"You could always ask someone," Vasquez stupidly says behind the hat, batting it off with a clumsy push of his fingers, nearly faceplanting in the dirt as a result, but he manages to get his feet back under himself (or his back) in time to glower petulantly at Faraday, now that his hair is even more of a mess. Still, as he drags up his jacket like a blanket, he thinks that maybe sleep isn't the worst idea in the world.
"How do you know chingato, but not querido." He's mumbling to himself, now, because deep down, he doesn't really want Faraday to know about this. Then he won't get to say it anymore. Other worse things, like being shot, but also the lack of subtle flirting. Even as he lays down to curl up against the dying heat of the fire, he's mumbling, mostly in Spanish, eyes heavy with drink. "Can't believe you've tricked me into this," he mumbles, where 'this' is a boyish stirring of interest and excitement the way he hasn't felt since his first lonely days on a ranch so far away from other people.
His soft, hushed mumblings fade as he falls asleep, but every once in a while, his body gives little kicks like he's still awake. Worse, he hasn't stopped speaking out loud. The sounds and mumbles are soft, barely heard things, but he's always vocal when he's been drinking. What's unfortunate is that he's also stupid. Writhing, he curls up against the jacket into a ball, inhaling sharply and nosing at the fringes.
Clearly, from his lips, there's a soft exhalation of a name. It's not loud, not even full, but very clearly someone's that's sitting right with him, said with clear fondness and an undercurrent of want, just the beginnings of, "Fara..." before it trails off into silence, Vasquez then muttering, "Stop dancing with bullets," grumpily. Silence, then, but soon enough, there's a sound that can't be mistaken. If he were awake, he might have stormed away to save the embarrassment. As it is, sleeping means he can only lie there awash in his dreams and let his clear moan of want echo in their little campsite, hips arching forward and making it very clear that he's dreaming of something in particular.
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winterfish
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Date: 2017-10-13 12:55 pm (UTC)"How do you know chingato, but not querido." He's mumbling to himself, now, because deep down, he doesn't really want Faraday to know about this. Then he won't get to say it anymore. Other worse things, like being shot, but also the lack of subtle flirting. Even as he lays down to curl up against the dying heat of the fire, he's mumbling, mostly in Spanish, eyes heavy with drink. "Can't believe you've tricked me into this," he mumbles, where 'this' is a boyish stirring of interest and excitement the way he hasn't felt since his first lonely days on a ranch so far away from other people.
His soft, hushed mumblings fade as he falls asleep, but every once in a while, his body gives little kicks like he's still awake. Worse, he hasn't stopped speaking out loud. The sounds and mumbles are soft, barely heard things, but he's always vocal when he's been drinking. What's unfortunate is that he's also stupid. Writhing, he curls up against the jacket into a ball, inhaling sharply and nosing at the fringes.
Clearly, from his lips, there's a soft exhalation of a name. It's not loud, not even full, but very clearly someone's that's sitting right with him, said with clear fondness and an undercurrent of want, just the beginnings of, "Fara..." before it trails off into silence, Vasquez then muttering, "Stop dancing with bullets," grumpily. Silence, then, but soon enough, there's a sound that can't be mistaken. If he were awake, he might have stormed away to save the embarrassment. As it is, sleeping means he can only lie there awash in his dreams and let his clear moan of want echo in their little campsite, hips arching forward and making it very clear that he's dreaming of something in particular.