Faraday glowers at Vasquez privately, as his paranoia seems only to increase with the contact, as they cross the street, but eventually, the man seems to wrangle his emotions, relaxing against Faraday’s side. Vasquez’s complaint is answered with a quick hum, ostensibly of agreement.
He thinks for a second about how if things were different, if the two of them were strangers arriving in town at the same time, Faraday would have been wary of the Vasquez – though strangely, that would have been more for the way he carried himself than for the color of his skin. It was the same with Sam, when their paths first crossed – the grave demeanor, the gun gleaming at his hip, the way he held his back straight against the weight of too many ghosts sitting on his shoulders. Vasquez wasn’t nearly as severe as Sam had been, that day in Amador City, but there’s an echo of it, all the same. A dangerous man, completely aware of how dangerous he was.
Of course, Faraday knows better now, with the benefit of all that time spent driving one another mad with their joking and teasing back at Rose Creek. Vasquez was still dangerous, of course, but so was Faraday. And he still trusted Vasquez with his life.
The inn is nothing to write home about, of course, given the size of the town, and more than anything, the stairs leading to the inn’s porch prove more daunting than anything so far. It’s not much of an act, the way he hobbles up, leaning heavily on Vasquez when his leg hitches just before the landing. It’s shameful, really, that weakness, and he feels a familiar curl of bitterness for it, like oily smoke. But it’s eased away near instantly when he feels the way Vasquez squeezes his hip, calloused hand warm even through the fabric of his trousers, and helps him up that final stretch. (His mouth goes dry with it, but he hardly knows why.)
Vasquez doesn’t have to tell him twice, though, and Faraday leaves Vasquez at the door to make his way up to the proprietor – a severe-looking older woman, with salt and pepper hair and a moue like she’s perpetually sucking on a lemon. He sweet talks her in his usual way, turning up his trademarked charm as he leans on the counter. After a few moments, he pushes off, and she places a key in his hand, casting a quick, almost wary glance at Vasquez before busying herself with a record book. When Faraday returns to Vasquez, it’s with a faintly sheepish air.
“So,” he says brightly – too brightly, maybe. “Good news? Got a room.” And he jangles the key, pointing to the floor above them.
The phrasing, of course, betrays that there’s more to it than that, and he clears his throat. A little less brightly, “Bad news is, it’s... a room.”
no subject
He thinks for a second about how if things were different, if the two of them were strangers arriving in town at the same time, Faraday would have been wary of the Vasquez – though strangely, that would have been more for the way he carried himself than for the color of his skin. It was the same with Sam, when their paths first crossed – the grave demeanor, the gun gleaming at his hip, the way he held his back straight against the weight of too many ghosts sitting on his shoulders. Vasquez wasn’t nearly as severe as Sam had been, that day in Amador City, but there’s an echo of it, all the same. A dangerous man, completely aware of how dangerous he was.
Of course, Faraday knows better now, with the benefit of all that time spent driving one another mad with their joking and teasing back at Rose Creek. Vasquez was still dangerous, of course, but so was Faraday. And he still trusted Vasquez with his life.
The inn is nothing to write home about, of course, given the size of the town, and more than anything, the stairs leading to the inn’s porch prove more daunting than anything so far. It’s not much of an act, the way he hobbles up, leaning heavily on Vasquez when his leg hitches just before the landing. It’s shameful, really, that weakness, and he feels a familiar curl of bitterness for it, like oily smoke. But it’s eased away near instantly when he feels the way Vasquez squeezes his hip, calloused hand warm even through the fabric of his trousers, and helps him up that final stretch. (His mouth goes dry with it, but he hardly knows why.)
Vasquez doesn’t have to tell him twice, though, and Faraday leaves Vasquez at the door to make his way up to the proprietor – a severe-looking older woman, with salt and pepper hair and a moue like she’s perpetually sucking on a lemon. He sweet talks her in his usual way, turning up his trademarked charm as he leans on the counter. After a few moments, he pushes off, and she places a key in his hand, casting a quick, almost wary glance at Vasquez before busying herself with a record book. When Faraday returns to Vasquez, it’s with a faintly sheepish air.
“So,” he says brightly – too brightly, maybe. “Good news? Got a room.” And he jangles the key, pointing to the floor above them.
The phrasing, of course, betrays that there’s more to it than that, and he clears his throat. A little less brightly, “Bad news is, it’s... a room.”