines she crossed; "try" being the operative word). she's not sure how to get him to show up, given how much he's been avoiding her, but she does notice that the playing cards move every day, always in a new space, and well, it wouldn't surprise her to know he's still practicing his tricks.
one evening, after the sun's properly set, emma finds the cards on her table. pursing her lips, she scoops up the deck, carrying them over to her dying fire, and holds them straight out over the embers. ]
Joshua Faraday, you have to the count of five, and then I'm droppin' these right into the hearth.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
One. Faraday and Emma were... friends. Friendly? Probably friends, though Faraday had so few of those, he wasn't entirely sure. Close, at least, or close enough that having parted from one another's company for that short (long. interminably long.) week had soured the two of them to the idea of being apart again. Faraday, because he'd grown used to the way Emma would rib at him, would tease him in a way she never had while he was alive, and he found he was fond of it. Emma, for reasons that were purely her own, but he hopes it has something to do with enjoying his company, rather than enjoying the way he fills the silence of her home, like white noise.
Two. Faraday could— feel again. Physically, that is. Could touch and discern textures and temperature, when before it was simply a matter of pressure. He knew how much strength was too much or too little, but little more than that, before. Now, though, he could count the number of cards passing over his fingers, could pick apart when he had passed over two or one. He could feel the heat of fire (though it still didn't hurt him), the chill of the cold air. And Lord, he hadn't realized how much he missed it until he had recovered that sense.
Three. Faraday was something approaching solid again. He could still pass through things if he wanted, but it required a conscious effort. Before, he would need to think on grasping something, or else he would merely phase through. Now, he needs to think on phasing through, or else he would bump right into it. An odd change, and something he was still mastering – which made walking through town a little treacherous. These days, when he had occasion to follow Emma through Rose Creek, the two of them avoided crowded areas; he's bumped into someone at least once or twice, left them bewildered and cursing their clumsiness. Amusing as it is, he doesn't care to keep repeating the mistake, or else the town could fall into a paranoid frenzy.
And four. Apparently this change in Faraday had become a source of some curiosity and amusement for Emma, because not a day passed without her testing his solidity at least a handful of times. Sometimes in small ways, by brushing a hand across his arm or poking him in the side. Sometimes in large ways, by throwing something soft across the room at him or jabbing at his chest with whatever tool she happened to have on hand at the time. There was some novelty to it, the first few times – because rarely had Faraday seen Emma partake in something as whimsical as this – but as the experiments continued, Faraday found himself simply exasperated by it.
As is the case now.
The sun had long ago set, and the two of them sit side-by-side in front of the flickering fire. The warmth suffuses the room, fills it with a cozy sort of light, as Faraday shows her a basic card skill – a quick lesson in how to backpalm a card. He demonstrates again how he tucks the card between his fingers, how he flicks his middle and ring finger beneath to flip it over and back—
—when the edge of a blanket is abruptly thrown over his head.
Faraday falls silent for a moment, his hands dropping to his lap, letting the blanket simply hang there to cover his face.
Then, in a flat voice slightly muffled by the fabric, ]
Really.
Come on.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
rip theodore
He wanders and waits for the town to start waking, for folks to yawn and stretch and complain as they're forced to start their day. It's Sunday, which means church, which means following Emma on her weekly ritual – hovering a distance away as she kneels beside the grave of her late husband, watching folks pass by to give her some privacy. Helping her tidy up the markers on the hill.
The colder months makes it more difficult to gather flowers, but as the cold well and truly set in, Faraday took the task upon himself. He wasn't bothered by the weather, after all, and though he didn't see the sense in keeping up the tradition for his own grave (an idea he still had difficult wrapping his mind around), he agreed to it all the same for the others. He didn't have quite the eye that Emma did, but whatever he gathered always seemed to please her well; and sometimes, just keeping the graves free of weeds was enough to satisfy her. His gaze darts away from his own marker every time, and he instead focuses on Billy's, on Goody's, on Jack's. They're the ones in need of remembering, after all. He's still kicking up trouble, though he's not sure if he'll ever know why.
(Maybe he has unfinished business, though hell if even he knows what that is. Or maybe he was just as restless in death as he was in life, which kicked his spirit straight out of Heaven or Hell and back to Earth.)
He hopes they're all happy, wherever they ended up. It's the least they deserved.
The more time he spends at Emma's side, the more that curling bit of heat in his chest grows. And by now, it's admittedly something of a modest fire. Comfortable. Warm. Safe, as much as it is dangerous, for reasons he still doesn't quite understand. She smiles so much more, laughs and teases; even the exasperation she puts on when he steps a little too far over a boundary makes him grin all the same. The uncertainty of his state goes forgotten, most of the time, the wrongness of it, and now he just settles for being.
This is a second chance he never asked for, but he's glad for it, all the same.
It's a few hours past noon when the two of them settle back into Emma's home, and Faraday sits at the table with his cards as she fixes herself lunch, laying out a game of patience he had learned from a miner some years ago. A crunch of dirt just outside catches his attention, and he vanishes—
—to reappear at the front window, careful not to touch the curtains as he peeks out. His eyes narrow, jaw clenching, though he's hardly aware of it. ]
Your associate is makin' his way up the path.
[ A reference to the first day he met Emma and Teddy Q. He speaks brightly, even if he feels a bitter twist in his gut. ]
He's lookin' awful waxed up, and—
[ He lets out a quiet sound, forces himself to sound amused. ]
Oh, look at that. He's got flowers.
he gonna be deader than faraday tbh
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
idefk what i'm doing oh well
and possibly moreso in the aftermath. because, if she's remotely honest with herself, she'd liked it and the flutter it had set off in her chest. of course, she's taken to denying that just as fiercely, out of a sense of...what? self-preservation? fear? distaste? no, not the last one, she thinks, because while her introduction to faraday all those months ago, before the battle, before his death, had been less than charming, she's spent so much time with him now that she doesn't find him or his company disagreeable.
in fact, she's almost come to...depend on him. he sees her through her long, lonely days, offers her a reprieve from the silence of her small town and empty house, or simply gives her the opportunity to be close to someone else — whether they speak or sit together in comfortable peace. it means something to her, but after that mild incident, she's finally realizing that it means— more than she'd expected. perhaps a different meaning than she'd anticipated, and that's caught her so off-guard that in the week following their spill, she's been particularly careful to just...not touch him.
the casual way she'd gone about it before, little brushes of contact, the occasional smack on his arm or a playful nudge ("just checking") — she's dropped it in the last week, without even a poke or prod here and there. it's harder than she expected, and she's caught herself a few times, about to reach out, before pulling back again. she speaks to him the same way (or at least tries to), with the occasional ribbing and joke at his expense, but she catches herself being more mindful of her words. she's not as free as she'd become, and she finds she doesn't like it.
the worst part, however, is that she doesn't think withholding from him has made her feel particularly better about...any of it. the moment (now long gone) and the way she'd felt, the way she continues to dwell— pulling away hasn't made it lessen or disappear like she'd hoped.
why can't it be simple?
after nearing a second week of the limited contact, emma finally decides she's had more than enough of it. she doesn't like dancing around him or what could have (but didn't) happen, and she doesn't like the way she's isolated herself by refusing to be...well, herself with faraday. he's given her the chance to open up and unwind in ways she hadn't since matthew, let her feel warmth and joy and filled her home with laughter again, and— she wants that. she wants to keep that close, and she knows that means keeping him close.
she can't do that if she shuts him out.
unfortunately, being that emma is emma, her pride isn't going to let her just outright apologize to him. of course not. she can't summon up the words, not when she hasn't necessarily done anything; it's more like she hasn't done something, and that's difficult to atone for anyway.
instead, she purchases a bottle of bourbon (which earns her the most startled of looks from rose creek's dutiful bartender), along with a second deck of cards. the bourbon she explains away as a gift, while the cards she says she intends to leave up on the hill, in front of the gently worn cross with faraday's name carved into the wood. that receives far less question, because of course the townspeople still remember what faraday and the others did for rose creek, and given the gambler's penchant for cards and tricks that had delighted the children, it's deemed more than understandable that emma would purchase something so sentimental.
a lovely gesture, she's told.
emma can only manage a smile.
she hasn't seen faraday near so much in the last few days (not that she can blame him, given how uncomfortable she's seemed around him), so she isn't entirely sure when he'll reappear. she doesn't care for that thought, but she can't do an awful lot for it, and instead, just leaves the bottle and the cards at her small table.
it'll be there and waiting for him, whenever he does decide to make himself known. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
matt is in this icon so i guess that counts
she doesn't go out of her way to avoid him like she could, but in so many ways, she's caught in her own thoughts and in trying to parse out what that small, seemingly insignificant encounter in the field with jack had brought up for her. if nothing else, she's preoccupied enough that she doesn't seek faraday out or go looking for his company as she tries to understand what's going on and what she truly believes about the odd nature of the gambler's existence.
is he real? why can only she see him? has she been imagining it all? and if not, what is he?
what, indeed.
she'd promised faraday she wouldn't shut him out again, and she doesn't this time — not intentionally. but with how much she grapples with a reality she's set aside for months now, she doesn't find the opportunity to pay him the kind of mind she usually does, so she doesn't notice quite so much when he spends his time in the town rather than specifically at her side.
someone else notices, however.
there's only one other person who notices faraday whenever he walks beside emma, who sees him pull his pranks or look for something to alleviate his boredom. he watches with a careful eye and never speaks up, never tries to catch either of their attention because...well.
he knows emma will just look right through him.
matthew cullen has filtered in and out of rose creek since the day of his death. he'd seen the way his wife pulled the town out from under bogue's heel with the help of her little mismatched army, and he was proud. his consciousness was always vague, always barely there, and by the time he could finally coalesce for anything worthwhile, emma just never saw him.
it's good, he's told himself. keeps her from dwelling when he knows she needs to move forward with her life, to persevere in that way emma is so good at, but— that was until faraday returned to the world of the living. matthew realizes quickly that faraday is just as much a dead man as matthew when he watches faraday follow emma around, sees how she carefully avoids acknowledging him around the townsfolk, and he knows that unlike himself, emma sees the gambler.
but strangely, he doesn't feel the heavy pangs of regret over this fact. if anything, matthew feels incredibly at peace with his existence, even if emma can't see him. she doesn't need to, is what it comes down to. emma has put him and his spirit at rest, and though he still finds himself returning to the town here and there to see his wife's progress, matthew doesn't feel trapped or unsettled.
emma found righteousness for him, and he's seen his justice.
however, it makes him keenly aware of the reasons emma is still a woman haunted by another ghost.
and what strange reasons they are.
lately, matthew sees faraday in town without emma. odd, given how frequently inseparable they are, he thinks. at first, he doesn't try to get faraday's attention, instead choosing to observe, to see when and how long faraday hangs around by himself, and after a few days of it, matthew's curiosity gets the better of him.
he waits by the imperial saloon, leaning casually against one of the beams supporting the building's balcony as he keeps an eye on the other ghost.
quiet for a long while, before he calls out, keen blue eyes fixed firmly on faraday, ]
Seems like it's not often you wander through here by yourself these days.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...