for peacemakers

[quinientos]

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[quinientos]

He's started to measure time in how long it takes to heal wounds. His arm? Not at all long, it's a blink of an eye. The Gatling gun tore strips through muscle and flesh, but quick enough, it was back to normal. In the time it takes to do that, Faraday doesn't really do much healing at all, but it's a miracle that he's still alive. For all the prayers Vasquez gives, he doesn't know why God decided to listen to this one, saving Billy and Jack, Goodnight and Faraday.

He knows he doesn't have to sit around and fuss, but the town's people have better things to do and he doesn't want to subject anyone to Faraday's healing if they don't need to be. At first, he does it out of obligation. Truthfully, the man might be an annoying cabron, but Vasquez also likes to give as much as he gets and Faraday never flinched on that. It had been good, nice, having a guerito to tease and push at. Over the time while he healed, Vasquez started to realize that maybe, just maybe, the ill will didn't run so deep.

Maybe there was something else he's been ignoring, too, something too difficult to explain. It's the something that flickers poorly when he thinks of Faraday being dead. It's the something that twitches when he thinks of Faraday leaving town without him.

Today, though, is a day for only good things. The local doctor has said that after a long period of rest and recuperation, they're willing to allow Faraday to go his own way. Vasquez should be happy, yes? Instead, he's smoking his third cigar of the day compulsively as he sits in the chair of Faraday's healing room, not sure what he's going to do next, but also not sure that he wants to look so desperate that he's willing to throw his hat into whatever direction Faraday chooses to ride in.

"Sam, I think he says he'll take you," Vasquez comments, staring down at the burning tip of the cigar, letting his hat keep his eyes from giving too much away, "if you wanted to go with him." Vasquez had been thinking of it, but no. Sam deals with too many bounty hunters, that's a path he can't cross, not if he wants to keep his head. "Careful, though, he might blackmail you with another horse. Look how that wound up," he jokes darkly.

[peacemakers]

Faraday didn't expect to survive.

Obviously he didn't want to die – what man does? – but he'd be a terrible gambler if he didn't recognize they were playing against the house with a deck stacked in Bogue's favor. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Faraday is a practical man. While he expected Rose Creek might live to see another day, with Sam Chisolm acting as the beleaguered army's general, Faraday hardly expected that he would see the small town rise from the ashes. That first gut shot cemented his fate, he thought, and he knew how slowly a shot like that killed. He'd have days at most of agonizing pain and delirium until his body finally gave out. Better to go out with a bang.

And apparently, he meant that literally.

Boom.

He doesn't expect to wake, doesn't expect to blink blearily up at a drab ceiling in a quiet, sun-filled room, to turn his head and see Vasquez sitting beside him in a rickety chair. His entire body feels stiff and heavy, pain racing along his nerves like a barely contained fire. Death is supposed to be quieter than this, he thinks, more peaceful – so he figures he can rule this being hell or heaven right out. The first question out of his mouth is, "Did we win?" And when he gets his answer, he lets out a laugh that's little more than a breath and says, "Good."

And he's lost to unconsciousness again.

While recovering is nowhere near as easy as Faraday would have liked (and indeed, he was a surly bastard for a great deal of it), these days, he's feeling better. His left leg likes to protest, most days, reminding him of the bullet that tore through his thigh, but otherwise, he's regained a great deal of his strength and dexterity. "A miracle," the townsfolk like to tell him. "Foolhardy stubbornness and an inability to know when to quit" is the most likely culprit, however.

The doctor arrives, tells Faraday he's cleared to go, and Faraday feels relief at last. Rose Creek is a nice enough town, but Faraday has never stayed so long in one place – not since he was a child, clinging to his mother's skirts. He's been itching to leave for weeks now, eager to leave for more exciting pastures. It's only when he sees something cross Vasquez's face that he frowns, that he realizes the bit of news hasn't struck the same happy chord as it has with Faraday for some strange reason.

The day stretches on, and Faraday sits in bed, a new deck of cards rasping in his hands as he shuffles them, wearing in the paper. Vasquez breaks the tense silence, the smoke of his third cigar curling up toward the ceiling, and Faraday breathes out a laugh at the joke.

"I'd like to see him try," he says, the cards snapping together as he bridges them. "Already said Jack was as good as mine. He's got another thing comin' if he thinks I'm lettin' him go back on his word."

Faraday straightens out the cards with practiced ease, gaze focused on his work. Vasquez has stayed in that same chair for weeks and weeks by now, sat beside him through the worst of the fevers and the pain, waited patiently (or impatiently, depending on the instance) as Faraday chucked insult after insult at him when his mood darkened. Once Faraday's path to recovery became more steady, he realized how much he appreciated Vasquez's presence, his needling and his ribbing – though Faraday could have done without the constant fussing. It's a wonder that Vasquez had stayed even a few days after the battle, wanted man that he is. Faraday hardly understands why he would stay all this time when he could have ridden out of town the instant the dust settled.

As he mixes the cards in an easy overhand shuffle, Faraday puts on his poker face – not blank and impassive, as one might expect, but blandly pleasant, tinged with amusement at the edges.

"What about you?" he asks lightly, like the answer hardly concerns him. It only now occurs to Faraday that neither of them have asked after the other's plans, once their business with Rose Creek ended. "You gonna join up with Sam?"

[quinientos]

Vasquez snorts, a huff of derisive breath at the comment about the horse, because Faraday got into this whole mess because he'd been too drunk to notice that a tiny man had bought his horse from him. "He won't have to try very hard if you keep drinking," he says, but then, against his actions, he makes a noise like he's just remembered something, lifting himself to one side as he pries out the flask that he's been smuggling into the room. With one check over his shoulder, he makes sure that no doctor or disapproving parties are lingering (Jack), before tossing it at Faraday, conveniently missing his head with an easy toss that lands the flask at his hip.

He keeps working his cigar, sliding the chair forward enough that he's close. If Faraday wants to deal the cards, he'll be there, but right now, his attention is fixed on the movement and steadiness of those fingers. He's dreamed a lot about them, which Vasquez has been interpreting as some misguided relief that Faraday is all right, because dreaming them for others reasons...

Well, it wouldn't be the first time, but it would be the most lethal for him.

"Sam is a bounty hunter," Vasquez replies, finally, to Faraday's direct question, because he's not sure what he wants to do. Going back to living with corpses, alone and tense, wary about everyone he meets, that's no life. Still, he also doesn't know what he'd do if he actually had to bear responsibility for someone else. What happens if he lets someone in and they get hurt, killed, because of the bounty on his head. He moves forward to reach for the cards, resting a hand over the top of them to still Faraday's movement.

(If his fingers just so happen to brush steadily and firmly against Faraday's, that's his own business)

"You, though," he says, trying to get his attention. "You're the one hurt, injured, weak," he can't help the smug little addition, like he's trying to get a rise out of Faraday. "Sam could be good protection, especially if you keep cheating people out of money," he says, adding a wink to that because the implication that Faraday could win on his own merits is a true one, but one Vasquez chooses to conveniently ignore right now.

[peacemakers]

Faraday meets Vasquez’s criticism with a flat look. Lord knows Vasquez kept up with his every shot in the nights leading up to the battle, the two of them redder in the face than ripe apples, even without the long days spent in the sundrenched streets. Sure, Faraday wasn’t exactly known for his restraint, but by now his constitution is the stuff of legends.

“Believe it or not,” he grumbles, riffling the edge of his deck, “I’ve been taking care of myself a whole lot longer than I’ve known any of you.”

Granted, he wasn’t taking care of himself well, but considering he’s still alive, Faraday figures it’s still a point in his favor. Any further arguments are silenced once the flask lands at his hip, and the irritated look on his face is replaced with a sort of conspiratorial smirk as he plucks it up. He takes a swig, the liquor burning a path down his throat, and he sighs with it, placing it on the bed within easy reach of Vasquez.

He keeps working the cards – as much to wear the new deck in, to make the paper pliable and easier to manipulate, as it is to ensure that he’s still capable of his old tricks – as Vasquez offers his answer. He understands what Vasquez means, of course. A man wanted for murder and a duly sworn warrant officer mix about as well as oil and water, but Faraday snorts derisively all the same.

Bullshit, he says, though not aloud.

Vasquez’s calloused hand rests atop the deck, though, fingers brushing against his own, and Faraday startles to a stop, glancing up at the other man. Odd, the way he feels color rush up his neck, but he attributes that to the lingering heat of the day. It’s soon forgotten with Vasquez’s teasing, though, and Faraday frees his hands to flick a card at Vasquez’s smug face.

“Weak, my ass,” Faraday grumbles. “And I assure you, I’ve no need to cheat.”

Most of the time, Faraday is content to get by on his own luck, on his ability to read his opponents. Other times, though, he keeps a few tricks up his sleeve – for insurance’s sake, of course.

He looks up pointedly, eyes narrowed at the other man. “If anyone needs protectin’ here, Vasquez, it sure as hell ain’t me.”

The man with the $500 bounty on his head, though? That man might need someone to watch his back.

[quinientos]

Vasquez returns that comment with a look of derision, seeing as he doesn't actually think that what Faraday did really constitutes taking care of yourself by any stretch of the imagination and the flat look he gives in return (mimicking Faraday's, to the point of annoyance, he hopes), should say as much. For just a second, before he goes to reach for the flask, the rough touch of hands makes it seem like time freezes and stretches out around him.

Someone could shoot a bullet at him and he wouldn't do anything but stand there and take it, frozen in place by something as sticky as molasses and twice as tempting. He laughs, enough that his shoulders shake, for the thrown card, ducking out of the way, but that laugh is gone soon enough when Faraday says what he does.

He sniffs heavily and shrugs, trying to pass it off like it doesn't worry him. As if he doesn't keep looking over his shoulder, twitching at every cocked gun, worrying that someone is going to see that poor likeness and put two and two together to get their money. "Who's going to protect me, guero, hmm?" he retorts. "Someone who would sooner have their pockets lined with cash. Everyone can be bought, they just need to be desperate enough," he adds darkly.

That, and there are others he wouldn't want to burden with his bounty, because it puts them in the line of danger. It would be too much, too much for anyone to be asked, no matter what he wants. He'll just keep living in denial, telling himself it won't ache when he parts ways with all of them (and some specific people, in particular).

[peacemakers]

Faraday’s made a living off of reading people, and while Vasquez’s act is convincing enough for a layman, he sees through it quickly enough. It’s worrying Vasquez more than he lets on, clearly enough, and maybe that’s why he’s stayed in Rose Creek as long as he has? For the safety, for the security, for knowing that these folks, grateful as they are, weren’t likely to feed him to the wolves.

It makes sense, he thinks, and that bit of clarity makes something click into place. (Surely Vasquez has no other reason to stay, after all.)

“You know Sam ain’t like that,” and he says it levelly, calmly, with all the certainty he can muster. Faraday has met a great deal of unsavory types, men who called themselves honorable and wore shiny little badges, but were just as liable to spit on your corpse as any other lowlife. Sam – and indeed, most of the others their ragtag group – was a different sort altogether. The type you could trust, and with the lives they lead, that was a rarity.

Faraday peers at Vasquez, eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned downward as he studies him.

“So you’re not stayin’ here,” he says slowly, “and you’re not goin’ with Sam. What do you plan on doin’?”

[quinientos]

Even if Sam's not like that, Vasquez can't even picture how that would work and he makes it clear from the look on his face and the derisive tone when he looks at Faraday. He might be injured, but Vasquez didn't think that handsome head of his got hit so badly, but maybe not. "What, then he'll tell everyone in town that I just look like Vasquez, the outlaw, when he brings in someone else? Or I get to sit outside, like a child in trouble," he huffs, shaking his head.

"You're loco if you think that's any kind of life," says a man who had been hiding out in a corpse-filled hovel before Rose Creek in order to make sure he kept his head. He doesn't mind robbing what he needs to get by, but now that he's got some Rose Creek money in his pockets, now he could get by. With someone's help, unfortunately, because showing his face in town, well, same problem.

"I don't know," he finally says. "I can't go back to my old hiding place. Too much activity, it will be lost." He stares at Faraday, trying to decide how best to say the next words without ruining his chances. "It was nice, though," he admits, the strain of the words from his worry and not from having to get them out, "knowing I could sleep easy. Knowing that someone was watching." He takes a long drag of the flask and hands it out to Faraday again, not taking his eyes off him, not for a second, not when he wants to gauge his reaction to that, because someone isn't a general someone to him, not right now. It's a very specific one, which is why he's sitting in this room and not in Goodnight's.

pitching camp - weeks later

[quinientos]

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."

[peacemakers]

It's not the first time Faraday's traveled with company. When he first set out, he had befriended a few like-minded men – young and brash and filled with dreams of finding fortune out in the west. Of course, nothing was quite so easy, and those same men found their ends on the wrong side of a gun, thanks to some mixture of stupidity or poor luck. Somehow, Faraday alone managed to survive, to carve out a sort of life for himself, and managed to keep himself mostly whole out on the frontier.

... Aside from the incident at Rose Creek.

That isn't to say that he's used to Vasquez's company. Recuperating in that quaint, sparse little room with Vasquez at his side was one thing, but traveling with the man was another beast entirely. They bicker constantly, and Faraday tends to cut a little too close to the wick with his jokes, whether he means to do it or not. He drinks too much, which does little for the quick turn of his temper, and in the rare instances where they wander into little gatherings of tents that auspiciously call themselves "towns," Faraday is the one to cause trouble with his gambling. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Faraday only rarely cheats at the table; he makes more use of his uncanny ability to read people than he does his clever tricks. Still, that hardly stops his fellow players from throwing accusations at him, and things tend to get heated.

The town that Vasquez sends him into, this time, is actually deserving of the title. The folks who had set up the town had clearly meant to grow roots, which means that supplies are far easier to come by. Faraday loads up his saddle bags with all the goods they need to continue on with their travels. He stops by the saloon to replenish their whiskey reserves (because Lord knows the two of them tend to go through it quickly), and just as he's about to leave, he spies the game of cards in the corner.

... One hand couldn't hurt, he thinks. And while the job at Rose Creek had done well to pad their coffers, a bit of extra money wouldn't go amiss.

One hand turns into a half-dozen, and by the time he returns to Vasquez and the little camp they had set up, the sun is setting at his back. Vasquez's voice reaches him as he pulls on Jack's reins, slowing him to a stop, and Faraday snorts out a dismissive noise.

"Please, hombre," he says haughtily; the vowels are willfully imprecise on the borrowed word. "I'm always charming."

He dismounts, movements loose and slightly clumsy as he hitches Jack up for the night – a sign that he's had a drink or two. Tipsy, maybe, but nowhere near drunk. Faraday carefully sinks down to sit beside Vasquez, mindful of the warning ache of old scars; he brings with him the scent of whiskey and perfume, and on his cheek is a bright red smear. He flashes Vasquez a bright grin – Faraday, unsurprisingly, is in an excellent mood – though the smile slips into a frown when he sees what's in Vasquez's hand.

"Is that mine?"

[quinientos]

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.

[peacemakers]

Surprise stands naked on Faraday’s face at Vasquez’s surly attitude. Both of them could fall into dark moods at the drop of a hat, but when he had ridden into town, Faraday had left Vasquez in a reasonable state. To find him sulking and snapping like a building thunderstorm is quite unexpected, considering there’s hardly anything out here to spark it – aside from the heat or the lack of company, he supposes.

“What the hell’s got you all worked up?” he asks, grumbling the words as he reaches for his share of the food. Faraday only ever gambles and spends his own shares, and Vasquez knows that. Faraday has always been particular about his own belongings (folks who threaten to steal his things tend to meet a swift end), and he extends that same courtesy to Vasquez, being mindful of the other man’s possessions.

The saloon girl in question had been a pretty thing, with red lips and rosy cheeks. The scent of new blood in the tavern had drawn her to him the instant he sat down at the table. She had hovered around him like a moth around a flickering candle, doing her level best to keep him in that chair to squander coin on rotgut; admittedly, thanks to a wide breadth of experience, Faraday knew she was quite good at her job, and if he had wandered into that saloon months ago, he would have happily stayed to enjoy her company. Wasting much more time there with Vasquez waiting for him at their little campsite hadn’t sat right with him, though, and he had made his excuses, once he had made a profit.

But here he is now, sitting beside this grumpy bastard, and Faraday almost regrets his decision.

“Is this how you’re gonna act the rest of the night? Like some kinda wet cat? ‘Cause I can’t say that I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

[quinientos]

Wet cat is probably the exact way to describe him, given that he's seconds away from spitting and hissing angrily for no reason other than a shock he hadn't expected. And why not? It wouldn't be out of the ordinary, would it? Still, staring at that red smear and inhaling sweet perfume makes him cranky in ways he understands, but has no desire to talk about. "No," he finally grumbles, recalcitrant though he's not really sorry.

Sorry implies that he's going to learn and change and grow from his behaviour. Truthfully, he's only sorry that it's managed to make things tense between them. He reaches into the bag that Faraday had brought with him, eager to investigate the findings and move onto something else.

Not that he thinks he'll be able to shake the displeasure so quickly, but at least he can start to let it simmer and die. "What did you bring me? Was it everything I wanted?" he asks, the hope clear in his eyes, given that he'd been somewhat wary of Faraday actually managing to find all the things on the list in the size of that town.

Pinche perfume, that smell, why does it keep lingering in his nostrils? He inhales and exhales sharply, like he can push it out somehow if he tries hard enough.

[peacemakers]

Faraday begins to relax once Vasquez seems to break off from that dark mood. It's not gone completely, of course, but whatever it was that had wound Vasquez up so terribly seems to be letting off, at least a little. If it had gotten much worse, Faraday would almost be tempted to ride straight back into that little town.

At Vasquez's question, Faraday rolls his eyes as he digs into his food. It's cold, and there's a faint bitterness that tells him that they had burned a little over the fire, but Faraday hardly minds.

"Got most of what was on your list," he says archly, trying to keep his mood buoyed. It stands to reason that if Faraday keeps things light, it might help brighten Vasquez's mood, as well. "Couldn't manage that diamond necklace, though. All they had was rubies."

Catching Trouble

[quinientos]

If you asked Vasquez how any of this could be possible, he wouldn't know how to answer. How could his wildest fantasies have started to creep into reality? How can he have known how the feel of Faraday's lips on his are, the way his body responds to his hands curling over him. Faraday hasn't stopped being a stubborn idiot, but now Vasquez laughs a little more at his ridiculous jokes, can't stop staring at him when they sleep or rise, curls in as close to him out in the wilderness. Even when he's irritated with him, he finds it boils over sooner because there are new ways for them to stop bickering.

He finds himself grinning like an idiot more, which he tries to control every time they're on the road and he catches a glimpse of Faraday, maybe stares too long. One thing that hasn't been very ideal is the situation they have with the hard ground under their backs of the road. For safety's sake, he knows that outside of Rose Creek, this is what has to happen, but after enough time that he hasn't been able to feel like they have privacy or comfort, he snaps.

"That town we passed yesterday, I think we should go back to it," he says stubbornly, as he doesn't want to have one more night on the ground. As warm as he can get curling up for body heat, it's not enough for him, and more than that, he's craving the privacy of a door, the softness of a bed, and the chance to have time to themselves.

(What he isn't remembering is how there had been a steady presence of warrant officers in towns recently, that other than Rose Creek which is too far away, nothing is truly safe for him)

He's not thinking about any of that, though. His only thought is of what they can get up to with just a little privacy.

[peacemakers]

All of this is still ridiculously new to Faraday.

He's slept with more than a few women before, obviously. Been in towns long enough to sleep with them more than once, even, but he's never stuck around any one person long enough to court someone – though whatever strange thing he has with Vasquez could hardly be called "courting." More to the point, he's never maintained anything serious for longer than, say, a week.

(Even when he was a young man and had convinced himself he had fallen in love with dark-haired Ethel and her nightingale voice, he had never exactly gotten close enough to admit as much. The farthest he had gotten was doffing his hat and offering to buy her a drink.

Ethel had looked him over, barked out a laugh, and told him to try again when he didn't look like he still nursed from his mama.)

But this thing with Vasquez is— new. Strange. And Faraday fears now more than ever that they'll spark off of one another even more brilliant than before, that one little ember might make the whole thing blow up in their faces. He isn't any more careful than he had been before, because Faraday isn't naturally given to any sort of caution, but in quieter moments, he still mulls it over; the thought that Vasquez still might find reason to leave buzzes at the back of his head like a persistent fly that he can't swat.

Thankfully, Vasquez's damnably clever hands and tongues manage to quiet it, at least for a while.

Jack the demon horse, for once, is surprisingly docile beneath Faraday as he rides. Faraday wonders briefly if he senses Faraday's growing discomfort, when too much riding makes the old aches and pains flare to life. He focuses on the road ahead of them, the sun beating down against the back of his neck, when Vasquez's voice cuts through the rare instance of comfortable silence between them.

For a few seconds, Faraday is silent, then, slightly skeptically, "You wanna go back?"

Surely he misheard Vasquez.

[quinientos]

Now that he's said it, Vasquez thinks it's probably a good idea despite the reasoning being selfish. Maybe it's not smart to tell Faraday that the only reason he wants to go back is to give themselves some privacy, to offer something that hasn't been offered yet, but lucky for him, he's got plenty of excuses that handily fall in line with actual reasons.

Easing his mare into a steady trot, he settles at Faraday's side as they move through the hot day, reaching back to mop the sweat at the back of his neck with his rag. "We could use a top up of supplies," he admits, because in this heat, they're going through water faster. "Not to mention, you're moving slower," he adds, with a gesture at Faraday's leg.

Once he's in a comfortable enough canter, he glances around them to make sure that no one is keeping an eye on them before he moves his hand to Faraday's knee, squeezing gently before sliding his palm up his thigh, letting it drift away after. "And I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind a bed."

He feels like a boy again, tempted and tumbling through things that he can't believe are happening. The fact that he can do this is still a shock, sometimes he thinks maybe he did get shot and he's in some personal heaven, though that's definitely not the case. They still bicker, there's still arguments, but Vasquez also has a habit now of staring at Faraday with fondness for every insult and something warmer for every time they do end up tumbling together, like the brightest fire Vasquez has ever built.

"The next town isn't for days," he protests. "If we tried for Rose Creek, it'd be maybe a week." That should be the rational thought - get to Rose Creek where it's safe, where no one will be after him.

The trouble is, he's been hot and sweaty all day, his mind drifting, and it keeps landing on thoughts of letting Faraday take him apart in a bed in ways that they haven't done exactly yet. "Entonces tal vez podrías follarme," he says, mostly to himself.

[peacemakers]

The skeptical look remains on Faraday’s face as Vasquez starts diving into his reasoning – and in fact, it darkens into a glare when Vasquez motions to Faraday’s bum leg.

All these months, and Faraday still bristles at the implication that he can’t hold his own, at the reminder that his injuries have impacted the upper limits of what he can handle. His mouth opens to fire off one of his usual protests, likely coupled with a reminder that he’s still healthy enough to break Vasquez’s nose, if he has reason enough for it, but his teeth clack together once Vasquez’s warm hand travels along his thigh.

By now, he’s used to Vasquez’s casual brushes of contact, having grown accustomed to them while he was still healing from the war in Rose Creek. He was used to Vasquez’s hand at the small of his back, Vasquez’s sure grip as he helped Faraday to his feet, Vasquez’s steadying presence at Faraday’s hip, whenever he needed to travel the near interminable distance from the bed to the door.

But these days, Faraday can read the hidden meanings and implications, like he’s learned an entirely new language overnight, and Vasquez’s touch has the intended effect. Faraday’s expression changes from guarded and uncertain to warm and thoughtful. This... “courtship,” though Faraday knows for a fact that isn’t the right word for it, is still completely new to him and leaves him feeling wrong-footed.

The sex, at least, is a little easier to navigate.

When Vasquez switches to his native tongue, Faraday breathes out an overblown sigh, more for show than any true expression of annoyance.

“You know I can’t understand you,” he says, as if Vasquez needs the reminder. “What’d you just say?”

[quinientos]

He's getting ready for the usual Faraday attitude, but it seems to melt away when Vasquez touches his leg, so thank God for small miracles. He hasn't gotten an answer back about the other town, but he's already facing his horse in that direction, like he's going to start riding with or without Faraday (as if he wouldn't turn around and join him if he didn't get his agreement to come with).

"I said," he starts, patient and calm, keeping his expression neutral, "that if we had a bed, then maybe you could fuck me." There, English, helpful, and easy for Faraday to understand.

He cocks his brow upwards, almost a challenge. "Should I repeat myself again? Maybe if I do, you'll start learning Spanish a little faster, guero," he can't help his little poke, seeing as he's stopped being so teasing and is starting to actually mean it when he tries to get Faraday to learn how to speak his language.

Easing back in the saddle, he plucks his cigarette from the brim of his hat, finds the matches in his saddlebag. "Don't make me beg," he mumbles around the cigarette, even though he will, because he wants the good night's sleep as much as he wants the other things.

[peacemakers]

... Now, that is patently unfair. Faraday huffs out a sharp breath, glancing away in a frankly pointless attempt to hide the coloring of his cheeks.

Thorny bastard, Faraday thinks to himself, even if he feels a flash of warmth work its way down his spine.

Faraday doesn’t turn Jack around just yet; instead, he looks back over his shoulder, at the road leading back to the town in question. If they head back now, they might make it back before sundown – if they head back. Faraday’s still not entirely sold on the idea, even if Vasquez is slowly but surely swaying his opinion.

He glances over at Vasquez, and he flashes the other man a small, knowing smirk.

“I dunno,” he says slowly, drawing a hand down his beard, though he does nothing to conceal the sly spark in his eyes. “Maybe I wanna hear you beg. D’you ever think of that?”

rose creek - two weeks' ride

[quinientos]

If anyone had ever thought that Vasquez had grown out of his cowardly ways, they'd be really fucking wrong.

He'd slipped away from Faraday in the dead of the night while he'd still been sleeping, taking the time to pen a note of apology to him, even if he couldn't figure out much more to say than the blunt reminder of why it was never going to work (not without putting it in words, though, because he can't admit this is his fault), that he's sorry, and that this is better.

He doesn't tell Faraday where he plans to go. He wants to give Faraday a fresh start, so he doesn't have to worry about an outlaw and all the trouble that one brings. In the end, he leans down to brush a kiss to Faraday's temple, tucks the note in with Faraday's flask, and walks off, his black eye not the worst bruise when his heart feels like it's been pummeled until he's exhausted. He has itchy eyes and the road is a blur for a long time, right up until he makes his decision. Rose Creek, he knows he can be safe there and in the process of rebuilding, he thinks he can find a farm to hide out on.

It will be terrible, it will be trapped, but he can go into town with security, he can make friends, he can have a life. It just isn't the life he'd wanted. Each day since he's been back, he dodges Emma's questions about where he's been. He ignores the flirting that the widows offer, and he spends his time working on the farm and trying to forget what he left behind.

Still, he dreams of Faraday every night. He wakes from fantasies with a moan on his lips, the familiar ghostly weight of Faraday's body on top of him in the dream, but not there when he wakes. He feels himself ache with it, but this is the choice he's made to stay alive and to give Faraday a shot at a real life.

Maybe, one day, he'll even feel like he did the right thing.

[peacemakers]

Faraday woke the next day alone.

A small part of him supposed it was inevitable. He tended to drive people away, rough, mean bastard that he is. Back when he first traveled west, he had kept the company of a small band – convenience and safety, mostly. And those folks had either died or left to go their own way. After that, there was a reason Faraday kept to himself, not the least of which was that it kept folks from having to go through the unsavory business of abandoning him.

So he woke reaching for Vasquez, only to be met with a handful of air. That had startled him into complete wakefulness, and he bolted upright, ignoring the familiar stiffness and ache of his old wounds. He had shouted Vasquez's name, had cursed and murmured oath after milk-curdling oath, before he found the small, folded note tucked alongside his flask.

Faraday only just managed to keep himself from crumpling the slip of paper. Instead, he took pains to fold it meticulously. He dressed slowly, gathered his things, and all the while, a bitter, ugly fire built low in his gut.

He tried following Vasquez's trail, but he was never much of a tracker. He lost it not too far away from where they had set up camp, and no matter how much he and Jack circled the area, he couldn't pick it up again. Faraday eventually was forced to give it up as lost and made his way to the closest town.

It's lonely. It's goddamn awful. And Faraday is angrier than he's ever been. A small part of him tries to remind him that it might be better this way. Vasquez was a man on the run, after all, and a man with as many old, smarting wounds as Faraday has was liable to slow him down. It's better, too, that without Vasquez's infamy to hold him back, Faraday is free to return to towns, to laugh and drink and while away the time at card tables.

He doesn't do any of that, naturally. When he wanders into town, when he takes up station at a table in a corner, the saloon girls always wander by. They always ghost their hands over his shoulders, always ask after the strange scars that line his face. He politely but firmly tells them to be on their way.

It's funny, really; for as solitary as Faraday's life had been before the battle with Bogue, he's wholly unused to it, now. The days are too quiet. The nights are even worse, and they're colder, besides. And ever waking minute that passes, Faraday only grows angrier and angrier.

(It's always been his worst flaw, he thinks. Ma always used to sigh at him, always told him he had the sort of temper that made even the devil shake his head.)

Eventually, the weather takes a turn, as does his mood. It's getting colder; the days are growing shorter, and the loneliness herd him to familiar ground.

He points Jack towards Rose Creek.

[quinientos]

As the season turns to cold, Vasquez starts to notice how empty and hollow everything feels. The joys he would have once taken with food and drink are gone and things taste like dust to his mouth. He declines any invitation to share meals with the pretty women in the town and even Emma starts to notice and ask why he's being such a rude son of a bitch.

How to explain that he's locked away his heart somewhere else, somewhere that he can't be, not if he wants to keep alive and sane, not if Faraday is going to get to have a life.

He grows his beard out, grows his hair until it's thick and curling, until the beard covers him enough that he probably could walk into a town and not be noticed as anything but some kind of hairy man thing. He loses some weight, too, because for all that his hunger and habits never changed, he doesn't sit down to eat the way he used to.

It just reminds him of being at these tables with Joshua, delighting in making him laugh. He can barely go near where he'd sat with him, healing, instead staying on the little farm of his, tending to some livestock and a small crop to keep him alive through the winter.

It's a small life. Maybe too small, but he still knows he's made the right decision because for all the hollow and sad emptiness of feeling like a part of him is missing, he never worries about someone coming to take his head.

The townsfolk of Rose Creek have his back.

Unfortunately, they also feel indebted to Faraday, which is why when a familiar horse and man come over the horizon, there's not one, but three people who give him up within the first thirty minutes, all without Vasquez realizing what's coming. They don't mean to be cruel because they don't know.

They just absently ask if Faraday's here to see his old friend, while Vasquez is none the wiser, in the midst of working with the cattle to coax milk out of them and chickens from the hens, preparing himself for the winter.

[peacemakers]

Returning to Rose Creek is a bittersweet sort of relief that Faraday hardly expected. The town looks a sight better from his last time here – and that feels like ages ago, by now. The buildings have been repaired and rebuilt, and the bloodstained patches of dirt, the ruined stretches of earth, have all healed over, with tall grass concealing the ugly history. It’s practically a new town, with all the life that victory has breathed into it.

He rides down the hill, and a few farmers glance up to watch his coming. He garners more than a few shouts of greeting, and Faraday is startled to realize how genuinely pleased they are to see him. Showman that he is, he manages to flash them all his customary crooked grin, even if below it all, he’s miserable. Angrier than a shaken hornet’s nest that’s been lit aflame. The townsfolk are none the wiser, though, and the small crowd happily guides him to the livery stable, then points him toward the inn, now under new ownership.

“You’ll tell us how you been at supper,” one of the men tells him, in that particular tone that brooks no arguments.

Faraday laughs, lowering his head in a truncated bow. “I’ll do just that.”

The men return to their work, and Faraday moves to offer Jack’s reins to a stablehand, but he freezes immediately, spotting a familiar horse. The stablehand, yet another survivor of the battle, crows with delight when he spots Faraday, rushing over and clapping Faraday on the shoulder. The stablehand delights in how good Faraday looks, how improved his health appears to be, and Faraday only nods along, forcing a small, polite smile.

“Mr. Vasquez beat you here by a good while,” the stablehand says, when he notices the way Faraday’s gaze keeps dragging itself to Vasquez’s mare. “He’ll be glad to see you, I think.”

For a few seconds, Faraday can only nod. Soon enough, he shakes himself back to life, and offers the stablehand a smile and yet another promise to see him at supper.

He’s far too stunned to know what to do with this new information, and Faraday moves automatically, climbing the porch steps and pushing past the batwing doors into the saloon. This early in the day, there aren’t too many patrons, but once again, he’s caught completely off-guard by the chorus of thrilled shouts that greet him. There are a fair number of new faces, obviously, but those that he recognizes are all wearing grins as they crowd around him. They usher him to the bar, offer him glasses of their top shelf alcohol, and ply him with questions. “How the hell have you been, you son of a bitch?” are chief among them. “What the hell are you doin’ here?” comes in a close second.

“You here to see Mr. Vasquez?” comes at a distant third.

“I might be,” Faraday says, much too brightly, with a far too sharp smile.

They give him a vague direction, and Faraday thanks them for their hospitality after he finishes his drink. The booze sits like a leaden weight in his gut, sloshing uncomfortably in his empty stomach. He straightens, adjusting his scarf and coat – both newly acquired for the turning weather – and steps out onto the street—

—to be greeted by Joan of Arc.

Faraday’s fingers brush the rim of his hat, and he inclines his head slightly. “Miss Emma,” he says by way of greeting.

Emma’s always been sharp, and she gives him a piercing once-over. They go through the niceties – “You’re looking well.” “Likewise.” – because Emma has manners, and she gestures for him to follow. He walks alongside her along the wooden walkways, until she’s guiding him to the edges of town. She tells him about how the town has been, how well they’ve done since the battle with Bogue, and while Rose Creek hasn’t exactly flourished, they’re still working, still slowly growing and making a life for themselves.

“All thanks to you and the others,” Emma says.

Faraday snorts. “More thanks to you and the balls of steel you’ve got, I’d wager.”

And Emma startles them both by laughing. Faraday doesn’t think he’s ever heard her laugh before. Before he can comment, however, she shakes her head. “You and Mr. Vasquez left town together. Is that right?”

“That we did,” Faraday says.

Emma casts him a sidelong glance. “But you two didn’t return together.”

Faraday clears his throat, tries to keep his expression from turning thunderous. “That we did not.”

She nods slowly, and even if Faraday tries to keep his fury off his face, Emma seems to have a sense for it. He can practically hear something click in her head. “You didn’t know he was here, did you?”

Faraday clenches his jaw and can only shake his head. Emma nods one last time before lifting her chin toward a barn, its double doors propped open to let in sunlight. When he stands frozen to the spot, Emma plants her hand between his shoulder blades and shoves him, mumbling something about “stubborn fools.” A little louder, she says, “Don’t leave a mess,” before taking her leave. For his part, Faraday stays rooted where he stands for a second or two, before he takes a lurching step forward, then another, then another. And with each step, he feels all that pent-up rage boiling over, bursting through him, setting every nerve on fire.

He spots Vasquez seated next to a milk cow, and his hands clench into fists. He grits his teeth as he storms over, making no effort to hide his coming.

“You goddamn son of a bitch.”

[quinientos]

Vasquez hadn't been expecting this at yet. He'd known that at some point, Faraday would track him down. If not track him down, he would have found him from coincidence. It looks like that time is now. What he hates himself most for is the fact that Faraday looks so damn good.

The scarf and the coat draw his eye, making that ache in his heart worsen for the sight of him, at least until he sees Faraday starts storming his way. His hand slicks and slides off the cow's udder, stumbling off the stool and kicking it over in his haste.

He backs up, swallowing hard and putting a hand up, his shirt billowing as he keeps back, knowing that this is a consequence that's coming, but he hadn't wanted it so soon.

"Faraday," he ekes out, not his first name, because he doesn't think that he deserves to use his first name.

He knows that the people in town have been dealing with him the whole time, knows that while he's earned some of their affection and care, he still doesn't think that they like him as much as they do Faraday for his actions and they never will. He swallows back that lump and stands, as defiant as a man can, almost backed up against a wall.

Should he instantly get defiant? Should he stand his ground?

"What are you doing here?" he asks instead, roughly, trying to convince himself not to flinch or show how much he's missed Faraday. He wants him and he hates himself for still wanting him so badly, because he has no right to this man, especially not now.

[peacemakers]

He gives Vasquez a quick once over, taking in the longer beard, the shaggier, curling hair. Skinnier than he remembers, too, but he doesn’t seem to be missing any limbs, doesn’t seem to be sporting any new limps or strange leans that would signal an old wound.

Whole, then, if not hale.

The relief is short-lived, however, when Vasquez stands and starts backing up, though the other man seems to think better of it as he straightens his back, as he tries to inject steel in his voice. The reaction just sparks Faraday’s fury all over again.

Faraday barks out a disbelieving laugh, stomping forward until there’s only a pace of empty air between them.

“That’s all you gotta say to me?” He pitches his voice low – the warning hiss of a snake about to strike. Quite a few men tend to get louder as they grow angrier, tend to shout and wave their arms around, make themselves bigger for intimidation purposes. Faraday, however, just gets quieter. “All this time you been hidin’ goddamn your face in this town, and you’ve got the nerve to ask me what I’m doin’ here?”