Faraday notices the intense way Vasquez studies him, but he makes no outward sign of it – he’s had years and years to master his poker face, after all. It’s his own little secret game, maybe, to maintain his composure to see which of them caves first, but the weight of Vasquez’s eyes on him, that bare edge of something like hunger, makes a spark reluctantly ignite in his gut.

A mulish part of him wants to keep being angry – a way to conceal how genuinely gutted he had felt when he woke alone – but that small, burgeoning sense of optimism, the numbness from the whiskey, the overwhelming relief at seeing Vasquez alive and well, slowly eats away at his resolve.

He joins Vasquez at the table, easing himself into the chair opposite the other man. Vasquez’s question puts to bed that last nagging bit of uncertainty – he had never outright agreed, back at the bar – but Faraday still finds himself straightening a little, taken aback, and reflexively asking, “You’re comin’ with me, then?”