Faraday takes a sip from his own glass, and— grudgingly, he admits it is the top shelf stuff. Not exactly the type you offer to cowboys and gamblers haunting the corners of your establishment. With the payment from Rose Creek, Faraday could have afforded it, but why would he want to when the shitty stuff gets you just as drunk and in half the time?

He’s busy examining the wood grain of the table, scowling down at it like he might scare off the stains, when Vasquez squeezes his knee. He stiffens with the unexpected contact, and his gaze darts up to Vasquez.

“He was fine,” is the first reassurance that leaves his lips. He offered drinks quick enough, yesterday, and was nothing less than civil, as most bartenders are. Vasquez’s next question, though, draws a derisive snort from Faraday, and his gaze darts away again.

“Who said I cared? ‘Cause I don’t. Chat up whoever you want, it don’t matter none to me.”