Faraday can do slow, apparently, but he can hardly do gentle. When Vasquez steps in, kisses him and holds him close, Faraday answers with heat, with sharp nips at the other man's lips and a calloused hand gripping the nape of Vasquez's neck. Vasquez's hair is longer than he remembers, and Faraday thinks he might like this particular change; he enjoys the feel of dark curls slipping past his fingers, looks forward to using Vasquez's hair as a handhold.

He hums against Vasquez's mouth, the corner of his own mouth pulling up in a smile as Vasquez speaks. "I think we can manage that," he says, voice falsely cool, like he's granting Vasquez some grand favor. The act is undone by the way his hips unconsciously rock, by the way color rises on his cheeks, and especially by the rasp in his voice.

He tugs insistently at the hem of Vasquez's shirt again, pulling upward this time to signal that he wants it gone. "Let me see you."