Faraday hardly looks convinced by Vasquez’s weak attempt at reassurance, and his lips press into a thin line as he studies the other man. Faraday’s made his life on reading other men, and he recognizes the strained quality of Vasquez’s smile, the fine tremor in Vasquez’s hands – either from pain or from exhaustion. His expression darkens into a frown, eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turning downward in disapproval.

Vasquez backs away as if to make to retreat, and Faraday continues to study him. Carefully, Faraday sits up the rest of the way, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress to sit up properly. He runs his hand over the old bullet wound on his thigh – still sore, but nowhere near the screaming, knotted mess of just moments ago. He takes a deep, steadying breath, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his other hand.

“I don’t got a destination in mind,” Faraday says. He glances up at the other man, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “Never have.”

He tended to let chance and caprice guide him, following trails and stopping whenever his coffers needed padding or if he desired company. Now, with the reward for protecting Rose Creek lining his pockets and with Vasquez riding beside him (infuriating as the man may be), Faraday wonders if he’ll have much need of stopping into towns as he used to.

“You got any ideas?”