"It's a very pretty name," he admits, when some of the guilt of being so cruel to a woman he doesn't know kicks in, making him embarrassed to have acted in such a way. "Henrietta," he says with a soft hum of study, like he's thinking about it. It takes him a moment and in that time, he feels like an ass. Too bad that it's not like there's polite company to call him out on that. "And I'll stop, with the whiskey," he promises, because he thinks he has a little tequila left for him to sip at, to prevent giving Faraday an excuse to head back to town.

He likes his company too, after all, doesn't want to give him any reason to wander, especially not when they hit that sweet spot of just enough drink between them that things are hazy and warm and delightful.

At the suggestion, he snorts derisively, not to mock Faraday, but himself. "No, guero, this is for emergency situations. If someone comes along me, better to be prepared." The last thing he needs is to end up touching himself, finding himself wanting more. No. That will be what happens when he is pent up and frustrated and the dreams have invaded his waking days and made him sweat with want. "Being alone is no good, querido," he drunkenly mumbles, "it's alone or a corpse and I hate it, it's awful."

Mierda, he is far too drunk all of a sudden and is it hot? Yes, it's desert lands, of course it is, but is it hotter than usual?