Considering Vasquez does the both of them the favor of retrieving glasses, the least Faraday can do is pour them their drinks. He grabs up the bottle, and with one hand still occupied in applying pressure to his aching leg, he uncorks the whiskey with his teeth, spitting the stopper onto the table, where it bounces and rolls to a stop at the edge. Faraday’s always head a heavy hand when it comes to pouring, and it shows in the healthy shares he doles out to the both of them. Setting the bottle aside in favor of the glass, Faraday knocks back a mouthful, sighing as the familiar burn works its way down his throat.
His gaze flits over to Vasquez at the unfamiliar words, and Faraday frowns on reflex. It’s just as well that Vasquez follows up in plain English, cutting off any possible complaints Faraday might have offered. As it is, Faraday considers denying it, just out of sheer, stubborn spite, but the both of them know the answer to Vasquez’s question. Lying about it won’t change the reality of it.
Faraday scowls down at his glass for a second before huffing out a frustrated sound. “Seized up on me,” he grits out. “That’s all.” And that’s putting it mildly, admittedly, but it’s as much of a concession as Faraday is likely to give.
He downs another mouthful, waiting for that warmth to pool in him. Drinking as often as he does means it will take some time yet before the liquor settles, before it starts loosening him up and taking away the worst of the pain. But sure enough, Vasquez starts fussing, and Faraday hasn’t had nearly enough whiskey yet to make the attention endearing rather than irritating.
“Stop that,” he snaps. “It’s a cramp, Vasquez. You’re actin’ like I’m some sickly granny stumblin’ out in the cold.”
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2017-08-29 05:56 pm (UTC)His gaze flits over to Vasquez at the unfamiliar words, and Faraday frowns on reflex. It’s just as well that Vasquez follows up in plain English, cutting off any possible complaints Faraday might have offered. As it is, Faraday considers denying it, just out of sheer, stubborn spite, but the both of them know the answer to Vasquez’s question. Lying about it won’t change the reality of it.
Faraday scowls down at his glass for a second before huffing out a frustrated sound. “Seized up on me,” he grits out. “That’s all.” And that’s putting it mildly, admittedly, but it’s as much of a concession as Faraday is likely to give.
He downs another mouthful, waiting for that warmth to pool in him. Drinking as often as he does means it will take some time yet before the liquor settles, before it starts loosening him up and taking away the worst of the pain. But sure enough, Vasquez starts fussing, and Faraday hasn’t had nearly enough whiskey yet to make the attention endearing rather than irritating.
“Stop that,” he snaps. “It’s a cramp, Vasquez. You’re actin’ like I’m some sickly granny stumblin’ out in the cold.”