Vasquez

The jab about not knowing the meaning of “querido” earns Vasquez a flat glare. It would figure, of course, that Faraday would only know the swears and oaths in Vasquez’s mother tongue, considering how often they were leveled at him. More often than not, insults were flung at his back as he departed from a card table – puta madre, chingado, cabrón – which left little room for endearments, like the ones Vasquez was so fond of draping over his shoulders like a warm blanket.

Hell, genuine endearments, even in English, were rarely offered to him, except from saloon girls looking to keep him occupied and putting down good money on rotgut in a rundown groggery. It makes the situation with Vasquez entirely new and strange, though not unwelcome.

Faraday can’t help letting out another derisive snort.

“He likes food,” Faraday corrects. “Jack don’t like no one but me.”

Which may be something of a lie, considering Vasquez has done little to earn Jack’s ire, and the stallion wasn’t likely to trample the man, as he might with any other stranger. Still, there are days where Faraday might liken Jack to a barn cat – half-feral, but tolerant of the company of others. And a little protective of Faraday, in his own way.