bakerstreet | ( picture prompt meme )

[if you don't mind cross-canon, maybe all/a mix of these might be of interest to you?

1 2 3 4]

(( i'm mostly canonblind on red dead, so let me know if i need to edit anything! ))

[ It starts, as these things tend to, with too many drinks.

But that's about normal for a night in a saloon, filled with men too lonely and angry to do much else but drink, desperate for the attentions of the smiling saloon girls who sing and dance for them. Some men forego the empty affections of the girls, opting instead to gamble their money away for the cheap thrill of a win. Not likely to happen when they sit at a table with Josh Faraday, but he takes pity on them, now and again. Loses a hand here and there, just to keep things on the level. Eventually the game ends, and the other men step away with emptier pockets. Faraday gives them a jaunty little wave as they part and heads to the bar to celebrate coming out on top.

For once, it's not Faraday that starts the fight, though the man who had been seated across from him during the game, Connelly, was certainly itching for the gun holstered at his belt. No, whoever started it evidently had aims to finish it, because pistols quickly came into play. The first bullet fires, piercing the quiet hum of conversation and off-key piano playing. It shatters the bottles on display behind the bar, and the room devolves into chaos. Indiscriminate violence. The type of fight where a man isn't likely to find many friends.

Faraday, being the type of man who thrives in bedlam, dives behind the dubious cover of the bar – only to find someone else already had the same idea. He's not in much of a mood for killing tonight (or most days, if he's honest), and he's quick to hold up a hand in what ought to be a nonthreatening gesture. His other hand, though, rests on the grip of his gun. ]

Don't shoot. [ Level and calm, though he raises his voice to be heard over the brawl. ] I'm not lookin' to kill or be killed, tonight.

((no worries, this is good!))

[There’s nothing quite as sobering as the sound of a bullet whizzing past one’s ear. It’s enough to kill the slow burn of whiskey, to transform a blurred focus into something over-aware and razor-sharp. It incites the ever prevalent question of fight or flight — a switch flipping on, a coiled spring unleashing — and moments later, Jack has already decided. The bar would be cover enough (it would have to be, for now), and he pushes his weight up and over, landing on his feet behind it in a crouch. His boots crunch on broken glass and he curses loudly to no one in particular, clearly frustrated that his simple desire for a quiet drink had been so unduly interrupted.]

Goddamn fools can’t go without startin’ a fight every ten minutes!

[Even as his yelling falls on deaf ears, he’s already unholstering his gun, an old revolver that looks like it’s seen better days. Jack stands — or at least he tries to, making an attempt to peer over the bar at the idiots who are shooting in his direction for no real reason, but reels back the moment someone else leaps over his makeshift cover and lands next to him. An indecipherable mix of confusion, panic, and frustration courses through him as he immediately aims his weapon at the stranger.

The calmness of the man’s tone does little to quell his over-saturation of adrenaline, but it’s at least enough to stop him from pulling the trigger. Jack’s eyes narrow in vague recognition from under the brim of his hat; the man at the cards and dice table, taking money from everyone around him just slow enough so they wouldn’t notice. He scoffs, but the sound is lost in the chaos.]

But you sure are lookin’ to agitate a couple of sore losers with-

[A bottle shatters above them, spraying alcohol and shards of glass everywhere. Jack grimaces, lowering his gun.]

-with itchy trigger fingers!

[ Faraday flinches at the cascade of glass and liquor, raising an arm to shield his face. When he comes up, though, he comes up glowering – not at the broken bottles, but at the man beside him. ]

Now, I resent that. Ain’t no fault of mine if folks can’t take getting’ parted from their money with any sense of grace—

[ Though there’s a glint in his eye, something that speaks of amusement. Clearly this stranger caught him red-handed, even if he hadn’t been gambling alongside the other men at Faraday’s table. Faraday supposes distance had something to do with it, a bird’s-eye view that put Faraday’s little tricks into perspective. The men at the table with him certainly hadn’t noticed, even as their funds grew lighter and lighter as the night went on.

But that’s neither here nor there, and a bullet takes off a chunk of the bar top, sending down a shower of splintered wood. Faraday huffs out an agitated breath, even as a nervous excitement licks up behind his sternum. Just because he has little desire to put a man down doesn’t mean he can’t still ride the familiar waves of a battle high.

He nods to the revolver in the other man’s hand as he draws out both of his own. ]

Listen, friend— [ Still half-shouted over the din of battle, though there’s levity in his tone. ] I wager we’ve got a mutual desire to not swallow a mouth full’a’ lead tonight. So how ‘bout I don’t shoot you, you don’t shoot me, and we work on gettin’ ourselves outta here?

[A part of Jack — the mostly bullheaded, independent part — is tempted to tell this stranger with a knack for cheating at cards to take a long walk off a tall cliff, though perhaps in less kinder terms. But before he can re-educate this man on just how unaffected he actually is at the idea of a "mouth full of lead" (even as splinters of jagged wood find themselves stuck in his hat, the rest scattered almost comically around them), another shot rings out nearby; it's the familiar low, rumbling thunder of a shotgun, its buckshot spreading and piercing tiny holes in the shelves of the bar, just above their heads.]

Shit- [He curses in a hiss between his teeth, quick to reconsider. His hand tightens around the grip of his revolver, frowning. Whereas Faraday employs levity, Jack is quick to counter with a wry tone that dances of the knife edge of incisiveness.]

'Long as you know how to shoot straight and don't get in my way, I reckon I don't have a problem with that. Problem bein', though, is that the exit is over yonder-

[He gestures with his gun, in the complete opposite direction of where they've chosen their cover.] -and we've got too many drunken, angry bastards between us to count. Hope you got more than just six shots in that sidearm of yours.

Twelve, actually.

[ A bright, cheery response, as he twirls the revolvers in either hand with practiced ease. ]

Altogether, that is.

[ Which, no matter how you count it, is still six shots per gun. And probably not a reassuring response, but Faraday is not in the habit of missing. Twelve shots is more than enough to carve themselves a path; he imagines he could have done it on his own, in fact, but this partnership, temporary as it is, at least ensures one less man gunning for his back. Also means he has at least a little cover fire, depending on how handy this stranger is with his weapons.

(Faraday allows for the fact that the man could be one of those foolhardy types who strap a gun to his hip and hopes that alone is enough to strike fear in men. In which case, well, at least the man would make for a good distraction.)

He turns to face their exit, still behind the uncertain cover of the wooden bar. He stays crouched with his guns at the ready, prepared to come up firing.

And he smiles, sharp and mean. ]

On your count, then, compadre.

[Jack rolls his eyes at the display, exasperation flashing through his features. He doesn't seem terribly impressed by Faraday's eagerness, and for a second he wonders just what he's agreed to, but just as quickly the thought is discarded. He's been through worse, and if he were to be honest, two — sorry, three — revolvers would be miles better than just one.

And so, doggedly, he responds in turn.] Right. Compadre. On three. [He exhales, setting his jaw, then counts.] One, two... three!

[It's funny, how quickly a man who had seemed so reluctant earlier leaps over the counter without a moment's hesitation. To an onlooker, Jack would resemble a bobcat springing out to catch its prey, muscles tense and a snarl on his face. But instead of claws and teeth, his gun fires into the swath of men before him. One falls over, red staining a shoulder, while some scatter and yell in surprise. The others? Like hornets whose nests have been kicked, buzzing with ire.]

Come on, then! [-he yells over the ruckus, to both the men and his temporary companion. As far as Jack is concerned, the ones that haven't gotten directly out of his way have just managed to differentiate themselves as targets for their bullets.]

[ Faraday's not too far behind his new companion, darting up over the counter just a second after. (There is something to be said, after all, about having something of a meat shield.) He's impressed, though, with how game the man seems to be, despite the fury of only moments ago, how fair his shot is when he clears the bar.

Not one to be shown up, Faraday feels that familiar surge of excitement. Two shots fire off – one, blasting the gun out of a man's hand. Surely some dislocated fingers, there, or a broken wrist, but better than being dead – though if this keeps up Faraday doesn't mind remedying that little problem. A second, into the meat of someone's thigh, sending him crashing to the ground.

It has the predictable outcome of scattering more men, angering those who are too drunk or foolhardy to know any better. Instead of being cowed by the feral looks of rage, Faraday just smiles in challenge and charges forward. ]

Try to keep up!

[That makes something sounding like a "ha!" to escape from Jack's lips, devoid of any actual humor, an automatic response to his companion's bravado. Try to keep up? Who the hell he think he is? Of course, there's no time to quip back, as much as the words dance on the tip of his tongue; already, a man nearby, reeking of whiskey, throws a hard right hook in his direction, and Jack has to reel backwards to avoid knuckles slamming into his jaw.

He's only mostly successful. The hit grazes him across the chin (not enough to stun him, but maybe enough to leave a bruise for later) and Jack retaliates by pistol-whipping the drunkard. It works, but it appears that a few others have gotten it into their heads that fighting mano-a-mano is the best course of action, and two more agitated men move towards Jack. One twists his free arm back, the other grabs at his torso, pushing him back into a table not yet upturned.

Jack yells and curses. Fires his gun up into the air, mis-timed thanks to his center of balance being pushed back. Swears to god that he's gonna kill every last one of your bastards-

It would all be very comedic if it wasn't so damn annoying.]

[ Distracted as he is with pushing forward, Faraday nearly misses his new friend’s little problem with the drunkards behind them – and probably would have continued on, if it hadn’t been for the wild shot slamming into the ceiling, sending down a spray of wooden splinters. Faraday turns, expecting a new threat—

Except it’s nothing particularly noteworthy. In fact, it’s his temporary ally, grappling with two corned men. Faraday would laugh (and probably will later on, provided they both managed to shove through and make it to the batwing doors at the entrance), but mostly he feels that spike of excitement in his belly that widens that feral sort of smile curling his lips.

He darts over, grabs one of the men by the scruff of the neck and spins him around. Faraday’s elbow cracks into the man’s nose, sends him sprawling into a few other men who turn on him, dragging him into their brawl. Before he can raise his gun on the second man, Faraday spots Connelly, one of his tablemates from his game of poker, snarling and diving at him from his left. The man shouts something about “yellow-bellied, no-good cheats,” and Faraday ducks under his wild swing, sidesteps another.

Faraday, frequently in the habit of making excellent life choices, decides to taunt Connelly, shouting, “Ain’t my fault you can’t tell a King from a deuce.” This has the expected outcome of incensing Connelly even further, and he charges forward, driving his shoulder into Faraday’s gut. The two of them disappear into the crowd. ]

[To say that Jack doesn't exactly find his current situation all that humorous is likely an understatement. If there's a flicker of gratitude at Faraday wrestling one of the two men off of him, it's smothered under the fact that there's still one clinging to his torso as tight as a bear, pushing him into one of card tables with a loud clatter. Whereas his companion somewhere out there is sporting a grin, likely born of the adrenaline from such an unfortunate saloon fight, Jack is scowling hard enough that his face just might get stuck like that, eyes narrowed equally as much.]

Get offa me-! [He brings an elbow down hard into the man's back, which frees him just enough to follow it up with a knee to the gut. His opponent releases completely, air knocked out of him, and the force carries him to the ground; he doesn't get back up, too drunk or too sore to be bothered either way.

(Jack straightens and kicks him in the face with his boot for good measure, just to be sure.)

For a rare moment, he's then granted the smallest reprieve, able to look at his surroundings without being attacked just yet. It's like standing in the eye of a storm, noise and chaos swirling around him at all sides, swears and bullets and fists and broken glass flying, and Jack reaches up to fix his hat, which had fallen crooked during his tussle. He turns his head to hear his ally toss a barb at another man (another card-player, if he remembered correctly), only to be shoulder-checked straight into the crowd.

The excitement hasn't gotten to Jack enough for him not to roll his eyes, and he nearly does, for a brief moment contemplating just making a dash for the exit now that he's currently free of any harassment. But for one reason or another, the thought dissipates, and he finds himself pushing himself through the angry crowd to where Connelly and Faraday are.]

You done foolin' around or am I gonna have to just leave you here?! [-he yells at Faraday, but only after swinging to hit Connelly in the jaw with the butt of his revolver. (Never mind the fact that Jack had found himself similarly inconvenienced just moments before.)]

[ Before Jack bursts through the crowd, Faraday was dealing with his Connelly problem with grace and aplomb.

Sure, the press of the crowd meant the fight was a little more close quarters than Faraday would’ve liked, with little space to regroup. And sure, Connelly had gotten in a few good licks, and Faraday would likely have a nice bruise blossoming along his cheekbone. But Faraday had style and personality, and had probably broken Connelly’s nose (and his spirit with a few good verbal barbs) before Jack sends Connelly sprawling to the ground. ]

Now, what kinda gratitude is that— [ He dodges away from an aimless swing from a man to his right, shoves him away into other nearby combatants who gladly wallop the man for his troubles. ] — after I so nobly saved you?

[ Granted, Faraday had left Jack alone to contend with his second assailant, and that Jack had already returned the favor.

Details.

But after that, Faraday turns toward the exit again, decks a man coming toward him with a haymaker, and tosses over his shoulder, ]

You’re welcome, by the way.

[Jack opens his mouth to respond, but he’s reached a level of unexpected exasperation and bewilderment at this man’s cocksure nature, and his words fail to tumble out. He closes his mouth, setting his jaw, to keep himself looking like a fool.

A couple of feet adjacent to him, a man rushes forward to swing at his face. Annoyed, Jack steps aside and elbows him in the throat; he coughs and crumples over, but the young Marston can’t even be bothered to watch. His eyes are fixed on the back of Faraday’s head as they both storm through the crowd, and he finally manages—]

Don’t go tellin’ me you’re welcome when I’ve got nothin’ to thank you for!

[Or at least, he’s repaid the favor, and shouldn’t feel obligated to say things such as thank you. He steps over the man his companion knocked over, careful not to catch the toe of his boot on him.]

[ Faraday scowls over his shoulder, though the expression is more for show than any ill-intent. ]

See if I help you out of another bind like that, compadre.

[ Which is the only complaint he offers as a drunk stumbles into his path, knocked senseless by another man’s blow. Faraday lets the poor sap fall on his ass before he continues on, hopping lightly over the groaning man. A few more seconds, and Faraday bursts through the swinging doors and onto the dark streets of the small town.

The night air chills against Faraday’s flushed skin, and he hurries a few more paces away, not content to trust that the saloon has contained the worst of the fight. A few men whimper on the tavern’s wooden porch, having been flung through what remained of the glass windows. In the cool night air, well across the street on the porch of the building opposite the saloon, Faraday finally leans forward, hands braced against his knees to catch his breath. Lantern light catches the white of his teeth as he grins. ]

Well. That was bracin’.

Bracin’? [Jack can’t help but echo the word, out of breath, having followed his companion across the street. Behind them, the yelling from the saloon sounds muffled, almost far-away. In the light of the slowly swaying lantern above, shadows play across his features in an even rhythm, accentuating his look of vexation. It isn’t as poignant as before, having less of a reason to feel exasperated now that they’re in relative safety, but it remains palpable in his voice.]

Yeah. Bracin’. As much as a bullet to the head.

[He straightens. It’s not the worst he’s ever been through — but it isn’t as if he ever wishes for bullets to go flying all around him when he’s just trying to enjoy a nice quiet drink. He fixes his hat, fingers pinching at its brim.]

Thanks for the bracin’ time, stranger, but I’m startin’ to think that’s enough vigorous activity for one night.

[Jack was never the type for polite goodbyes, for lingering thank you’s. He’s already turning around, boots scuffling on the patio as he makes his way to where he had kept his horse tied nearby.

Except, well, there’s a noticeably empty space where his horse had once been. He freezes, and then:]

Sons of bitches stole my horse!

[Or it spooked and ran off. Or someone managed to escape the chaos like they did, and rode the closest horse they could find to safety. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that his horse was gone.]

[ Faraday, for his part, can’t say that this numbers anywhere near the rudest encounters in his lifetime; at least this stranger did him the kindness of not trying to shoot him in the back, which is far more than he can say for most of the folks he’s run into.

So as Jack turns to leave, Faraday straightens and pulls a cigar from the breast pocket of his vest, offering a chipper little wave to Jack’s retreating back – only the man pulls up short. Shouts about his horse.

Faraday glances up, then, to the tethering posts and watering troughs standing on the street. They do seem to be holding considerably fewer horses than earlier in the evening. Faraday would guess the nervous things must’ve been spooked by the first few gunshots that rang out in the night, and would likely be found wandering the town’s edges. Otherwise, some jittery men snatched up the tethered beasts to make their own escapes. His own horse is boarded at the nearby livery; wild stallion that he is, that horse would likely trample a man should that poor sap look at him the wrong way.

(Coincidentally, the horse is also a Jack. If he knew the other man’s name, Faraday would gladly point out the hilarity of it, what with their both being such ornery, vicious creatures.) ]

Piss poor luck, friend.

[ He says it around the cigar in his mouth, fishing out the matchbox from his pocket. The match’s head lights after he drags it across the box’s side, and he brings the small flame up to the tip of his cigar. He breathes in until the flame catches, turns the end of his cigar into a glowing rosette, and he flicks out the match, tossing it away. ]

Could always steal another.

[Irritation washes through Jack, understandably so. He curses, and the comment coming directly from the peanut gallery barely manages to register in his mind. He looks over his shoulder at Faraday, glaring under the brim of his hat. Lowly, he says,]

I ain't stealin' nobody's horse.

[Hypocrite, some small voice inside of him cries out. You'd do it if you had to, you'd do it instead of walkin'.

Jack frowns, to no one in particular. A hand comes up to rub at his stubble that needed shaving, an anxious tell that he never completely grew out of.]

I'm walkin' home. [Turning his back, the declaration sounds both defiant and exasperated; but he keeps to his word, and starts his first few steps on a journey that'll probably take all night, at this rate.]

Edited (spelling is hard) 2016-12-12 21:25 (UTC)

[ Faraday watches the exasperation play out on the other man’s face, amusement dancing in his eyes. The man seems to have one of the shortest fuses Faraday’s ever seen, and evidently Faraday is entertained by watching it ignite, over and over and over.

He’s not entirely sure how to read that pensive little moment, though, where the man’s gaze seems to turn inward. Odd little thing, Faraday thinks, though he doesn’t bother to bring attention to it. (It would, however, be the sort of thing he would have latched onto, were the two of them seated at a table, playing cards. Now, it’s just a simple curiosity.)

The man stomps off, and Faraday chuckles a little, smoke curling out from the corners of his mouth. He glances over to the livery stable down a ways, spots the few lamps lighting the yard. If Faraday’s quick about it, he could probably snatch his horse from its stall, get him saddled and gallop away before anyone notices. The stable lies in the same direction as the man seems to be heading, and Faraday smiles to himself as he hops over the railing of the porch, falling into step beside Jack. ]

I’d offer a ride, but I get the feelin’ you’d spit at my feet. [ Despite the word choice, he says it brightly. ]

[Jack's walking, eyes set directly in front of him, when he hears footsteps that are not his own crunching along the path, drawing closer. And sure enough, out of his peripheral comes Faraday, and he rolls his eyes. His mouth is still pressed into a frown, such a stark contrast to the other, whose words seem to be bright and his manner easy.]

Quick to judge, aren't ya? [-he responds, sounding as dismissive as possible.

To be fair, it's not as if Jack is coming across as particularly amiable; his mouth is twisted into something that resembles the scowl of an irritated bobcat, his brows furrowed to match. But those that knew him better would be able to gather that he's more irritated at these unfortunate turn of events rather than Faraday himself. Sadly, there aren't many people who fit into that category, not any more.

His pace keeps steady, and he doesn't even look at the man as he continues, his boots scraping against dirt and gravel.]

See, now, I'd take you up on your offer if I actually thought you were bein' sincere.

[ He cuts the other man a quick look, blowing out a slow plume of smoke as he pulls the cigar from his mouth. A misjudgment, to be sure; Faraday had assumed the man’s surliness was a matter of pride and poor temper. He’s seen it before, the way a man, too big for his britches, scowled at the world from his imagined pedestal. Jack had seemed much the same – but then again, he and Jack crossed paths in a rather trying time.

Away from the lamplight, his teeth catch the light of the moon as he slowly smiles, a flash of white in the dark. ]

The offer might be sincere, if you’re willin’ to do me a favor.

[And that actually compels Jack to look over at Faraday, for the first time since the man decided to keep stride with him. He looks skeptical (when someone asks for a favor, it's never anything good, in his experience), and he hesitates for a full ten seconds or so before he responds.]

...What kinda favor?

Nothin’ difficult. Probably.

[ His smile widens, his step still light in a way that practically defines “devil-may-care.” He taps ash away from his cigar, letting it fall on the street as they pass. ]

See that livery over yonder? [ A gesture with his cigar, though he doesn’t wait for a response. ] Got my horse stabled there. Normally not a problem, but—

[ He clicks his tongue, and with a mournful pat against the waist pocket of his vest, he shrugs a shoulder. ] Didn’t earn as much tonight as I would’ve hoped. Ain’t got enough to cover their fees, but I ain’t leavin’ without Jack.

[ Faraday owes about $20, in fact; he’s about $10 short. Most days, he’s happy to try to charm the stable hands, entertain them with a few card tricks until they relent and give him a steep discount, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort tonight.

Besides, it’s not really stealing if it’s his own property, right? ]

Just need you to keep watch, my friend. That’s all.

[Probably, the stranger is quick to add. Jack already has his doubts about this, and it's only when he gazes down the long, long dark road ahead of him does he stop to consider Faraday's words. He casts his gaze down towards the livery, squinting in the dark to make out the structure in the distance. A hand comes up to rub at his chin, frowning.

Honestly, this man doesn't even have to finish his explanation for Jack to know where this is going. Figures, here he was, getting roped into more nonsense when he had just escaped a veritable den of it not mere minutes ago. Did he really want to help him, just so he didn't have to walk?

Hell, he thinks to himself. Feet ache just thinkin' about it. Maybe it wouldn't... hurt to keep an eye out. It looked quiet enough, and not like anyone nearby would actually give them any trouble. Faraday would be in and out, all quiet-like, no fuss.

(Probably.)

Of course, something the man says makes him look at him vaguely disgruntled.]

Your horse's name is Jack?

[ It’s a good sign, Faraday thinks, that the man doesn’t reject him outright. If he weren’t interested in a bit of lawlessness, he would have simply snarled out, “No,” and been on his way. Or at least, that’s how Faraday would have imagined that line of conversation going.

Faraday also assumes that this is a damn good indication that he’s going to agree. Faraday could manage the job on his own, of course, and has in the past, but it never hurts to have an extra set of eyes – especially when one is dealing with a beast as willfully unhelpful as Jack, who tended to treat commands as mere suggestions.

Damn fast horse, though, and a deeply vicious thing. Faraday is fond of him, in that particular way a parent must be fond of his monstrous child.

The displeased look the man cuts him is what truly catches Faraday off-guard, and he blinks, eyebrows rising slightly. Then, after the initial shock wears off, his response is a touch defensive. ]

Wouldn’t’ve called him that if it wasn’t. Why? ‘S that a problem?

josh faraday | the magnificent seven (2016) | ota

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apologies for the long wait!!

not a problem! <3

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