He feels like squirming against the edge of the bed, his whole bearing uncomfortable because he doesn't want to talk about any of this. He wants to run away. It's always been his greatest instinct when it comes to things he doesn't want to talk about, but Faraday isn't letting him because he's right in the middle of him and the outside world. He can't go anywhere, the thought making him a little dizzy as the blood drains from his brain.
"It was a joke," is his hollow echo, because he's fairly sure that Faraday wouldn't actually shoot him. Other things, though, like violence is what he's not so sure about. Not all men would react well to being told what Vasquez has just let slip.
Well, he didn't let it slip. Some little bartender had, though if not for him, it would have been someone else. Letting the cigarette rest against his lower lip, he gestures vaguely with his other hand, like he can somehow force this to be casual. "I don't know," he admits, which is true.
He can't actually look back and put a time and a day to this. He remembers that his fondness had started even in Rose Creek before the fight, when guero had become guerito. He'd looked to spend more time with Faraday, had tried to steal as many moments as he could. Was it then? He's not sure, but he can start to see how it began to stack up after. He can remember his eagerness to put hands on Faraday to heal him, to stay close and hear his terrible stories and his worse jokes.
How long has Faraday been healing at his side? Since then, he thinks.
"Months," is his hoarse reply, breathing in his exhaled smoke ring and capturing it back. Shrugging again, like he can continue to make this casual and not important. "Faraday," he's half ready to plead, ready to bargain. "I'll stop with the names, it can go back to how it was before. You won't notice a difference," he vows, because as much as it will ache and hurt, he can go back to treating Faraday as nothing more than a friend and turn every querido into a pendejo.
Maybe after all this, he's going to end up revisiting Josiah after all and not just for the drink he so desperately needs, depending on how well he thinks that could mend his broken edges.
no subject
"It was a joke," is his hollow echo, because he's fairly sure that Faraday wouldn't actually shoot him. Other things, though, like violence is what he's not so sure about. Not all men would react well to being told what Vasquez has just let slip.
Well, he didn't let it slip. Some little bartender had, though if not for him, it would have been someone else. Letting the cigarette rest against his lower lip, he gestures vaguely with his other hand, like he can somehow force this to be casual. "I don't know," he admits, which is true.
He can't actually look back and put a time and a day to this. He remembers that his fondness had started even in Rose Creek before the fight, when guero had become guerito. He'd looked to spend more time with Faraday, had tried to steal as many moments as he could. Was it then? He's not sure, but he can start to see how it began to stack up after. He can remember his eagerness to put hands on Faraday to heal him, to stay close and hear his terrible stories and his worse jokes.
How long has Faraday been healing at his side? Since then, he thinks.
"Months," is his hoarse reply, breathing in his exhaled smoke ring and capturing it back. Shrugging again, like he can continue to make this casual and not important. "Faraday," he's half ready to plead, ready to bargain. "I'll stop with the names, it can go back to how it was before. You won't notice a difference," he vows, because as much as it will ache and hurt, he can go back to treating Faraday as nothing more than a friend and turn every querido into a pendejo.
Maybe after all this, he's going to end up revisiting Josiah after all and not just for the drink he so desperately needs, depending on how well he thinks that could mend his broken edges.