Turnabout is fair play, Faraday would say in any other instance – unless, of course, the play is turned around on him. "Easy," he had kept telling Vasquez, but when Vasquez spins that same command back at Faraday, Faraday answers with an annoyed grunt and another bite at Vasquez's lips.

But thankfully for both of them, Vasquez does as he's bid, and Faraday waits, watches, follows Vasquez's deft hands as he slips each button from its hole, one by one. Taking his sweet time, he knows, and Faraday clenches his jaw, swallowing down the impulse to urge Vasquez to move faster. But the outlaw bares himself, bit by bit, the material of his shirt parting and loosening and slipping, though not falling away entirely. Faraday makes a show of studying the other man, gaze greedy and lascivious, but he frowns a little. Even the peek is enough to reveal that Vasquez is thinner than he remembers, and that worry rears its head again.

"Vas," he murmurs, without the heat from moments ago; this time, his voice is tinged by something almost a little sad. Faraday reaches across the space, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of Vasquez's shirt as his shoulders, moving to push the shirt down and away.