And once again he feels that weird mixture of frustration and worry and satisfaction, and his eyebrows knit together as he looks over Vasquez again. Faraday wants to tell him once again that Vasquez should have come looking for him, if he was this badly off, but Vasquez already looks sorry enough, in more ways than one. There’s little point in rubbing salt into still stinging wounds.
Faraday sighs, forcing away his annoyance – a surprising bout of maturity, for once. His lips part to speak, but Vasquez interrupts him – and that little endearment lances through him like a bolt of lightning. It feels like lifetimes since he last heard it, and something in him feels soothed for it. He forgets to speak for a second, and Vasquez steps into his space, brackets his face with rough, calloused hands. Vasquez’s touch is gentle, though, holding onto him like he’s some delicate, breakable thing – and Faraday isn’t entirely sure how to react to that.
(He’s not accustomed to being treated better than he feels he’s worth.)
His breath catches for a second, and he’s transfixed by the complicated mix of emotions on Vasquez’s face. Regret and relief and desperation and hunger. Faraday lets out a small, startled sound when Vasquez practically barrels forward, and his back hits the sturdy wood of the bedpost. Faraday wastes a second to catch himself, one hand curling into the material of Vasquez’s shirt, the other gripping the post behind him to make sure they don’t overbalance and topple in a heap to the floor. It’s artless, the way Vasquez kisses him, far more eagerness than skill, but it sends a shower of sparks down Faraday’s spine. He reaches up, curling a hand possessively over the line of Vasquez’s jaw, the other man’s beard tickling against his palm, and he eases Vasquez back a little, just to temper that hunger and slow him down.
“Easy, darlin’,” he murmurs against Vasquez’s mouth. He smirks a little before nipping lightly at Vasquez’s lower lip. “We got time.”
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Faraday sighs, forcing away his annoyance – a surprising bout of maturity, for once. His lips part to speak, but Vasquez interrupts him – and that little endearment lances through him like a bolt of lightning. It feels like lifetimes since he last heard it, and something in him feels soothed for it. He forgets to speak for a second, and Vasquez steps into his space, brackets his face with rough, calloused hands. Vasquez’s touch is gentle, though, holding onto him like he’s some delicate, breakable thing – and Faraday isn’t entirely sure how to react to that.
(He’s not accustomed to being treated better than he feels he’s worth.)
His breath catches for a second, and he’s transfixed by the complicated mix of emotions on Vasquez’s face. Regret and relief and desperation and hunger. Faraday lets out a small, startled sound when Vasquez practically barrels forward, and his back hits the sturdy wood of the bedpost. Faraday wastes a second to catch himself, one hand curling into the material of Vasquez’s shirt, the other gripping the post behind him to make sure they don’t overbalance and topple in a heap to the floor. It’s artless, the way Vasquez kisses him, far more eagerness than skill, but it sends a shower of sparks down Faraday’s spine. He reaches up, curling a hand possessively over the line of Vasquez’s jaw, the other man’s beard tickling against his palm, and he eases Vasquez back a little, just to temper that hunger and slow him down.
“Easy, darlin’,” he murmurs against Vasquez’s mouth. He smirks a little before nipping lightly at Vasquez’s lower lip. “We got time.”