For a split second, when that hurt flashes across Vasquez’s face, Faraday feels like he should be sorry for the dig at Vasquez’s expense – feels like he should, but for all that he feels guilty about it, he’s not sorry in the slightest. Faraday can be petty as hell – one of the many flaws that make up his personality – and a part of him feels vindicated that the comment stung.
But any satisfaction he might have felt is swept away when Vasquez says that. “Love.” Hardly easy for the man to say, admittedly, but even less easy for Faraday to hear, and he quickly averts his gaze to the refilled glass.
He’s silent for a long while, the companionable noise of the bar filling the space for him. He can feel the weight of the townsfolks’ gazes on his shoulders, most of them curious and eager to speak with him, to goad him into spinning one of his many yarns like he used to, back when the pain of his injuries had faded to a dull ache and his mood had improved enough for it. But they’re either too polite or too aware of the tension snapping between Faraday and Vasquez to interrupt.
What do you want me to do? Vasquez asks, and Faraday’s brow furrows.
Faraday is thinking, as he sits there – an ability that many of his compatriots assumed he lacked the capacity for, despite how observant and insightful he can be. (Not that he always is.) His jaw clenches briefly before his gaze snaps up to Vasquez. He leans forward a little, elbows on the table, voice pitched low to ward off prying ears.
“I want you to leave with me,” he says, the words tumbling out a little clumsily, like he worries if he thinks about them much longer, they won’t come out at all. A muscle in his jaw tics before he forces himself to continue. “When the worst of the cold is done, leave with me. We’ll go up north, or down south, or wherever the hell you want. Anywhere they won’t recognize you.”
no subject
But any satisfaction he might have felt is swept away when Vasquez says that. “Love.” Hardly easy for the man to say, admittedly, but even less easy for Faraday to hear, and he quickly averts his gaze to the refilled glass.
He’s silent for a long while, the companionable noise of the bar filling the space for him. He can feel the weight of the townsfolks’ gazes on his shoulders, most of them curious and eager to speak with him, to goad him into spinning one of his many yarns like he used to, back when the pain of his injuries had faded to a dull ache and his mood had improved enough for it. But they’re either too polite or too aware of the tension snapping between Faraday and Vasquez to interrupt.
What do you want me to do? Vasquez asks, and Faraday’s brow furrows.
Faraday is thinking, as he sits there – an ability that many of his compatriots assumed he lacked the capacity for, despite how observant and insightful he can be. (Not that he always is.) His jaw clenches briefly before his gaze snaps up to Vasquez. He leans forward a little, elbows on the table, voice pitched low to ward off prying ears.
“I want you to leave with me,” he says, the words tumbling out a little clumsily, like he worries if he thinks about them much longer, they won’t come out at all. A muscle in his jaw tics before he forces himself to continue. “When the worst of the cold is done, leave with me. We’ll go up north, or down south, or wherever the hell you want. Anywhere they won’t recognize you.”