Something sinks in his gut again, because Vasquez has something of a point. This— thing between them is going to color their interactions, their conversations. And he has a point, that the dream Vasquez had had last night had been awkward as hell, had made something tangle in Faraday’s chest, uncertain of how to proceed, but—

“That— that was different,” he insists again, and he feels color rising up his neck, coloring his cheeks, as he stumbles over his words. “That was— I thought you were— I didn’t think—”

He had assumed – wrongly, apparently – that Vasquez would have appreciated Faraday saving him the embarrassment of having to explain himself, would have appreciated Faraday’s rare instance of discretion. Dreams were hardly indicators of reality, anyway. Just because a man dreamed he had the head of a horse didn’t mean that’s what he wanted, and Faraday had imagined it was the same sort of situation, here.

He shakes his head sharply, frustrated and redirecting his focus.

“Stop doing that,” he snaps, once Vasquez slips into his native tongue again. “Talk so I can understand it, damn it.”

A silly thing to focus on, but far easier than the wild, snapping creature whose shadow has fallen over them.