“Months?” and Faraday echoes it back faintly, dazedly, and—
Months, which is a vague answer, but it still puts them right back to Rose Creek, when Faraday being an awful patient and snapping at anyone who came too close like cornered feral animal. No one could stand it for very long, least of all Faraday, but somehow, Vasquez endured it. Somehow, Vasquez became a near permanent fixture in Faraday’s room and sat at his side even during the darker turns of Faraday’s mood or while Faraday suffered through fevers and blinding pain. Vasquez had been an anchor through all of it, and—
Faraday never did thank Vasquez for that, did he? For the constant company, for that bullheaded insistence that he keep an eye on Faraday. Faraday never expressed how grateful he was for it, or how much he secretly enjoyed it, even as he groused and complained and protested Vasquez’s eternal fussing, his constant use of his mother tongue, and his awful jokes at Faraday’s expense.
His stomach twists, and his chest tightens a little, punching the air out of him. He watches Vasquez try to slip into that air of nonchalance, tries to pretend this is nothing, and it sparks something ugly and mean in Faraday. He scowls.
“Shut up,” he growls.
He scrubs at his face again, pushing away from the door at last, but this time it’s to pace the space in front of it as an outlet for that nervous energy building up within him. It’s a few passes in front of the door before he finally halts, facing Vasquez again.
“Were you ever gonna say?” he asks sharply, annoyance and anger to mask the confusion and the uncertainty knotting in his gut. He waves in the vague direction of the tavern across the way. “Or were you just gonna wait till I found out secondhand from some poor, random bastard, unlucky enough to get caught up in the crossfire?”
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Months, which is a vague answer, but it still puts them right back to Rose Creek, when Faraday being an awful patient and snapping at anyone who came too close like cornered feral animal. No one could stand it for very long, least of all Faraday, but somehow, Vasquez endured it. Somehow, Vasquez became a near permanent fixture in Faraday’s room and sat at his side even during the darker turns of Faraday’s mood or while Faraday suffered through fevers and blinding pain. Vasquez had been an anchor through all of it, and—
Faraday never did thank Vasquez for that, did he? For the constant company, for that bullheaded insistence that he keep an eye on Faraday. Faraday never expressed how grateful he was for it, or how much he secretly enjoyed it, even as he groused and complained and protested Vasquez’s eternal fussing, his constant use of his mother tongue, and his awful jokes at Faraday’s expense.
His stomach twists, and his chest tightens a little, punching the air out of him. He watches Vasquez try to slip into that air of nonchalance, tries to pretend this is nothing, and it sparks something ugly and mean in Faraday. He scowls.
“Shut up,” he growls.
He scrubs at his face again, pushing away from the door at last, but this time it’s to pace the space in front of it as an outlet for that nervous energy building up within him. It’s a few passes in front of the door before he finally halts, facing Vasquez again.
“Were you ever gonna say?” he asks sharply, annoyance and anger to mask the confusion and the uncertainty knotting in his gut. He waves in the vague direction of the tavern across the way. “Or were you just gonna wait till I found out secondhand from some poor, random bastard, unlucky enough to get caught up in the crossfire?”