“I know plenty of Spanish,” Faraday says primly, and he appends the thought with a purposely round and drawling, “pendejo.”

And his accompanying grin does a great deal to take away the bite of the insult. What little Spanish Faraday knows were words and phrases flung at him from across card tables and bars, which naturally means everything he knows are the more common oaths or invectives that chased him from town to town. It’s a fact that Vasquez surely knows by now.

Jack snorts a little, speeding up slightly to fall into step, trailing a step behind to sniff at whatever food Vasquez had produced. Faraday’s mouth twists to one side, displaying a sort of token irritation.

“You’re gonna fatten him up if you feed him like that.”