There's a moment here where Vasquez could do something and decide to tell Faraday. He could take ownership of the things he's been saying and instead of hiding behind a wall of Spanish, he could be honest. The thought nearly makes him snort with disbelieving laughter. Tell Faraday all the endearments he's been slipping in, half to say them, half to watch how irritated he gets.

No, he doesn't think that's a smart plan. Of course, he goes locked in all his limbs when Faraday emphasizes the 'you' in that comment. Shit, he thinks. That's not a good sign. There's one easy way to get him to forget this, though.

Distraction. "Good," he says, lifting his chin as he digs out a cigar, eager to focus Faraday's mind elsewhere. "Is this how you're going to town?" he asks, with a flick at Faraday's sleepy-eyed state. "I didn't think it would be so easy to win this bet."

He could do something stupid, call him querido on the heels of this, but it feels much too risky.