Faraday is just a far better bluffer than Vasquez is.
Deep down, something thrashes and snaps inside him, dark and confused and afraid, panicking at the thought of Vasquez leaving him behind, at the idea that Faraday has fucked this up, somehow. That he’s ruined this, because that’s what he does. He’s been on his own for this long for a reason. Folks get sick of him. Get tired of him. Lose patience with him. He had hoped he’d have longer with Vasquez, at least. Hoped that with as similar as they were, they’d have something of an understanding. Only— they have a larger problem falling between them, and he has no idea how to handle it, how to fix it.
He hardly looks convinced by Vasquez’s promise, even if it sounds sincere, because— because maybe Vasquez won’t leave, but he’ll be back in that damned saloon, back with handsome, charming Josiah, and that son of a bitch of a barkeep will sense that bit of vulnerability and swoop in, and—
And why does he care? He shouldn’t give a shit, right? If Vasquez wanted to enjoy someone else’s company for the evening after all this mess, Faraday should let him, shouldn’t he? “Why not indulge?” he had asked just a handful of minutes ago, even if something that soured in him with the asking.
And that ugly thing writhes in him again, twists at his gut, claws the inside of his ribs. He doesn’t want to think about Vasquez with anyone else. Not with Josiah and his perfect Spanish, or Henrietta, with her dark eyes and confident smile. He doesn’t want Vasquez to fall into anyone else’s bed, because—
And when Vasquez poses that question to him, Faraday visibly flounders until the answer strikes him like a bolt of lightning. He goes rigid with it, eyes widening.
—Because he wants Vasquez.
It clicks into place so suddenly, so abruptly, that he forgets how to breathe for a long moment. And suddenly everything makes sense, just as much as it all feels equally confusing, still.
“I...” It’s strangled, choked out, a million words stopping up his throat, color rising in his cheeks, at the tips of his ears. He brings up a hand to scrub at his brow, eyes darting down to the floor. “I...”
Maybe in a different moment, it would be hilarious to see the silver-tongued Joshua Faraday at a complete loss for words.
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2018-01-09 01:14 am (UTC)Faraday is just a far better bluffer than Vasquez is.
Deep down, something thrashes and snaps inside him, dark and confused and afraid, panicking at the thought of Vasquez leaving him behind, at the idea that Faraday has fucked this up, somehow. That he’s ruined this, because that’s what he does. He’s been on his own for this long for a reason. Folks get sick of him. Get tired of him. Lose patience with him. He had hoped he’d have longer with Vasquez, at least. Hoped that with as similar as they were, they’d have something of an understanding. Only— they have a larger problem falling between them, and he has no idea how to handle it, how to fix it.
He hardly looks convinced by Vasquez’s promise, even if it sounds sincere, because— because maybe Vasquez won’t leave, but he’ll be back in that damned saloon, back with handsome, charming Josiah, and that son of a bitch of a barkeep will sense that bit of vulnerability and swoop in, and—
And why does he care? He shouldn’t give a shit, right? If Vasquez wanted to enjoy someone else’s company for the evening after all this mess, Faraday should let him, shouldn’t he? “Why not indulge?” he had asked just a handful of minutes ago, even if something that soured in him with the asking.
And that ugly thing writhes in him again, twists at his gut, claws the inside of his ribs. He doesn’t want to think about Vasquez with anyone else. Not with Josiah and his perfect Spanish, or Henrietta, with her dark eyes and confident smile. He doesn’t want Vasquez to fall into anyone else’s bed, because—
And when Vasquez poses that question to him, Faraday visibly flounders until the answer strikes him like a bolt of lightning. He goes rigid with it, eyes widening.
—Because he wants Vasquez.
It clicks into place so suddenly, so abruptly, that he forgets how to breathe for a long moment. And suddenly everything makes sense, just as much as it all feels equally confusing, still.
“I...” It’s strangled, choked out, a million words stopping up his throat, color rising in his cheeks, at the tips of his ears. He brings up a hand to scrub at his brow, eyes darting down to the floor. “I...”
Maybe in a different moment, it would be hilarious to see the silver-tongued Joshua Faraday at a complete loss for words.
Hell, maybe it’s hilarious even now.