Vasquez moves swiftly with the adjustment, angling his body so that he's pressed hip to hip with Faraday, slouching a little in order to give him more to hold onto, if he wants it. He should feel relieved for the space between them now that Faraday has eased away, but his brow is pinched and his lips curve downwards, like he isn't sure exactly why he's so upset. He settles on thinking that he's just upset that Bogue's idiots got so close to blowing them all up, seeing as it's a convenient place to put his anger.
"Lo prometo," he vows, of the promise to get him alcohol. He drags the chair closer by hooking his ankle around one of the legs, bending to pull it over and maneuver Faraday's body carefully.
Settling him in, Vasquez leans over him as he has to push his weight forward with Faraday's to get him into the chair, taking a bit longer to step away than he should, because the worry is eating at him like a worry he hasn't felt in years. Eventually, he convinces himself that Faraday isn't going anywhere, that he won't be stupid enough to try.
"I'll be right back," Vasquez promises, digging through his pockets to find a cigarette and his matchbox, setting it down for Faraday to smoke while he's gone.
With no one around, he has to go to one of the townspeople who's awake, in this case, the master of the whorehouse and uses the man's own gold coins to sweet-talk him into a bottle of something strong. The proprietor looks him over, glances at the coin, then back as he slides a bottle of whiskey over. "For that, you can have an hour or so upstairs, if you like."
Vasquez raises his brow, briefly considering it, mainly because it has been a very long time and while he's lonely and starving for touch, you don't sleep with strange women because you could wake up with a gun to your forehead, being as most women would relish the chance for $500 and a new start. Lonely and cold, it is.
"I'll stick with the booze," Vasquez says, heading back to where he'd left Faraday, his pace quicker than he wants to think about. The relief is in his breath when he sees Faraday hasn't moved, lifting up the bottle with victory. "See? My word is good."
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"Lo prometo," he vows, of the promise to get him alcohol. He drags the chair closer by hooking his ankle around one of the legs, bending to pull it over and maneuver Faraday's body carefully.
Settling him in, Vasquez leans over him as he has to push his weight forward with Faraday's to get him into the chair, taking a bit longer to step away than he should, because the worry is eating at him like a worry he hasn't felt in years. Eventually, he convinces himself that Faraday isn't going anywhere, that he won't be stupid enough to try.
"I'll be right back," Vasquez promises, digging through his pockets to find a cigarette and his matchbox, setting it down for Faraday to smoke while he's gone.
With no one around, he has to go to one of the townspeople who's awake, in this case, the master of the whorehouse and uses the man's own gold coins to sweet-talk him into a bottle of something strong. The proprietor looks him over, glances at the coin, then back as he slides a bottle of whiskey over. "For that, you can have an hour or so upstairs, if you like."
Vasquez raises his brow, briefly considering it, mainly because it has been a very long time and while he's lonely and starving for touch, you don't sleep with strange women because you could wake up with a gun to your forehead, being as most women would relish the chance for $500 and a new start. Lonely and cold, it is.
"I'll stick with the booze," Vasquez says, heading back to where he'd left Faraday, his pace quicker than he wants to think about. The relief is in his breath when he sees Faraday hasn't moved, lifting up the bottle with victory. "See? My word is good."