The protest makes him smile, wicked and sharp, because even as nearly overwhelmed as Faraday is, he’s still something of a stubborn mule, even to the last. But Vasquez shifts, his lips like a firebrand against his the sensitive skin of his neck, and Faraday lets out a shuddering breath. He can feel the tickle of Vasquez’s beard against his skin, and even as alien as the sensation is, Faraday’s surprised to find he doesn’t dislike it.
(He finds it pleasant, even, though he’ll refuse to say so aloud.)
When Vasquez pulls back, tugs at Faraday’s shirt, Faraday can’t help the reflexive way he pauses, the way his mouth goes dry. He swallows around a lump in his throat, jaw clenching briefly, and he’s frozen for a second. Admittedly, it’s— nothing that Vasquez hasn’t already seen, but after the mess with Rose Creek, Faraday is reluctant to bare himself.
Best to get it over quick, he supposes, and he gives a tight, quick nod as he sits up. He undoes the knot of the scarf at his throat first, hands shaking a little with the feeling of want and need bounding through him. He tosses the wild rag to the floor, and he follows it up by kicking his jeans off the rest of the way. Then, at last, he does as Vasquez asked, slowly, reluctantly, pulling off his shirt and vest, revealing the mottled skin beneath. Faraday’s body is a veritable gallery of scars, with the sheer amount and variety he has traveling his form – jagged lines and punched-out dips and ugly, patchwork blotches – along his arms and legs. The worst of the battle is written all over his torso, though, in the bullet scars and the slashes from the shrapnel. And with as early in the day as it still is, the sunlight falling through the slats of the room’s single shuttered window casts all of it in a stark light.
(He wishes they had waited, he suddenly thinks. This might have been easier to bear in the dark.)
He crumples the shirt in his hands to hide the nervous turn of his demeanor, and now he feels vulnerable, naked and laid bare in more ways than one. He grits his teeth, tossing his clothing to the floor, and though he keeps his head bowed to avoid Vasquez’s gaze, he tugs impatiently at the other man’s shirt.
“Least you could do is repay the favor,” he rasps out. Irritation to hide his growing discomfort.
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2018-01-24 06:52 pm (UTC)(He finds it pleasant, even, though he’ll refuse to say so aloud.)
When Vasquez pulls back, tugs at Faraday’s shirt, Faraday can’t help the reflexive way he pauses, the way his mouth goes dry. He swallows around a lump in his throat, jaw clenching briefly, and he’s frozen for a second. Admittedly, it’s— nothing that Vasquez hasn’t already seen, but after the mess with Rose Creek, Faraday is reluctant to bare himself.
Best to get it over quick, he supposes, and he gives a tight, quick nod as he sits up. He undoes the knot of the scarf at his throat first, hands shaking a little with the feeling of want and need bounding through him. He tosses the wild rag to the floor, and he follows it up by kicking his jeans off the rest of the way. Then, at last, he does as Vasquez asked, slowly, reluctantly, pulling off his shirt and vest, revealing the mottled skin beneath. Faraday’s body is a veritable gallery of scars, with the sheer amount and variety he has traveling his form – jagged lines and punched-out dips and ugly, patchwork blotches – along his arms and legs. The worst of the battle is written all over his torso, though, in the bullet scars and the slashes from the shrapnel. And with as early in the day as it still is, the sunlight falling through the slats of the room’s single shuttered window casts all of it in a stark light.
(He wishes they had waited, he suddenly thinks. This might have been easier to bear in the dark.)
He crumples the shirt in his hands to hide the nervous turn of his demeanor, and now he feels vulnerable, naked and laid bare in more ways than one. He grits his teeth, tossing his clothing to the floor, and though he keeps his head bowed to avoid Vasquez’s gaze, he tugs impatiently at the other man’s shirt.
“Least you could do is repay the favor,” he rasps out. Irritation to hide his growing discomfort.