The accusation makes him freeze, and he looks up at Vasquez. That uncertainty writhing like an ugly, wounded creature in his chest, and it stands naked on his face.
He enjoys his women, sure; enjoys soft hands and softer lips. Living the life he leads means he’s often left starved for a kind, gentle touch – especially because, more often than not, the physical contact he tends to otherwise attract are fists to the face or the gut. But that ache hasn’t been so sharp, these days; he hasn’t longed for that kind of attention in a long while, hasn’t felt that particular ache since they left Rose Creek, when before, it would hit him like a physical blow.
It matters – of course it matters &dnash; but Faraday can hardly say why. Maybe it’s because he hates being left in the dark, or maybe it’s because he hates the idea of being lied to for all this time. It’s like playing without a full deck, like playing blind.
Or maybe it’s because it rouses something warm and sweet and frantic in him, and he doesn’t have a name for it, hardly knows what it means. And the lack of knowing makes him nervous.
That almost broken quality of Vasquez’s voice makes something bitter churn in Faraday’s gut, and Faraday swallows thickly, licking his lips.
“What’s that mean?” he asks sharply, dread clawing at the back of his sternum. “What are you sayin’? You’re not— you’re not plannin’ on goin’, are you?”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
winterfish
no subject
Date: 2018-01-06 01:08 am (UTC)He enjoys his women, sure; enjoys soft hands and softer lips. Living the life he leads means he’s often left starved for a kind, gentle touch – especially because, more often than not, the physical contact he tends to otherwise attract are fists to the face or the gut. But that ache hasn’t been so sharp, these days; he hasn’t longed for that kind of attention in a long while, hasn’t felt that particular ache since they left Rose Creek, when before, it would hit him like a physical blow.
It matters – of course it matters &dnash; but Faraday can hardly say why. Maybe it’s because he hates being left in the dark, or maybe it’s because he hates the idea of being lied to for all this time. It’s like playing without a full deck, like playing blind.
Or maybe it’s because it rouses something warm and sweet and frantic in him, and he doesn’t have a name for it, hardly knows what it means. And the lack of knowing makes him nervous.
That almost broken quality of Vasquez’s voice makes something bitter churn in Faraday’s gut, and Faraday swallows thickly, licking his lips.
“What’s that mean?” he asks sharply, dread clawing at the back of his sternum. “What are you sayin’? You’re not— you’re not plannin’ on goin’, are you?”