WIP Wednesday: ("Impossible")
Jul. 24th, 2019 11:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
northstarfanWhew… been a while since I’ve had the energy to ‘fic! In celebration, have some Everybody Lives!AU Faraday…
Joshua Faraday had been called “impossible” more than once in his life. It was far from the worst thing he’d every been called, that was for sure, but it hadn’t ever been anything close to a compliment.
These days, though, it was an altogether different story. Yes, sir, he had managed all kinds of mind-boggling impossibility in the last few months. It was impossible that he’d survived his headlong charge against a Gatling gun. Impossible that he’d held out against the blood loss before Red Harvest and Vasquez had hauled what was left of him back to the tender care for the town doc, and all the more impressive given the head start that bullet in his gut had given him toward exsanguination. Said doc had also let him know more than once how impossible it was that he’d dodged the infection that should have surely come from burns, open wounds, and the removal of three bullets. (One was, apparently still sitting somewhere in the meat of his chest, safer left where it was.)
Yet here he was, Mary Faraday’s little mutt, impossibly on his feet near half a year later. Well, on his ass in The Imperial at the moment, doing his best to enjoy a whiskey he hadn’t had to pay for. Faraday found he was trying his best to enjoy the little things in life these days. Good whiskey, the firey sunsets over the mountains, being able to stay abed as long as he pleased with the knowledge that some kind soul would feed him once he got his legs under him and wandered out into the town.
Joshua Faraday had been called “impossible” more than once in his life. It was far from the worst thing he’d every been called, that was for sure, but it hadn’t ever been anything close to a compliment.
These days, though, it was an altogether different story. Yes, sir, he had managed all kinds of mind-boggling impossibility in the last few months. It was impossible that he’d survived his headlong charge against a Gatling gun. Impossible that he’d held out against the blood loss before Red Harvest and Vasquez had hauled what was left of him back to the tender care for the town doc, and all the more impressive given the head start that bullet in his gut had given him toward exsanguination. Said doc had also let him know more than once how impossible it was that he’d dodged the infection that should have surely come from burns, open wounds, and the removal of three bullets. (One was, apparently still sitting somewhere in the meat of his chest, safer left where it was.)
Yet here he was, Mary Faraday’s little mutt, impossibly on his feet near half a year later. Well, on his ass in The Imperial at the moment, doing his best to enjoy a whiskey he hadn’t had to pay for. Faraday found he was trying his best to enjoy the little things in life these days. Good whiskey, the firey sunsets over the mountains, being able to stay abed as long as he pleased with the knowledge that some kind soul would feed him once he got his legs under him and wandered out into the town.
