Faraday gets to his feet, carefully stretching his bad leg once he’s out of his chair. He pauses, though, when Vasquez waves him on. For a brief, strained second, Faraday’s expression closes-off, lips pressing into a thin line and eyes narrowing a little. There’s a high probability, though, that with all the time the two of them have spent together – current events notwithstanding – Vasquez might recognize the flicker of uncertainty in Faraday’s eyes.
It lasts for all of a heartbeat, and Faraday smooths out his expression into his usual mask – the unconcerned look of a man who takes nothing seriously, who carries no burdens on his shoulders.
(Obviously, that’s far from the case, but Faraday has always been a convincing conman.)
“Be here when I get back,” he commands, and even if there’s a wry tilt to his words, there’s also an unspoken warning in his voice. Faraday is reasonably sure he doesn’t need to say it, and it’s almost certainly unfair to keep picking at that scab, but Vasquez has set a precedent of leaving Faraday in the dust – a precedent that Faraday isn’t soon to forget.
Reluctantly, then, he turns from the table, plastering on a bright grin – his showman’s smile – as he steps toward the men who had called him a moment ago. He’s greeted by a chorus of delighted shouts as he makes his way over, as he suffers through sociable pats on the shoulders and numerous shouts of “how the hell are you, you son of a bitch?”
True to the promises he made earlier in the day, he tells the men and women of Rose Creek how he’s fared since he left – and he feels far more in his element than he has since Vasquez left him, his mood buoyed by their earlier conversation. He doesn’t see fit to lie about the time he spent with Vasquez, though he’s wise enough to keep the private dalliances to himself. He is, however, prone to exaggeration. Towns become larger or smaller as his story needs, women become prettier, men become uglier, card games and arguments become more fraught with tension. It’s the natural tendency of a good storyteller, after all, and every laughing shout of “Bullshit!” is answered with Faraday pressing one hand to his heart, lifting the other with his palm facing his accuser, and saying solemnly, “I swear on my honor, compadre.”
Granted, Faraday has very little honor to begin with, but the other folks are wise enough to not point that out.
He weaves his tales a little longer than he expects, but not nearly so long that the night has been exhausted. He deftly avoids having to retell the circumstances of why he and Vasquez parted ways, and the others seem to know better than to try to ask a second time. By the time he’s done, he’s rosy-cheeked and warm, thanks to the drinks and food pressed upon him, but rather than waste away the rest of the night by drinking himself silly, he eventually pushes back from the table with a minimal amount of swaying and says his goodbyes. He turns down all invitations and offers of places to stay.
“A certain vaquero already beat you folks to the punch,” he tells them plainly, and he turns to look over his shoulder, back to Vasquez’s table.
(A small part of him worries he’ll see only an empty chair.)
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2019-02-01 03:27 am (UTC)It lasts for all of a heartbeat, and Faraday smooths out his expression into his usual mask – the unconcerned look of a man who takes nothing seriously, who carries no burdens on his shoulders.
(Obviously, that’s far from the case, but Faraday has always been a convincing conman.)
“Be here when I get back,” he commands, and even if there’s a wry tilt to his words, there’s also an unspoken warning in his voice. Faraday is reasonably sure he doesn’t need to say it, and it’s almost certainly unfair to keep picking at that scab, but Vasquez has set a precedent of leaving Faraday in the dust – a precedent that Faraday isn’t soon to forget.
Reluctantly, then, he turns from the table, plastering on a bright grin – his showman’s smile – as he steps toward the men who had called him a moment ago. He’s greeted by a chorus of delighted shouts as he makes his way over, as he suffers through sociable pats on the shoulders and numerous shouts of “how the hell are you, you son of a bitch?”
True to the promises he made earlier in the day, he tells the men and women of Rose Creek how he’s fared since he left – and he feels far more in his element than he has since Vasquez left him, his mood buoyed by their earlier conversation. He doesn’t see fit to lie about the time he spent with Vasquez, though he’s wise enough to keep the private dalliances to himself. He is, however, prone to exaggeration. Towns become larger or smaller as his story needs, women become prettier, men become uglier, card games and arguments become more fraught with tension. It’s the natural tendency of a good storyteller, after all, and every laughing shout of “Bullshit!” is answered with Faraday pressing one hand to his heart, lifting the other with his palm facing his accuser, and saying solemnly, “I swear on my honor, compadre.”
Granted, Faraday has very little honor to begin with, but the other folks are wise enough to not point that out.
He weaves his tales a little longer than he expects, but not nearly so long that the night has been exhausted. He deftly avoids having to retell the circumstances of why he and Vasquez parted ways, and the others seem to know better than to try to ask a second time. By the time he’s done, he’s rosy-cheeked and warm, thanks to the drinks and food pressed upon him, but rather than waste away the rest of the night by drinking himself silly, he eventually pushes back from the table with a minimal amount of swaying and says his goodbyes. He turns down all invitations and offers of places to stay.
“A certain vaquero already beat you folks to the punch,” he tells them plainly, and he turns to look over his shoulder, back to Vasquez’s table.
(A small part of him worries he’ll see only an empty chair.)