Once Vasquez starts getting himself decent, Faraday all too happily follows suit. He was a good-looking man, once, with only a handful of scars to recommend him; now, though, he feels like he must be a frightful mess. Vasquez might be accustomed to the sight, as is Faraday, but that doesn't necessarily make it a pleasant one.
Faraday pulls on his shirt, tugs on his underwear and pants, and sits on the edge of the bed, his back pressed against Vasquez's knee. He doesn't fare much better than Vasquez, really, his own lips similarly swollen, with a bit of sweat glistening on his brow. Vain man that he is, he tries to straighten his hair a bit, for all the good it'll do him.
He takes the proffered cigarillo – Faraday typically preferred his own cigars, but he had never been one to turn down a good smoke – and he rests it between his lips. He calms a little, pulling in a mouthful of smoke. At Vasquez's words, he breathes out a small, barely there chuckle.
"Trust me, compadre," he replies with a small, crooked smile, "no one's more surprised 'bout all this than me."
Somehow, though, he manages to sound pleased about it. He takes another pensive drag from the cigarillo, letting the smoke drift out from between his lips to the ceiling.
Slowly, he says, "I think I'm good, though. If you're good, that is." He pauses for a second, then adds a little pointedly, "Which means if you try'n' skip out on me, I'm trackin' you down and beatin' the hell out of you. Hear me?"
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Faraday pulls on his shirt, tugs on his underwear and pants, and sits on the edge of the bed, his back pressed against Vasquez's knee. He doesn't fare much better than Vasquez, really, his own lips similarly swollen, with a bit of sweat glistening on his brow. Vain man that he is, he tries to straighten his hair a bit, for all the good it'll do him.
He takes the proffered cigarillo – Faraday typically preferred his own cigars, but he had never been one to turn down a good smoke – and he rests it between his lips. He calms a little, pulling in a mouthful of smoke. At Vasquez's words, he breathes out a small, barely there chuckle.
"Trust me, compadre," he replies with a small, crooked smile, "no one's more surprised 'bout all this than me."
Somehow, though, he manages to sound pleased about it. He takes another pensive drag from the cigarillo, letting the smoke drift out from between his lips to the ceiling.
Slowly, he says, "I think I'm good, though. If you're good, that is." He pauses for a second, then adds a little pointedly, "Which means if you try'n' skip out on me, I'm trackin' you down and beatin' the hell out of you. Hear me?"