It’s not as much of a consolation, really, considering Faraday’s more independent nature. He’s used to fending for himself, and all the fussing, all the worried glances from Vasquez and the others and the remaining townsfolk alike were smothering, rankled him like a burr caught in his boot. It was well-meaning, sure, and a small part of him was warmed by the consideration, but the rest of him just found it vexing.
One to two hours a day still sounds like too much, by Faraday’s standards, and his irritated frown is evidence enough of that; he’s also smart enough to realize that’s likely as much of a concession as Vasquez is willing to give, and he heaves out a sharp sigh.
“Worrywart,” he accuses, but the insult holds no heat or sharpness; his tone is an exasperated one, but it’s nearly fond, too.
Granted, it’s also a case of the kettle calling the pot black, because when Vasquez winces as he moves his arm, Faraday’s gaze snaps to him, to the line of scar tissue hidden by Vasquez’s sleeve. Vasquez may be smiling now, but Faraday saw the way he grimaced just a second ago, and it makes something that shares a few blood relatives with concern kick up in his gut.
The mention of Sam makes Faraday breathe out a laugh, though, and he shrugs in an easy, carefree way. “Suppose he oughta have thought of that ‘fore he decided to introduce us.” So, really, if one thinks about it, this partnership and all of the chaos it would surely yield was Sam Chisolm’s fault.
Faraday unfolds his arms, leans forward a little to rest his elbows on his knees. He nods to Vasquez’s arm, and in as mild a tone as he can manage, “Your arm givin’ you trouble?”
no subject
One to two hours a day still sounds like too much, by Faraday’s standards, and his irritated frown is evidence enough of that; he’s also smart enough to realize that’s likely as much of a concession as Vasquez is willing to give, and he heaves out a sharp sigh.
“Worrywart,” he accuses, but the insult holds no heat or sharpness; his tone is an exasperated one, but it’s nearly fond, too.
Granted, it’s also a case of the kettle calling the pot black, because when Vasquez winces as he moves his arm, Faraday’s gaze snaps to him, to the line of scar tissue hidden by Vasquez’s sleeve. Vasquez may be smiling now, but Faraday saw the way he grimaced just a second ago, and it makes something that shares a few blood relatives with concern kick up in his gut.
The mention of Sam makes Faraday breathe out a laugh, though, and he shrugs in an easy, carefree way. “Suppose he oughta have thought of that ‘fore he decided to introduce us.” So, really, if one thinks about it, this partnership and all of the chaos it would surely yield was Sam Chisolm’s fault.
Faraday unfolds his arms, leans forward a little to rest his elbows on his knees. He nods to Vasquez’s arm, and in as mild a tone as he can manage, “Your arm givin’ you trouble?”