Faraday snorts out a laugh at Vasquez’s obvious attempt at lightening the mood. He should probably remind the man that staying in one place this long likely wouldn’t do Vasquez any favors – especially considering eventually, someone with a folded slip of paper bearing a poor likeness was liable to come looking for him. But Vasquez had snapped at him earlier when Faraday had pointed that out, and while Faraday went looking for fights more often than not, this particularly fight doesn’t feel like one either of them would win.

He lifts his glass, looking to finish the whiskey off, but Vasquez captures his wrist. Faraday blinks at him, startled and puzzled by the contact all over again. Weeks ago, a move like that would have had Faraday drawing his guns on the other man, shooting first before bothering to ask any questions. Now, though, he feels his heart lurch in his chest, feels a strange spark kick up in his stomach, but Vasquez’s calloused hand pulls away before Faraday can properly examine that peculiar sensation.

“I stay another minute in this town,” he grumbles, setting the glass back on the table, “I’m gonna go mad.”

Domesticity and Faraday mix about as well as oil and water, after all. He made a habit of staying in towns until the well had run dry – which typically meant a handful of days. He’s been in Rose Creek for months, now, with hardly anything to keep him occupied.

“You can’t honestly tell me you’re not itchin’ to get out just as much as I am.”