He had expected Vasquez to snap and ignore him – as he tended to do – but either because he finds Faraday’s questioning annoying enough, or because he doesn’t actually mind speaking on this, he answers. Faraday watches him, studying the other man’s face. More of that honesty, and Faraday is hardly used to anyone being forthcoming with him (even if he’s unaware that Vasquez is holding back a fair bit).
Love, apparently, is the answer, and with anyone else, Faraday might have barked out a laugh and set into ridiculing them for that maudlin response, would’ve sneered at how sentimental it was. Hard to do that with Vasquez, considering he’s seen what the man can do, knows they’ve both experienced hardship and pain. Syrupy as it is, Faraday can hardly blame the man for wanting something like this.
When Vasquez turns the question on him, Faraday pauses, chewing slowly on a forkful of food. He hasn’t thought about love overly much. Sex, like Vasquez had said, is far easier. Giving yourself to someone was risky, and Faraday was hardly around any folks long enough for those roots to take hold.
... Though that isn’t true, and Faraday huffs out a rueful sort of laugh.
“Once, maybe,” he says slowly. He’s not in the habit of being honest, but he’s spun this story a few times, in his more drunken moments. Not with Vasquez, as far as he can remember, but in saloons with complete strangers, certainly. It could hardly hurt to tell it now, he thinks. “I was young, just left home. Dumb and gangly and still tryin’ to find my feet, takin’ up odd jobs and ranch work. Made my way to a saloon, and up on a little wood box stood the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, singin’ the most beautiful song I’d ever heard.”
And he remembers her briefly – dark curls framing her face, dark eyes glittering with mischief and wit. The sharp way she teased, the way she spoke exactly what was on her mind.
Faraday pauses again, shrugging before returning to his meal. He continues on in good humor. “Like I said, though, I was young and dumb, so it hardly counts. Thought I might’ve had a chance, but Ethel had plenty other suitors at the time that she hardly looked at me twice.”
no subject
Love, apparently, is the answer, and with anyone else, Faraday might have barked out a laugh and set into ridiculing them for that maudlin response, would’ve sneered at how sentimental it was. Hard to do that with Vasquez, considering he’s seen what the man can do, knows they’ve both experienced hardship and pain. Syrupy as it is, Faraday can hardly blame the man for wanting something like this.
When Vasquez turns the question on him, Faraday pauses, chewing slowly on a forkful of food. He hasn’t thought about love overly much. Sex, like Vasquez had said, is far easier. Giving yourself to someone was risky, and Faraday was hardly around any folks long enough for those roots to take hold.
... Though that isn’t true, and Faraday huffs out a rueful sort of laugh.
“Once, maybe,” he says slowly. He’s not in the habit of being honest, but he’s spun this story a few times, in his more drunken moments. Not with Vasquez, as far as he can remember, but in saloons with complete strangers, certainly. It could hardly hurt to tell it now, he thinks. “I was young, just left home. Dumb and gangly and still tryin’ to find my feet, takin’ up odd jobs and ranch work. Made my way to a saloon, and up on a little wood box stood the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, singin’ the most beautiful song I’d ever heard.”
And he remembers her briefly – dark curls framing her face, dark eyes glittering with mischief and wit. The sharp way she teased, the way she spoke exactly what was on her mind.
Faraday pauses again, shrugging before returning to his meal. He continues on in good humor. “Like I said, though, I was young and dumb, so it hardly counts. Thought I might’ve had a chance, but Ethel had plenty other suitors at the time that she hardly looked at me twice.”