Faraday isn’t the type to embarrass easily, but here he is, fighting down the urge to fidget like he’s a child caught out while trying to steal sweets. His face burns red hot with his discomfort. He’s never felt this vulnerable and exposed before – and that’s including what little he remembers of charging the Gatling gun, where he knelt in the grass with a chest filled with lead.
Apparently, Faraday has a much easier time facing down certain death than he does rejection. Who would’ve thought?
And still Vasquez keeps up that brush of his fingers, and Faraday bites down on his lower lip, enjoying the hell out of it. Vasquez’s hands are rough, calloused, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. Faraday unconsciously leans into it, forcing his grip on Vasquez’s sleeves to relax. Predictably, he’s left the fabric twisted and wrinkled, and he looks momentarily sorry for it, smoothing his palms down Vasquez’s arms to rest on his elbow.
His chest clenches with the warmth in Vasquez’s laugh, in the affection that he imbues the endearment with, and Faraday finally risks a glance up. Soon enough, though, Faraday’s expression turns flat and unenthused with each criticism, and he has half a mind to shove Vasquez straight to the floor. He doesn’t, though, obviously; not with the way Vasquez is leaning in so close that they share breath, and for a quick second, air catches in Faraday’s lungs, breath held and eyes transfixed on that infuriating smirk, and—
Faraday’s always been a competitive bastard, and with that final bit of criticism, he scowls at the other man.
But he’s always had something of a mean streak, too, which is why when he surges forward, he doesn’t immediately set to kissing Vasquez, and instead bites at his lower lip – almost like admonishment.
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Apparently, Faraday has a much easier time facing down certain death than he does rejection. Who would’ve thought?
And still Vasquez keeps up that brush of his fingers, and Faraday bites down on his lower lip, enjoying the hell out of it. Vasquez’s hands are rough, calloused, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. Faraday unconsciously leans into it, forcing his grip on Vasquez’s sleeves to relax. Predictably, he’s left the fabric twisted and wrinkled, and he looks momentarily sorry for it, smoothing his palms down Vasquez’s arms to rest on his elbow.
His chest clenches with the warmth in Vasquez’s laugh, in the affection that he imbues the endearment with, and Faraday finally risks a glance up. Soon enough, though, Faraday’s expression turns flat and unenthused with each criticism, and he has half a mind to shove Vasquez straight to the floor. He doesn’t, though, obviously; not with the way Vasquez is leaning in so close that they share breath, and for a quick second, air catches in Faraday’s lungs, breath held and eyes transfixed on that infuriating smirk, and—
Faraday’s always been a competitive bastard, and with that final bit of criticism, he scowls at the other man.
But he’s always had something of a mean streak, too, which is why when he surges forward, he doesn’t immediately set to kissing Vasquez, and instead bites at his lower lip – almost like admonishment.