Vasquez makes a show of tipping the flask upside down to show the slow drop of the whiskey to the dust. When he sees there's still one or two, he sets his thumb to it and sucks off the last precious droplets of alcohol. "It was," is his curt reply, without sympathy. For all that Faraday is in a good mood, Vasquez's has plummeted. He jams his spoon into the remainder of the cold beans, nodding to Faraday's portion (it should say something that it's a miracle that there is still some of that left, or maybe Vasquez's irritation has sharply edged out his hunger).

That, or he's a little drunker than he'd thought, baked in by the heat and the annoyance. It's made worse by the fact that he can smell perfume off Faraday, has to stare accusingly at the red mark on the cheek. It's immature, it's childish, it's terrible because riding out together doesn't mean that he has a claim on the man.

Why would he want one? He's frustrating and annoying and drunk more often than not; crass, rude, he could go on and on. Trouble is, Vasquez is really no better and he thinks all the things he likes about Faraday outweighs that. Sneering and scowling, he buries his face in his tin cup, even though he's sure the disapproval radiates from him.

"I hope you didn't spend the money I sent with you on company," is his icy, annoyed reproach, already knowing Faraday wouldn't. "Whatever perfume your companion is using smells like horseshit, guero," he adds, with the air to cut sharply, though it probably falls short given that it sounds like petulant whining.