Faraday is still reeling from all of it, and his mind is abuzz with activity. Folks often accused Faraday of being empty-headed, of never thinking things through – which couldn’t be farther from the truth. Sure, he had a tendency to ignore good sense, but that didn’t mean he didn’t think about it, first, before grinning right in its face.
They leave the saloon, and as they do, Faraday thinks back on the past few months, tries to remember the first time he had heard querido – “darling”? – pass from Vasquez’s lips. He tries to think, tries to understand what that all means. They were all endearments, and all this time he thought they were insults, teasing nicknames. And suddenly things start clicking into place like laying down lines of train track – Vasquez’s strange bout of jealousy yesterday after seeing the smear of lipstick and rouge on Faraday’s cheek. Why he occasionally looked so uncertain when Faraday asked after what those words meant. Why the other man has managed to tolerate Faraday’s presence all this time, when most men would have left Faraday behind in the dust.
Why Vasquez was moaning Faraday’s name in his sleep, last night.
All that talk of loneliness. All that talk of things having changed. All that talk of love.
Jesus wept. For all that Faraday pats himself on the back for his insights, he couldn’t have missed all of this anymore even if he goddamn tried. Something twists in his chest, nervous and agitated, and his stomach flips.
When he makes his way to the inn, he does so automatically, hardly seeing the other folks on the street or the old, crabby proprietor of the inn. He hardly registers the climb up the stairs. He unlocks the door himself, sure, but he only seems to realize he’s done so once he hears dull thud of Vasquez’s gun holsters touching down on the table.
In fact, he’s still standing at the entrance, grasping the handle like a lifeline, before he slowly, deliberately, shuts the door behind them. For a long while, he faces the door, taking at least a dozen rallying breaths, before turning to face Vasquez properly, where the other man has folded in on himself on the edge of the bed. Faraday twists the key in his hands, just for a small outlet for the strange, nervous energy bubbling in him; he hardly realizes he’s blocking Vasquez’s primary exit. Vasquez prompts him to speak, and Faraday—
... well. For once, words escape him.
Faraday is confused. He’s reeling. He feels himself teetering on the edge of some dark drop, where a single, solid blow might send him straight over.
He licks his lips, keeping his gaze focused on Vasquez, even if the other man won’t look at him.
“Tell me what they mean,” he finally demands, his voice hoarse and thick. Josiah may have given him the answers already, but he needs to hear it from Vasquez. “Cariño. Querido. Nene.” His pronunciation is far from perfect, the vowels bending with his accent, but it’s a little more precise than his usual attempts. “And don’t you dare lie to me this time.”
no subject
They leave the saloon, and as they do, Faraday thinks back on the past few months, tries to remember the first time he had heard querido – “darling”? – pass from Vasquez’s lips. He tries to think, tries to understand what that all means. They were all endearments, and all this time he thought they were insults, teasing nicknames. And suddenly things start clicking into place like laying down lines of train track – Vasquez’s strange bout of jealousy yesterday after seeing the smear of lipstick and rouge on Faraday’s cheek. Why he occasionally looked so uncertain when Faraday asked after what those words meant. Why the other man has managed to tolerate Faraday’s presence all this time, when most men would have left Faraday behind in the dust.
Why Vasquez was moaning Faraday’s name in his sleep, last night.
All that talk of loneliness. All that talk of things having changed. All that talk of love.
Jesus wept. For all that Faraday pats himself on the back for his insights, he couldn’t have missed all of this anymore even if he goddamn tried. Something twists in his chest, nervous and agitated, and his stomach flips.
When he makes his way to the inn, he does so automatically, hardly seeing the other folks on the street or the old, crabby proprietor of the inn. He hardly registers the climb up the stairs. He unlocks the door himself, sure, but he only seems to realize he’s done so once he hears dull thud of Vasquez’s gun holsters touching down on the table.
In fact, he’s still standing at the entrance, grasping the handle like a lifeline, before he slowly, deliberately, shuts the door behind them. For a long while, he faces the door, taking at least a dozen rallying breaths, before turning to face Vasquez properly, where the other man has folded in on himself on the edge of the bed. Faraday twists the key in his hands, just for a small outlet for the strange, nervous energy bubbling in him; he hardly realizes he’s blocking Vasquez’s primary exit. Vasquez prompts him to speak, and Faraday—
... well. For once, words escape him.
Faraday is confused. He’s reeling. He feels himself teetering on the edge of some dark drop, where a single, solid blow might send him straight over.
He licks his lips, keeping his gaze focused on Vasquez, even if the other man won’t look at him.
“Tell me what they mean,” he finally demands, his voice hoarse and thick. Josiah may have given him the answers already, but he needs to hear it from Vasquez. “Cariño. Querido. Nene.” His pronunciation is far from perfect, the vowels bending with his accent, but it’s a little more precise than his usual attempts. “And don’t you dare lie to me this time.”