bakerstreet | ( picture prompt meme )

( picture prompt meme )

the picture prompt meme

I — Comment with your character.
II — Others will leave a picture (or two, or three...)
III — Reply to them with a setting based on the picture.
IV — Link to any pictures that are NSFW, please.
V — Be aware that this meme will be image-heavy.

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( one ; two ; three )

[ The seven of them (nine, counting Emma and the lovesick boy at her heels) get along like a house on fire. Rose Creek doesn't quite know what to make of a group like them, but Goodnight can't hold that against them. Hell, he'd barely known what to make of Billy when they'd first met. And besides, he's got other things to worry about.

(He can't tell what kind of guilt's sitting in his gut, following their first real shoot-out. Guilt over what's in the past, guilt over the shot he'd failed to take, or guilt over what's to come — he knows what it's like to fight in a losing battle, and he's starting to understand what it's like being a losing battle, too. He can shoot the head clear off a straw man, sure, but when it comes down to the men Bogue's sure to bring down on them by the end of the week, hell.

They're just dreams, Billy tells him, but dreams of bad omens — of blood on his hands? They're enough to put the fear of God into any man, let alone one who'd been born and raised on superstition and lucky stars.)

As the women clear out the saloon after dinner, Goody wanders out, setting a small fire not too far from the stables. He takes his rifle with him, setting the barrel against his boot as he looks each part over. (No more excuses, he tells himself, though even he knows he's giving himself too much credit.) The sound of footsteps gives him pause, but he doesn't look up, checking the bolt instead. ]

Didn't nobody teach you not to sneak up on a man with a gun?

[ Goodnight Robicheaux is a legend. The Confederate “Angel of Death.” A man so skilled with a rifle he might have been born firing. A man with eyes so sharp and hands so steady, he could shoot the wings off a fly.

Faraday has a hard time reconciling the man of legend with the man he’s now seen. Sure, the legend is still there – that easy laugh, that crooked, little smile, and that upright bearing of a man who’s been through hell and knows he can survive. And he still carries with him that unnatural ability to fire in a tight spread at a hundred paces away. All of it impressive. All of it intimidating.

But now, he’s seen fear in the legend’s eyes. He’s seen the quake in his hands, the unsteadiness of his legs when the bullets well and truly started firing. Faraday remembers taking down Bogue’s men as they bore down on Robicheaux during that first confrontation, remembers his mind screaming with questions – Why isn’t he shooting? Why isn’t he damn well helping? – remembers it all ending with an unfired rifle – Take the shot. Take the damn shot. – and a wounded man escaping on a horse.

Those that witnessed it don’t mention it, though Faraday catches the concern in Billy’s eyes, the weight of knowledge on Chisolm’s face when they look Goodnight over. They say nothing, so Faraday says nothing. He’s seen a man paralyzed by the throes of fear more than once, after all. He knows how heavy the souls of the dead can be, how reluctant a man becomes to add even more to that burden.

Faraday knows the odds, as the big fight crawls another day closer. He’s lived his life based on chance, on luck of the draw, and he knows better than anyone that this war they’ve waged on Bogue has a high, high likelihood of ending badly for all of them. So he’s not sure why, of all people, he seeks out Goodnight, stumbling out of the saloon with the taste of whiskey still in his mouth. He was hardly trying to sneak up on the man, so he merely grins when Goodnight calls out to him. ]

Didn’t need nobody to teach me. [ The words are round, imprecise from the drink, but Faraday has had years of learning how to handle his alcohol. He only fumbles with his steps a little as he draws closer, laughing as he does. ] Got practical experience on that front. Trial ’n’ error.

More trial than error, seems like, [ Goodnight chuckles, finally looking up. ] Seein' as you're not pushin' up a patch of daisies.

[ Whatever unease or transparency he feels (preoccupied though he's been, he'd have had to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to catch what Faraday was getting at on the makeshift range), there's none on his features, the lines of his face lending themselves to amusement rather than those briefly-seen sharp edges of panic. A reminder, really, of the price paid for infamy, for getting away where thousands of other men had met their deaths. (For getting away despite being on the wrong side of the war.)

In truth, he's not sure how to make that reconciliation, either. He means what he says to Chisolm, later — I've become everything I despise — but it's his cross to bear. No one, not even Billy, can walk through the fire in his place.

Setting his gun aside, he gestures for Faraday to join him by the fire. Whatever soul-searching he's come out here to do can wait. Not that he'd ever admit to it, anyway. ]

How'd ol' Chisolm find you, then?

[ A beat, as he produces a flask from his jacket pocket, the fleur de lis matching the pins on his coat. ]

Horne, I heard of, and Vasquez's got himself that pretty little warrant, but you— you're a man of mystery, Mr. Faraday.

[ Now that’s the look of the man he had imagined, when Chisolm sent him out on the start of his fool’s errand, and that was the man he met in the little saloon, who laughed heartily and freely. Is this the real Robicheaux, or is this the mask?

Faraday supposes it doesn’t really matter which side is real, so long as one of those sides does what needs to be done, rides out with the rest of them to failure or success. Whatever the outcome of the upcoming brawl, Faraday knows only that it’s bound to be bloody, and that they’re going to need every man they’ve got.

At the invitation, Faraday trudges over, thumbs hooked into the gun belt hanging from his hips, moving to Robicheaux’s side. He mulls over the question, casting the other man a sidelong glance and a wry sort of smile. ]

That's a hell of a name. “Man of mystery.”

[ He lets the title hang in the air for a moment, the crackling of the fire filling the silence, before he shrugs a shoulder. ]

Ain’t much of a mystery, though. We crossed paths, me ‘n’ Chisolm, and he did me a good turn. Been in his debt ever since.

[ A pause, as he frowns down at the fire. ] Not entirely sure when I’ll ever have that debt paid off, but there it is.

[ The best lies are grown from a seed of truth. That's not to make excuses, nor to cast aspersions — it's just a fact, one that he's become better acquainted with as he's tried to balance the weight his name now carries with his own ability to match the ebb and flow of expectations. (It's like trying to swim with a brick in his pocket. It's not enough to drown him — not yet, leastways — but it makes it hard to stay afloat, too.) ]

I wouldn't worry too much about it, were I in your shoes, [ Goody says, a touch of amusement in his voice. ] He ain't a man to beat about the bush — as we both know — and he's not one to hang on to a leash too long, either.

[ There's a flash of teeth, then, as he smiles, the grin sitting crooked on his features. The expression's honest, for lack of a better way of putting it. (Funny, isn't it? The man dressed like death himself, all in black, has saved each of their sorry lives in some small way. What we lost in the fire— just a little more literally, in the case of Rose Creek.)

It's a general friendliness that belies the doubt that's been seen in shades on the faces of Billy and Chisolm, let alone Faraday, let alone the way bad luck's become something that Goody's started looking over his shoulder for. Admission and denial, both, one supposes. Admission, as presented by lack of argument; denial, as presented by lack of action. Fitting enough for a man with two selves. ]

Still — it's good to have you with us.

[ He raises his flask in an impromptu toast, taking a swig before offering his compatriot the same. It's not a habit he ought to encourage, maybe, but they've each got their vices. A fondness for drink is a small sin. ]

[ He’s not entirely sure if the comment is sincere or some kind of platitude – or some kind of encouragement a soldier might offer his fellows on the eve of battle to keep their spirits up – but all the same, Faraday offers a boyish sort of smile in reply. ]

Certainly can’t say this experience has lacked for excitement.

[ Faraday has never been one to turn down a proffered drink – and if he had the choice, he would spend his waking life at least half drunk, as he is now. Keeps at bay the visions of life fading from men’s eyes, lives taken by a single pull of a trigger, by his own hand. Makes the weight of dead men on his shoulders that much easier to bear. And when he tips himself across that line, drinks himself into oblivion, his sleep is filled with blackness, rather than nightmares.

So when Goodnight offers, Faraday takes. His hand wraps around the black flask, the fleur de lis pressing against his fingers, and he offers a quick, grateful nod before he takes a healthy swig. The alcohol burns as it washes down his throat, sends a brief flare of warmth through his system, and he voices his sigh after he swallows it down. He examines the flask, the metal catching the firelight, and murmurs an idle, ]

Pretty.

[ before he hands it back. The back of his wrist brushes across the corner of his mouth, catches a bead of alcohol there. ]

What about you? [ Lightly, conversationally, like the question hasn’t ricocheted around in his head since the day they met. ] You and Chisolm go back a long ways, right?

I've known him even longer than I've known even Billy, [ Goodnight answers, the flask disappearing back into his jacket. ] I guess you could say that, much like yourself, I owe him a debt. [ A pause, and then, for poetry's sake: ] A debt of honor, if you will.

[ When he falls silent this time, it's not clear whether he means to elaborate. The threads of his life are all tangled up in one another; the good, the bad, and the strange, inextricable in a way that makes him reluctant to dig too deep. To wit, there's something faraway in Goody's expression as he looks away from Faraday and into the fire. It's not that his facade slips, but the firelight casts a different sheen to it, something a little closer to the stoicism Chisolm wears.

The men to whom he owes his life — Sam Chisolm, Billy Rocks — are men who shouldn't have had a second thought casting him into the gutter. He knows that full well, knows what the uniform he'd worn during the war had stood for and that, while the skin you're born into can be scrubbed away, it's never an easy feat. New friends do not a complete liberal make.

And so (in echo)— ]

He did me a good turn. Been payin' that debt back here and there ever since, though I'd like to think it's turned into more of a friendship than a ledger note since then. He oughta been the last man on earth to raise his hand in defense of my sorry skin, but he did.

[ A pause, again. (The mask shifts, returning to its usual easy state.) ]

Though I'm sure he'd tell it different.

[ There’s a rhythm to the way Goodnight speaks that confounds Faraday, in much the same way he finds it pleasant. Musical, in its way, even if some of it sails clear over Faraday’s head.

Much different to Faraday’s words – always marred by a wryness, twisted by some sarcastic lilt. He keeps his cards close to the chest, throws off attention with an easy smile and a quick joke, employing the sort of patter typical of a magician. “Keep talking. Keep them off-center. Never let them see the heart of things.”

Drinking tends to loosen his tongue, though, makes him set aside the usual smoke and mirrors with a quick salute and a jaunty, “Take a break for the night, fellas.” He casts a look at Goodnight – the piercing gaze of a sharpshooter, even with the alcohol making the edges slightly fuzzy – and lets out a soft noise of agreement. Then, ]

So which is it that’s keepin’ you here? [ Straight to the point, shooting from the hip. None of his usual banter or distraction tactics. ] Debt or friendship?

[ Cajun, Chisolm calls him. It's a fact as much as it is an epithet; from his very name, Goodnight Robicheaux projects a very specific kind of image, one that fits into the mold cast by his deeds at Antietam. His clothes are well-kept, the silver pins on his jacket a little dulled by dust but still conscious touches. He speaks with a kind of poetry, and conducts himself in the same way, like he's never found a part of life that he hasn't enjoyed — laissez les bons temps rouler.

But in the end, he supposes, there's a little bit of smoke and mirrors to all of them. The straw that breaks the camel's back can just as well be of its own making rather than added by some yokel.

The question's more straightforward than the rest of their conversation so far. Goody can hear it in Faraday's tone, see it in his expression, let alone in the immediate structure of his words. It's not a question with any two ways about it; it's one or the other. Picking something in the middle just means he's blind, or worse, uncertain. ]

Friendship.

[ There's only the slightest crook to the line of Goodnight's mouth when he offers up the answer, accompanied by a nod of his head. It's a sly expression, for lack of a better word for it, suffused with a mirth that carries into what he says next. ]

I owe him that much.

[ He watches Goodnight for a breath or two more, as if merely staring at the man could wring the truth out of him. It can’t, and it won’t, he knows. On other men, it might work, but not on a man like this. He’s seen the way Goodnight snaps his mask back into place, so expertly one could hardly see the seams. Years of experience, maybe, or of necessity.

Faraday likes to think he’s good at reading people – an essential skill, when one makes his living on spotting bullshit during a game of cards – but he’s never had as much difficulty with anyone as much as he’s had with this ragtag group of strays. Chisolm and Robicheaux seem to top that list, seem to flout his skills without even trying.

(If it hadn’t been for that first clash in Rose Creek, that brief flash of weakness, Faraday thinks he would have never doubted Goodnight’s mask. Would have kept on happily believing the Angel of Death to be infallible, despite fighting on the wrong side of a war.)

For now, he contents himself with Goodnight’s words, with the amusement that fuels them, and gives a slight quirk of his eyebrow. ]

Must be one helluva friendship— [ Brightly, mirroring that humor in Goodnight’s voice. ] —if this is the kinda favor you’d happily repay.

[ Goodnight laughs. (The firelight catches on his gold teeth, the shine turning his expression wolfish though no less good-natured.) He knows full well what a strange group they make, how the reasons each of them gives for being here don't quite measure up to what they're likely to have to sacrifice. A debt, a bounty postponed, a different path — friendship. All bound together by the winds of fortune and pure chance.

But, he supposes, wars have been waged for less. ]

You never met a man you'd take a bullet for? [ he says, only half facetious. It's a way of shifting the topic of conversation; his friendship with Chisolm isn't something he's unwilling to discuss, but the particulars of their meeting aren't something he's proud of. (No man's ever too willing to discuss a fight in which he lost.)

And, in the end, he still doesn't know a whit about Faraday, despite his suggestion thus far that there's not much to tell. Granted, the only one of them he's got any real grasp on is Horne, and that's just due to the stories passed around about him in the mountains. Maybe it's just that a bullshitter knows how to spot another bullshitter, or maybe Faraday's story really doesn't have anything to it.

But, all things considered, he's not too willing to believe that. ]

[ There’s not much to Faraday, as far as he would tell it. He’s a simple man who likes drinking, likes gambling, likes women, likes smoking – and all of it in excess. He likes sharing and hearing stories, spinning tales that grow bigger and bigger with each retelling, laughing at the absurdity of it all until his stomach aches and his sides feel liable to split open. He likes cleaning idiots out of their money, likes it even better when he doesn’t have to bother with his usual sleight of hand, and likes falling into bed with a pretty lady at the end of the day.

Simple. Easy.

Goodnight’s question earns a brief smile – little more than a quirk at the corner of Faraday’s mouth – and he shakes his head. ]

Don’t know if anyone’s worthy of that particular privilege.

[ Because Faraday is simple, which means he’s selfish. Which means he looks out for himself, because no one else will, and it means he’s killed, over and over, to protect his own sorry hide.

(Which of course begs the question, why is Faraday still here in Rose Creek? A damn fine question, really.

Eventually he’ll have an answer.)

He’s quick to turn it into a joke, though, because everything might as well be a joke. ]

I hate gettin’ shot, besides. It hurts.

[ The words take their course, easy the way fording a river is when you can see exactly where it's running. An answer, then a diffusion, the lampshade placed over the flame to cast a different kind of color to its glow. A rudimentary kind of trick, maybe, but he suspects they've all been guilty of it at one point or another. All of them save Chisolm, most likely. ]

"Trial and error," ain't that right?

[ Goody hums, the toes of his boots briefly tapping against each other in humor. ]

You'll find no argument from me, there. Whether it comes from the barrel of a gun, the blade of a knife, or even just the ridge of a man's knuckles, a wound's the least pleasant reminder of the fact you're still alive.

[ There's something a little more loaded in what he's saying — how many men would take pain over death, how many men had been left crippled by the war — but he passes it off just as easily as he's passed off the rest of their conversation thus far. (Cards tricks of a different sort.) No good in lingering on what's past, anyway. ]

Doesn't compare to a fine wine, or the love of a good woman.

[ He listens as much as he watches, sees the flash of something beneath the surface, hears the stirrings of something behind those words. He’s not sure if it’s the booze in his veins or Goodnight’s practiced skill that keeps him from piercing that veil, but Faraday senses, at least, that he’s missing something. Just isn’t sure what.

The war is a dangerous topic for anyone on either side, and Faraday figures it’s worse for a Confederate – those folks don’t have the satisfaction of at least coming out the victor. So when Goody talks about wounds, a morbid curiosity stirs in him, and Faraday wants to ask, You get many of those back in the day? Wants to ask, ’S that why you shut down so bad your knees knocked together? ‘Cause you didn’t wanna get hurt? ‘Cause you didn’t wanna cause that hurt?

He doesn’t, though. Keeps the damn questions to himself, because he knows not to mess with a mountain lion when it doesn’t have you in its sights. But the inclination is there in the narrowing of his eyes, in the piercing way he observes Goodnight. At length, he drags his gaze away, turns his attentions to the fire in front of him.

Says mildly, ] Tanglefoot and saloon girls work just as well for some folk, you know.

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( picture prompt meme )

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