Vasquez’s snappy response makes Faraday bristle, and he straightens in his chair a little in response. It’s petulant, he knows. It’s childish, that the way Vasquez speaks to him makes him want to gear up for a fight. It’s hardly the first time Vasquez has used that tone on him, and when they’re on the road, it usually garners little more than a snort from Faraday. But here, with the quiet hum of voices around them, with the way something prickles in Faraday’s gut – the source and meaning of which is completely lost on Faraday – it only serves to jab at the ugly thing already festering in him.

It’s both a relief and a giant disappointment when Vasquez is called away by his new “friend,” and Faraday grits his teeth with irritation. He throws back most of his glass – the flavor wasted on him, considering he was always more fond of drinking to get drunk, rather than drinking for flavor – and pours himself another share. He waits, glaring balefully at the doors to the kitchen, worry spiking sharply with how long it takes for Vasquez to return. They still had to be careful, regardless of the way they’re hissing at one another like wet cats; if that infuriating bastard got himself into trouble, Faraday would never forgive himself for allowing it to happen.

But Vasquez returns, two plates laden with food, and Faraday can’t help but eye it all warily, gaze flicking to the kitchen, when the barkeep makes his own exit. Is it his imagination, or does the man look slightly disappointed? And is it his imagination, or does the man cast Faraday an annoyed look, like he were some stone in the road impeding the other man’s progress? Faraday, in his usual way, working solely on reflex, casts the other man a bright, winning smile, which seems to shake the barkeep out of whatever mood he had fallen into.

“That new friend of yours don’t look too happy,” Faraday says, voice carefully idle, as he plucks up the roll from the proffered plate.