Faraday waits, shoulders tense in spite of the relaxed way he seems to lounge. He’s never run into a problem like this, not while he’s still uncertain as to the name of that what that weird, warm coil in his chest whenever Vasquez is involved. He’s not quite ready to face this, whatever this is, and more than that— well, he can’t read much into this, can he? Men had odd dreams, and just because Vasquez was having odd dreams – seemingly about Faraday – didn’t exactly mean there was anything meaningful to it.

Vasquez falters, and Faraday forces himself to maintain his gaze, tries to force down the blush still warming his neck, the tips of his ears, and he can write that off as awkwardness at catching Vasquez in the throes of that same dream. And when Vasquez changes the topic at last, Faraday relaxes by slow, incremental degrees, hands relaxing from tight fists, shoulders dropping slightly.

“I woke you up ‘cause I was tryin’ to sleep,” he cuts back, though there’s only a hint of his usual exasperation; his tone largely reads as relieved. “I’m getting’ back to bed while it’s still dark out. You’re more than welcome to see about your own breakfast.”