otherwordly.

[gameofsocks]

Otherwordly Meme

Sometimes all you need is a word to spark off an idea.

1. Post a comment with your character's name, canon, and any preferences you may have (no shipping, no smut, etc.)

2. Leave the comment blank or post a word or two in the body.

It may also help if you list scenarios you would like to play.

3. Reply to other people, either with words you picked out, or words they posted as prompts for a thread.

Comments

don't mind me. i'm trash.

[agitater]

[ x | x | x ]

i hope this is ok!

[peacemakers]

[ They say the nightmares never go away.

They don't, really. Faraday was living proof of that, wading through dreams of death and blood and the smoking revolvers in his hands. Of fear and anger and a terrible certainty that this is it. This is the end. This is the hill I die on. He dreams of the men he's killed, of the men who have tried to kill him, of the men he failed to help.

He dreams of Rose Creek, awash with blood, stores and homes burning and smouldering. He dreams of streets filled with still bodies. He dreams of Goodnight, of Billy, of Horne. He dreams of their eyes, dark and dull and heavy with accusation, their bloodless lips moving and asking without breath, why weren't you faster?

He dreams of a deafening explosion.

Boom.

He wakes to the sunlight filtering in through his window, the summer heat giving way to fall, and even as the dark curtain of sleep leaves him, he still hears their whispers: you don't deserve to be here.

Closing in on four months, now, and during that time, he tries not to let the dreams wear at him. Tries not to let the new demons drive their claws into his back. Tries and fails. And by the time Emma arrives for her nightly visit on this day, Faraday stands by the window, arm still resting in its sling – sore, but mostly healed. He's dressed, as he usually is now, in fresh clothes provided by grateful townsfolk to replace what was ripped and punctured and soaked almost entirely with his blood. His hat lies on the nightstand within easy reach.

And for the first time in a long time, his gun belt sits on his hips.

He means to leave – convinced himself of it earlier that afternoon. He means to go, he means to run. As fast and as far as he can. He needs to escape these ghosts, and leaving Rose Creek in the dust seems the only sure way to do that.

The creaking of wood gives away Emma's approach, and he rouses from his thoughts, turning to look back at her. A look of guilt crosses his face, like he hadn't intended to stay long enough to see her. Like he wanted to slip out into the night and be two towns over before sunrise. He doesn't think she would miss him. Doesn't really think anyone here would, if he's honest, outsider that he is. And in a year or two, his part in Rose Creek's history will be erased.

(He doesn't know why the thought of her forgetting him twists and stings in his chest.)

After a half-second, he wrangles his face into a strained sort of half-smile. ]

Evenin'.

as if anything you write could be less than perfect! ♥

[agitater]

[ once, only a matter of days before bogue and his men descended onto the town like a storm, faraday spoke of nightmares with a solemnity she hadn't thought him capable of at the time, and she asked him if they often kept him up. the darkness creeping into the edges of his stare had been enough.

now she has her answer. now she's borne witness first hand to a restless night's sleep. heard the choked cries that occasionally slip out. in the harsh light of day, she smiles, goes about her business as usual. painfully aware that anything she says, anything she asks, will only be misconstrued. faraday had nearly died for rose creek, but he defends nothing so closely as himself. arrogance and foolish pride.

largely, she doesn't bring it up because it's a conversation even she doesn't want to touch on. because, if he asks, she would need to admit that, when she sleeps at all, her dreams have been largely untroubled, and what does that say about her exactly?

nightmares about bogue and his men were commonplace prior to the battle. looming over her with a sickening sneer, fingers curling slowly about her neck. squeezing, squeezing until her eyes bulged and no amount of kicking or bucking or scratching could push him away or earn a reprieve.

it's her days, now, that are haunted. while painting fresh boards outside the church, she swears she can hear phantom laughter drifting on the wind. whooping and gunshots over the faint, tinny echo of the bell they haven't run since that day. while walking home from the schoolhouse one night, from the corner of her eye she could swear she sees jack perched on the saloon steps. the dark pits of his eyes just barely visible underneath the brim of his hat.

coincidence, possible. a guilty conscience more likely. it's these occurrences that keep her up more nights. and still, she watches him and knows for certain that whatever tortures her mind may inflict on her, it's nothing in comparison to what he must see.

still, her visits come each day without fail. always in the afternoon, though earlier now that the doctor has limited his restrictions somewhat. allowing him to take advantage of as much daylight as possible.

she stutter-steps to a halt in the doorway, the smile that's been coming more easily and regularly lately evaporating in the space of a heartbeat. it isn't unusual for him to be on his feet now that he's allowed, but with the last few months of disciplined bed rest, the belt slung low on his hips sticks out like a sore thumb.

if only there were an easy explanation for the way the sight hits her. a punch to the gut, a rushed exhalation. nodding to the gun belt, her expression remains blank. almost entirely devoid of shock. almost, but not quite. ]

You goin' somewhere?

[peacemakers]

[ For as much as he felt he had convinced himself of leaving, for as much as it seemed to be the only possible solution for escaping the voices that haunt him, something held him back. He wasn't sure what, really. Fondness, maybe, for the town he had protected, who had begrudgingly taken him in (because that's all it really could be. Despite his part in protecting Rose Creek, there was nothing he could ever be but a stranger. An outlaw). Fear, maybe, that convalescing as he still is, his hands may not be as quick, his aim not as true, his eyes not as sharp, and that his weakness will see the end of him outside of this town's borders, when a half dozen bullets and an explosion couldn't do him in.

(Regret, maybe. Because Emma has been kind, has been a constant presence at his side when she had no reason to be. And it seemed unfair to flout her kindness by disappearing without a word.

But a part of him thinks she was only there out of obligation. Guilt. Four months is a long time to serve penance, and his no longer being here would be one less thing on her plate.)

For as good as he is at reading people, that look that crosses Emma's face is lost on him. Might as well be a blank slate, for all she gives away. A bit of surprise on the edges, though he has no earthly clue what it means. Chisolm left, as did Vasquez and Red Harvest. Seemed only fitting that he should take his leave, too.

He turns, leaning back against the wall with his thumbs hooked over his gun belt. The leather is worn and scuffed, and dark as it is, splotches of his blood had stained it darker still. Seemed a shame to replace it, when it survived the blast just as well as he did. ]

... Thought it might be time to move on.

[ He brings up a small smile, tries to keep his expression light, even while something twists in his gut. A strange mix of feelings that's been tangling itself up for days, and he hadn't been able to uncoil it before Emma's daily visit. ]

I— well. 'S been a long while, now. Job's been done for ages, so...

[ He trails off, his smile dimming a little before he shrugs. ]

[agitater]

[ there's no earthly reason she can think of for his sudden readiness to leave to have caught her off guard. when the battle was finally over, the dust hadn't even settled before chisolm, vasquez, and red harvest had left with only an uncomfortable tip of her hat and her broken thank you to mark everything they had been through. and why shouldn't they? the payment they had been offered was to help rose creek rise up in defiance of the evil menacing their town. the burials, the damage done, is up to the town to deal with.

that faraday, arguably the most restless of all the men, has managed to stick around this long is a miracle in and of itself. countless days emma has stepped through the door, half expecting to see the covers thrown back and no sign of the man who had thrown himself bodily into harms way for a town he owed little.

so now here it is. his long expected exit. a long time coming, so why then does it feel as if the air is slowly being squeezed from her lungs?

another step or two brings her to the bedside chair she's spent so much time in of late, her fingers curling at the top. steadying. calming. he smiles and she attempts to mirror the action, but it amounts to little more than a twitching at the corner of her mouth. pitiful by anyone's judgment. ]

You really think that's wise, Mr. Faraday? Leaving before you're healed?

[ the words don't hold her usual bite, but there's an undeniable iciness to them. steeling herself for the inevitable even as they speak. ]

If anything were to happen to you...

[ teeth close on the inside of her cheek as the words trail off. it's too much. overstepping some imagined boundary, to admit that the thought of him getting hurt again, or worse, causes something in her stomach to ache. the same as she did when they finally found him out in that field. bloody and broken, barely resembling the smart mouthed gambler she had known. ]

I made a promise to Mr. Chisolm to see that you're taken care of, and I'm not in the habit of breaking my promises.

[ it's the closest she dares come to the truth. steady gaze drifting down to the arm held close in a sling before moving back up. ]

[peacemakers]

[ The coldness in her words surprises him; part of him expected she would be relieved to see him preparing himself to go, would gently encourage him in that course of action, even. Rose Creek was a wholesome sort of town, its homes filled by honest folk, trying to eke out a living out on the frontier. A man like Faraday only darkened it with his sordid past, and he felt he must stand as a dark reminder of that blood-soaked day, facing down Bogue and his men. The scorch marks and bullet holes on the town's buildings were work like badges of pride, in some ways, and stood in honor of the lives that were lost.

Faraday, though – he was like a bookmark in a chapter the town likely wanted to close. Riding out would surely allow the townsfolk to finally move on.

So why, then, did Emma speak so coldly? Why did she seem so impassive and uncertain?

His gaze follows hers down to his still mending arm, and on some animal instinct, he pulls it closer to his side, shields it with his good arm. The mention of Chisolm makes him huff out a dark little laugh, twists his mouth into a self-deprecating smile.

Chisolm. Right. The man who had brought him here, and the man who had tasked Emma with his care. That old obligation again – likely what turned her voice to ice. ]

Sam's miles away by now. [ A reassurance, in a while. "Don't worry about Chisolm." ]

He knows the kind of man I am, anyhow. He certainly wouldn't be able to blame you for whatever trouble I got myself into.