Faraday grunts out some noise of gratitude when Vasquez leaves behind the matchbox and the cigarette, and Faraday avails himself of Vasquez’s generosity. With the cigarette perched between his lips, Faraday tries not to think too hard on the clumsy way he strikes the match against the striking surface of the box, or how disgustingly familiar it is to have that fix match snap in his shaking fingers. (He remembers blood and pain and cold, mounting dread that blackness might overtake him before he could perform his trick.) He lets the two pieces fall to the floor, and he kicks them away with his good leg and tries again. The second attempt, at least, is far more successful than the first, and he brings the lit match up to the cigarette, breathes in a mouthful of smoke and exhales it up to the ceiling.
Vasquez isn’t gone as long as Faraday might have figured, and not nearly long enough for Faraday to entertain the idea of standing, of stretching out the knotted, strained muscle of his bad leg. Instead, he kneads at his hip with the heel of his palm, cigarette held between the fingers of his other hand, and glances up when he hears the familiar tread of Vasquez’s step.
He’s come to recognize the weight of Vasquez’s footfalls on the wooden floors, the particular measure and weight of them. An odd thing, surely, and odder still to find comfort in the sound. Faraday doesn’t relax by any means, but when he spots Vasquez, he lets out a slow breath, smoke curling upward with the exhale. His expression doesn’t soften, but some of the hardness in his gaze fades away.
Faraday holds Vasquez’s matchbox out on the palm of his hand. “Here I thought you were all hot air,” he says, and he tries for something teasing, something to get Vasquez’s dander up. Instead, his voice comes out strained and exhausted.
no subject
Vasquez isn’t gone as long as Faraday might have figured, and not nearly long enough for Faraday to entertain the idea of standing, of stretching out the knotted, strained muscle of his bad leg. Instead, he kneads at his hip with the heel of his palm, cigarette held between the fingers of his other hand, and glances up when he hears the familiar tread of Vasquez’s step.
He’s come to recognize the weight of Vasquez’s footfalls on the wooden floors, the particular measure and weight of them. An odd thing, surely, and odder still to find comfort in the sound. Faraday doesn’t relax by any means, but when he spots Vasquez, he lets out a slow breath, smoke curling upward with the exhale. His expression doesn’t soften, but some of the hardness in his gaze fades away.
Faraday holds Vasquez’s matchbox out on the palm of his hand. “Here I thought you were all hot air,” he says, and he tries for something teasing, something to get Vasquez’s dander up. Instead, his voice comes out strained and exhausted.