There’s a brief, dizzying moment where a brittle sort of hope lances through the worst of his anger and frustration, and for a little while, he forgets he’s supposed to be mad as hell at Vasquez, forgets that he had privately resolved to not let the bastard forget the god awful way he handled leaving Faraday behind.
That hopeful look on Vasquez’s face is briefly mirrored in Faraday’s eyes, and a small, tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Vasquez hasn’t said yes, obviously. He hasn’t agreed to anything. But neither has he said no, and that’s the fact that Faraday can’t help but latch onto. And he wonders if maybe, for once in his giant mess of a life, things might actually work out.
But there’s a peel of laughter somewhere behind him that startles him out of his daze, and he seems to remember himself in that moment. He schools his expression back to something neutral – as if to signal to Vasquez that he’s still not entirely off the hook. As if sensing that the storm between Faraday and Vasquez has passed, a few of the men start calling out Faraday’s name, voices made loud and consonants made slightly lazy with a couple of drinks.
“Joshua Faraday,” someone else shouts companionably, “you get your ass over here!”
Faraday turns in his seat, waving a dismissive hand to silently say, Keep your shirt on.
“We’ll go after we make a few rounds,” he tells Vasquez, trying for something that sounds like reluctance – like he’s granting Vasquez a great favor by heading back with him. It doesn’t quite hit the mark, though, considering Faraday’s already tipped his hand mere seconds ago, and they both know it. His mood, at least, seems far lighter. “You and me have got an adoring public to entertain.”
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That hopeful look on Vasquez’s face is briefly mirrored in Faraday’s eyes, and a small, tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Vasquez hasn’t said yes, obviously. He hasn’t agreed to anything. But neither has he said no, and that’s the fact that Faraday can’t help but latch onto. And he wonders if maybe, for once in his giant mess of a life, things might actually work out.
But there’s a peel of laughter somewhere behind him that startles him out of his daze, and he seems to remember himself in that moment. He schools his expression back to something neutral – as if to signal to Vasquez that he’s still not entirely off the hook. As if sensing that the storm between Faraday and Vasquez has passed, a few of the men start calling out Faraday’s name, voices made loud and consonants made slightly lazy with a couple of drinks.
“Joshua Faraday,” someone else shouts companionably, “you get your ass over here!”
Faraday turns in his seat, waving a dismissive hand to silently say, Keep your shirt on.
“We’ll go after we make a few rounds,” he tells Vasquez, trying for something that sounds like reluctance – like he’s granting Vasquez a great favor by heading back with him. It doesn’t quite hit the mark, though, considering Faraday’s already tipped his hand mere seconds ago, and they both know it. His mood, at least, seems far lighter. “You and me have got an adoring public to entertain.”