Darlin’, We’re Going Down (Josh Faraday x Reader)
Warning: sort of spoiler-y with elements of violence.
You and Faraday had a history.
It was brief, but eventful. The type of thing you wanted to forget.
You’d done everything right. You spent a week drinking him away, then you got up and found a little town in The Middle of Nowhere, USA. A tiny patch of dirt called Rose Creek. You came at a bad time—or rather, a good one. Bogue mining company had just set up shop across the way, causing a distraction that kept people from asking you questions. It made it quite easy for you to integrate yourself quietly as the town’s new seamstress.
Then, just as you were settling into your new skin, everything changed. Rose Creek became a battlefield, Emma Cullen had left with every penny the town had, and armed men perused the streets, desperately looking for a reason to shoot someone. You weren’t scared like most people. You could handle a gun, and had no problem picking up and moving somewhere else. You’d done it before. But you didn’t want to. You liked it there. You’d grown attached to the people and the little room you occupied above the barbershop. It was your home. So for now, you’d wait it out. Emma promised to bring back an army by the end of the week. Maybe she’d come through.
And she did.
They came in a blaze of gunpowder, wasting no time in shooting up half the town. You ducked under your table for the majority of it, frantically tapping on your floorboards to figure which one you’d hidden your gun under. Ironically enough, you didn’t find it until the last shot was fired, and Emma came riding in, telling everyone to come out.
Tucking it into the back of your skirt, you hesitantly walked outside. Others had already emerged and were investigating the bodies littering the gravel. You looked around, trying to figure out which faces you didn’t recognize. Right away you spotted a bearded man, who looked more bear than human. Then a stranger who was tending to a black horse. There was another, decked out in war paint, pulling arrows from bodies, and checking the tips. Two others stood off to the side, one holding a rifle and one wiping blood from one of his many knives. Somewhere you caught wind of a Spanish accent. That made six. Six men who had just wiped out 30.
Then you saw that there was a seventh.