The slow-building smirk on his lips is teeming with caution, like he's wandering into the desert plains, but they're filled with more traps than he can count. He takes the flask back and sets it on the table, his smile wide and disbelieving, not just for Faraday's words but for what's been circling in the back of his mind.

He'd been on the road since he could remember, travelling away from lands the US stole from his family. He's farmed, ranched, lived a nomad's life, took comfort where he could. Other men? Si, yes, he's taken their trust and their comfort.

This man? Vasquez had never expected to find himself struggling with wanting this man around, with all his insults and blustering, puffing and insistences. Still, when he stares at him and makes him fight not to let the flush in his cheeks (and up to the tips of his ears) show, he thinks he's done this to himself. "You're right," he agrees, but rather than be easy, let Faraday have what he wants, Vasquez smiles serenely, settling his feet on Faraday's bed.

He leans back to pick up one of Faraday's peacemakers and the well-kept rag of his, beginning to slowly take apart the gun with the care it deserves, absently cleaning it to give his fingers and attention something to do. "What do you think? Hmm? Think the schoolteacher will do it? He ran easily enough. Emma, then," he challenges. "She probably still wants my head for what I did when I met her. No," he says decisively. "Goody and Billy, I always did love being a third wheel," is said in Spanish, the sarcasm sharp in his words, but he knows he's teasing around the question he's going to ask.

Maybe not a question. Maybe just a demand.

Come with me. Stay with me. Maybe he will even think to say please.