Faraday is usually quick, but given the sleepless night, given his difficulty in shaking off his exhaustion, when Vasquez moves to kneel in front of him, it doesn’t quite register what the other man has planned. The instant Vasquez’s hands are on that old wound, though, Faraday bristles, defensive and mulish.
He snaps, “The hell do you think you’re—”
But Vasquez has already set into it, fingers kneading into the knots, and Faraday sucks in a pained breath between his teeth, tensing under the attention. Usually, he’d latch onto Vasquez as he worked, on those rare instances where Faraday allowed him to (or when Vasquez surprised him, as he has now), making a wrinkled mess of Vasquez’s sleeves by clutching at them like a man being swept out to sea. This time, he has mind enough to leave it alone. Vasquez did go to the trouble of gussying himself up; it seems a shame to waste his efforts. Instead, Faraday clenches his jaw, nails biting into his palms, and he screws his eyes shut.
He’s only half-listening as Vasquez speaks, distracted as he is by the dull ache of his old scars, made worse as Vasquez works them away. It always feels worse until, after a few moments, Vasquez manages to soothe the worst of it away. Vasquez falls into a rhythm, and his touch is consistent enough that Faraday grows accustomed to it. He manages to focus only enough to mark out that tone in Vasquez’s voice – annoyance, frustration, he thinks.
But at that harder press, Faraday gives a full-bodied jerk, grunting out a curse— and, listen to that, a brand new nickname to add to the growing list. It’s— different, from the rest, he distantly notes. He’ll ask after it in a moment, but for now—
“Shit,” he pants out, breathless and pained. He pries an eye open, gaze almost accusing as he focuses on Vasquez. “The hell was that?”
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2017-11-30 07:54 pm (UTC)He snaps, “The hell do you think you’re—”
But Vasquez has already set into it, fingers kneading into the knots, and Faraday sucks in a pained breath between his teeth, tensing under the attention. Usually, he’d latch onto Vasquez as he worked, on those rare instances where Faraday allowed him to (or when Vasquez surprised him, as he has now), making a wrinkled mess of Vasquez’s sleeves by clutching at them like a man being swept out to sea. This time, he has mind enough to leave it alone. Vasquez did go to the trouble of gussying himself up; it seems a shame to waste his efforts. Instead, Faraday clenches his jaw, nails biting into his palms, and he screws his eyes shut.
He’s only half-listening as Vasquez speaks, distracted as he is by the dull ache of his old scars, made worse as Vasquez works them away. It always feels worse until, after a few moments, Vasquez manages to soothe the worst of it away. Vasquez falls into a rhythm, and his touch is consistent enough that Faraday grows accustomed to it. He manages to focus only enough to mark out that tone in Vasquez’s voice – annoyance, frustration, he thinks.
But at that harder press, Faraday gives a full-bodied jerk, grunting out a curse— and, listen to that, a brand new nickname to add to the growing list. It’s— different, from the rest, he distantly notes. He’ll ask after it in a moment, but for now—
“Shit,” he pants out, breathless and pained. He pries an eye open, gaze almost accusing as he focuses on Vasquez. “The hell was that?”