The road is not like Vasquez remembers. For one, it's strange to have someone to wield a pistol whenever someone decides to look too close at Vasquez and not have to watch his own back all the time. Another, he maybe has some bad habits that he's not shaking so easy. He snores at night, wakes easy, doesn't like to share food, and definitely not cigarettes. The good of being with someone outweighs the frustrating, maybe because it's Faraday. There's difficult, too.
When he wakes up on the cusp of sleep and hazily stares across his bedroll through the embers to see the pale glow of them against Faraday's slack, sleeping face, and the loneliness and ache of not touching hits him like the handle of one of his Marias. When that happens, he digs out a cigarette, reminds himself that a bullet in the chamber is better than one in his head, and if he wants this, he keeps his hands to himself.
It doesn't mean that he is perfect. Far from it. This is what he finds when he ends up sending Faraday to town, because Vasquez has eaten the last of their food a whole week earlier than they were supposed to run out. Good timing, too, because the food and cigarettes could use more, not to mention some more ...personal supplies, because maybe Vasquez doesn't like to enjoy the pain. He can't go into town, not with his face so prominent on posters, so he's sent in Faraday with coins while he tends to the small camp outside the town, shoving the last of the beans into the pot to cook them up so they can go with the last of the whiskey.
Soon, though, the beans are starting to burn and Vasquez feels a twinge of worry when Faraday still isn't there over the horizon. His things, mostly, are still all around. He won't just run, would he? No, Vasquez tells himself, no, he's being paranoid and ridiculous. Taking the food from the pot, he slops them into one of the tin cups and hunches over to eat, drinking the rest of Faraday's whiskey almost vindictively because he isn't back yet.
It's really just bad timing that Faraday is back soon after and Vasquez knows how much things are different because he actually feels just a little guilty that he'd drank the last of the whiskey straight from Faraday's flask (still clasped between his fingers, loosely dangling). "They didn't shoot you. You must have been extra charming."
pitching camp - weeks later
When he wakes up on the cusp of sleep and hazily stares across his bedroll through the embers to see the pale glow of them against Faraday's slack, sleeping face, and the loneliness and ache of not touching hits him like the handle of one of his Marias. When that happens, he digs out a cigarette, reminds himself that a bullet in the chamber is better than one in his head, and if he wants this, he keeps his hands to himself.
It doesn't mean that he is perfect. Far from it. This is what he finds when he ends up sending Faraday to town, because Vasquez has eaten the last of their food a whole week earlier than they were supposed to run out. Good timing, too, because the food and cigarettes could use more, not to mention some more ...personal supplies, because maybe Vasquez doesn't like to enjoy the pain. He can't go into town, not with his face so prominent on posters, so he's sent in Faraday with coins while he tends to the small camp outside the town, shoving the last of the beans into the pot to cook them up so they can go with the last of the whiskey.
Soon, though, the beans are starting to burn and Vasquez feels a twinge of worry when Faraday still isn't there over the horizon. His things, mostly, are still all around. He won't just run, would he? No, Vasquez tells himself, no, he's being paranoid and ridiculous. Taking the food from the pot, he slops them into one of the tin cups and hunches over to eat, drinking the rest of Faraday's whiskey almost vindictively because he isn't back yet.
It's really just bad timing that Faraday is back soon after and Vasquez knows how much things are different because he actually feels just a little guilty that he'd drank the last of the whiskey straight from Faraday's flask (still clasped between his fingers, loosely dangling). "They didn't shoot you. You must have been extra charming."