Vasquez has been in the middle of steamy, hazy dreams that usually happen when he's drunk. He's also usually smarter than to drink so much when Faraday is around, because he knows what happens when his defenses start to lower. Those things he buries start to rise up and when they do, it's bad. His snoring gives way to speaking, to sounds, to names, and it's all the liquor's fault.

He comes awake at the grab of his shoulder, hand immediately reaching for his gun. He's halfway to grabbing it when he realizes that Faraday is the one shaking him away. Cheeks reddening, he's grateful he's mostly face down, because he definitely has a very pressing morning problem happening right now. He drags his jacket over his torso, trying to subtly push it lower, blearily peering at Faraday with one open eye, feeling the hangover start to settle behind his eyes.

"What?" he demands, grumpy at having been woken up, especially now that the haze of that very nice dream about clever fingers and wicked tongues has evaporated and he's back to reality.