Vasquez snorts derisively, because asking for a name that sounds like a Mexican one that Faraday will be able to pronounce feels like a failing effort. He wishes that he could speak with less of an accent, but even though he's practiced, he's still not that good at it. "Reyes," he decides, because it's not so bad and even Faraday can manage'Ray-uz' in that drawl of his.
It will make him cringe, of course, but then, most of Faraday's Spanish does that. Trotting at an easy pace, he tucks his hat and most of his identifying materials into his saddlebag, not daring to go for a cigar or cigarette on the off chance someone knows his habit of smoking.
Now that town is in sight, he can feel the swell of excitement, like he hasn't in so long. "What was the tavern like? What about the rooms?" It's been so long since Rose Creek, he likely sounds like a desperate man. Stomach grumbling, a yearning look comes over his face. "I'd give anything for a hot meal."
“Reyes,” he repeats, testing the name. For once, he doesn’t try to actively mangle it, like his usual forays into borrowing Spanish words and phrases, though his drawl still drags out the vowels. He tests it a couple of more times, trying to commit it to memory – nothing would be worse than slipping up in the middle of a conversation and using “Vasquez” instead of the assumed name.
Vasquez’s excitement is near palpable as they approach the edge of the town, and Faraday feels himself grinning, despite his earlier frustration at the other man. Maybe this was a decent idea, if only to give Vasquez a change of pace. Sleeping under the stars, enjoying the quiet of nature, was all good and well, but sometimes, a man just needed the company of other people to stave off that feeling of loneliness.
“Dunno about the rooms,” he replies honestly. “Didn’t see ‘em, myself.”
He didn’t have reason to, either. His stay in the town was relatively brief, even if he did leave Vasquez waiting a good while.
(Even if Henrietta, the pretty saloon girl from yesterday, did try to coax him into renting a room for the night.)
“Saloon’s alright,” and his review is accompanied by a shrug, as though to silently add, I’ve seen better. “Decent prices. Bartender’s pour could stand to be a little heavier, but they ain’t servin’ the usual rotgut, at least.”
At that last comment Faraday breathes out a quick, soft laugh.
“Food’s decent, too. Try not to let your stomach eat itself whole ‘fore we get there.”
Vasquez tries not to make a face, because while he knows the reason for the subterfuge, he dislikes very much when his name is not on Faraday's mouth, even if it's an alias. He hears it again and again and when he feels extra stupid, he says, "You could also just call me Ale, or Alejo," he offers, seeing as no one know that apart from his family and there's a fat chance they'll be here.
"If it's easier." And then it will be his name on Faraday's lips, not some alias, not someone else. He's now jealous of himself, which is so stupid that he must have not slept enough, clearly. Still, the town's presence is overwhelming him and he doesn't much care as soon as he reaches the outskirts.
Paranoia swoops in, as expected. He feels like everyone is staring (which they probably are, he doesn't have to be recognized to be stared at because most little towns don't like a Mexican in them), and as he dismounts the horse, his eyes are bright as he takes in the crush of people, the sound of them, the movement. It's not a big town, but it's enough.
"Rooms, food, then saloon," he says, figuring that's a decent order of business, tying his horse up near the trough to let her get some water, drifting into the town and trying not to instantly let his hand go to his pistols.
Glancing back for Faraday, he gives him an excited nod, trying to get him to hurry. "If you'd come faster, my stomach wouldn't have to worry, then I could get something in me after we get rooms." He figures he owes Faraday a peaceful night of sleep, despite the little voice in his head that says, he might take her to his bed, this could be a very bad idea, but if that happens, Vasquez will just have to get blazingly drunk.
Faraday arches an eyebrow at the other man for a second, turning this bit of permission over in his head like he’s examining some fascinating trinket.
He had heard Vasquez mention his given name in passing, but seeing as how he hadn’t introduced himself with it, Faraday never risked using it. He figured it was a personal thing, in much the same way Faraday preferred being called by his surname, rather than the name his mother had given him. Too personal. Too close, to be called Josh after so many years.
Sam, Goodnight and Billy, and even the reclusive Jack Horne had offered up their first names as easy as you please. And Red Harvest seemed to tolerate being called an abbreviated “Red,” once Faraday realized he understood their language. Faraday’s introduction to Vasquez, on the other hand, had been short, perfunctory, with a level of tension by which Faraday had been puzzled.
(Apparently his actual introduction to Vasquez had hardly been pleasant, but the alcohol had made the memory hazy.)
But they’ve entered the town, and as though some switch has been thrown, Faraday can see the tension creeping into the set of Vasquez’s shoulders. As they’re hitching up their horses, Faraday takes an easy glance around – a marked difference from the wary way Vasquez goes about it. Yes, there are eyes on them, but Faraday figures it’s more from the oddity of two foreign men in their small town.
Vasquez urges them onward, and Faraday lets out a patient sort of sigh. After a split-second decision, Faraday frowns down at Jack, giving the stallion one companionable pat on the neck before putting on a limp (though considering the state of his leg, he doesn’t have to play it up too much) and making his way over to Vasquez. He tosses an arm around Vasquez’s shoulders. To anyone looking, it would appear as though an injured man was seeking the help of his riding companion, and little more.
“Relax, would you?” he says in an undertone – loud enough that Vasquez can hear it over the usual hubbub of a town starting its day, but soft enough that anyone nearby couldn’t hear him. “You keep lookin’ as hunted as you do, someone’s gonna get suspicious.”
Vasquez is still on edge, yes, of course, but when Faraday drapes an arm around him, that doesn't make his tension go away so much as it amps it up in a different way. Shocked at the touch, he momentarily forgets himself and presses a hand to the small of Faraday's back, like he's guiding him along, taking whatever little touches and sneaks that he can. Everyone in town, he looks at a little too long, wondering which of the pretty young girls is Henrietta, which he needs to be worried about.
Still, as he breathes out slowly, the warmth of Faraday's arm over his shoulder starts to shut down the more frantic parts of his brain, trying not to feel nervous, but it's been a long time and last time, he had at least six other people watching his back and they'd needed him.
"They're staring because I'm Mexican, cabron, I know that," he mutters back, gritting his teeth. "Still doesn't mean I have to like it." The good news is that no one is pulling out a warrant, no one is pointing at him. Heading towards the inn, he moves his hand to Faraday's hip, squeezing a little to give him a little help up the stairs.
Or maybe it's just for him, a brief reassurance to Faraday in lieu of being given one himself. "Come on, carino," he says, swallowing back whatever other words, the nickname slipping out in the face of his worry. "Get us some rooms."
Faraday glowers at Vasquez privately, as his paranoia seems only to increase with the contact, as they cross the street, but eventually, the man seems to wrangle his emotions, relaxing against Faraday’s side. Vasquez’s complaint is answered with a quick hum, ostensibly of agreement.
He thinks for a second about how if things were different, if the two of them were strangers arriving in town at the same time, Faraday would have been wary of the Vasquez – though strangely, that would have been more for the way he carried himself than for the color of his skin. It was the same with Sam, when their paths first crossed – the grave demeanor, the gun gleaming at his hip, the way he held his back straight against the weight of too many ghosts sitting on his shoulders. Vasquez wasn’t nearly as severe as Sam had been, that day in Amador City, but there’s an echo of it, all the same. A dangerous man, completely aware of how dangerous he was.
Of course, Faraday knows better now, with the benefit of all that time spent driving one another mad with their joking and teasing back at Rose Creek. Vasquez was still dangerous, of course, but so was Faraday. And he still trusted Vasquez with his life.
The inn is nothing to write home about, of course, given the size of the town, and more than anything, the stairs leading to the inn’s porch prove more daunting than anything so far. It’s not much of an act, the way he hobbles up, leaning heavily on Vasquez when his leg hitches just before the landing. It’s shameful, really, that weakness, and he feels a familiar curl of bitterness for it, like oily smoke. But it’s eased away near instantly when he feels the way Vasquez squeezes his hip, calloused hand warm even through the fabric of his trousers, and helps him up that final stretch. (His mouth goes dry with it, but he hardly knows why.)
Vasquez doesn’t have to tell him twice, though, and Faraday leaves Vasquez at the door to make his way up to the proprietor – a severe-looking older woman, with salt and pepper hair and a moue like she’s perpetually sucking on a lemon. He sweet talks her in his usual way, turning up his trademarked charm as he leans on the counter. After a few moments, he pushes off, and she places a key in his hand, casting a quick, almost wary glance at Vasquez before busying herself with a record book. When Faraday returns to Vasquez, it’s with a faintly sheepish air.
“So,” he says brightly – too brightly, maybe. “Good news? Got a room.” And he jangles the key, pointing to the floor above them.
The phrasing, of course, betrays that there’s more to it than that, and he clears his throat. A little less brightly, “Bad news is, it’s... a room.”
It would be so easy to vanish into the simple things like squeezing Faraday's hip, being so close to him, having these moments, but there is a whole town around them. Beyond that, if they want a room and for Vasquez to not call attention to himself (and, more notably, his accent), he needs to step back and let Faraday do his work.
He occupies himself by lighting a cigarette in the corner, working his way through the majority of it while he keeps a steady eye on Faraday, both to watch his back and also because he enjoys watching him, with no other motives.
If his parents could see him now, losing his head and heart over a guero jackass, he'd be in for a scolding, he thinks. He ducks his head and grins when Faraday seems to manage to talk the grizzled woman into at least acceptance of him, but when he returns, Vasquez squints at his words.
"Que?" Then he clarifies, "a" room, one single room. "It's fine," he says dismissively. In fact, it's probably better this way, because now Vasquez might stand a chance of sleeping if he knows that someone else will be there. "You wanted a bed, I'll take the floor." His back is used to such aches and he's had worse. He's just happy for the roof over his head, the warmth, and the prospect of food that he's willing to let Faraday have the mattress.
Besides, it won't be the first time Faraday has a bed and Vasquez sits uncomfortably near him, after all those weeks in Rose Creek. "Food," he says, putting out his cigarette, because maybe he's so fixated on this that he isn't thinking about such shared space.
Definitely isn't thinking about all the dangerous things that can happen with shared space, especially after his drunken episode the night before.
Well, that went better than he figured. A part of him had been worried that having spent so much time together, Vasquez would be itching for this rare opportunity to have some time apart. He worried that without that particular option available, Vasquez might have huffed out an annoyed sigh and decided they ought to move on.
(Not the worst idea, Faraday figures, but with how oddly anxious the other man seemed to be with enjoying the comforts of civilization, it seemed an inauspicious end.)
Not the case, apparently, and when Vasquez urges them on elsewhere, Faraday huffs out a laugh, tucking the key into his pocket.
"Fine, fine," he says, while waving a hand toward the door. "We'll follow your nose, then. You're liable to direct us someplace palatable, then."
For a stupid moment, he wants Faraday to put his arm around Vasquez's shoulders again to give him an excuse to touch him, but the last thing they need is people in the town looking too long and whispering other things that are liable to get them shot. Food is easy, though, because when they'd passed one of the buildings, he'd seen inside to see that the saloon was setting down plates of food for people.
He reaches out to pluck at Faraday's vest and give him a light tug, a sign to start walking. The only trouble when they reach this little place is that Vasquez sees a pretty young woman with dark hair light up as soon as they enter.
"Mierda," he mutters under his breath, and steers Faraday towards a table before Henrietta (so he assumes) can interrupt, thinking that she has a new chance. At least with their shared room, there will be no chance for Faraday to charm her back.
Speaking of charm, he remembers their little wager and while it might not be on the table, it's also still a good idea to keep people distracted. Plastering on an easygoing smile, letting the tension drain his shoulders, Vasquez thinks that an outgoing, gregarious man won't flag people as an outlaw. Running a hand through his hair, he settles Faraday at a table before he goes to lean against the bar.
The bartender (and possibly owner of this place) is a handsome young man drying glasses behind the bar, with deep blue eyes, a well-coiffed moustache, and very nice fingers. If he were completely desperate, hadn't been keeping company, he would've been a very tempting thing. Right now, to get him heaping plates of food and liquor, he might be acting friendlier than normal, leaning forward, reaching out to absently tap the man's hand to try and forge a connection, keeping the conversation light and easy.
Besides, with his back set this way, he can avoid the inevitable -- when Henrietta decides to say hello to Faraday again, something he doubts he can watch without losing his easygoing front.
Vasquez is correct, of course, that the young woman who spots them is the infamous Henrietta. Faraday, for his part, seems to notice her at just the same moment, and he flashes her his customary crooked smile, all easy charm and confidence. Faraday is about to offer to introduce Vasquez to her (still thinking that the other man's strange mood is for the lack of feminine company), but Vasquez mutters something. A swear, Faraday's pretty sure – and it would figure he would only pick up the insults and the curses.
But before Faraday can ask what the matter is, he sees the way Vasquez's attitude shifts, the way he seems completely at ease in a way Faraday hasn't seen since Rose Creek. It suits him, he abruptly thinks, words stopping up for a second in his throat, and when Vasquez directs him to a table, Faraday forgets to commend him for it.
But he's not so far gone, at least, that he's forgotten that $500 reward for Vasquez's head. He's mindful of the patrons of the saloon, scanning the room casually enough – something well-practiced, considering he was more than used to watching his own back. Not too difficult, keeping an eye on Vasquez on top of it. When Vasquez leans against the bar, Henrietta just so happens to saunter her way over, smiling in that pretty way that Faraday remembers from yesterday.
"Back so soon?" she asks, and her hand trails along the back of his shoulders as she moves around his chair. "Thought you were movin' along to the next town?"
"Change of plans," Faraday says, shrugging. His gaze darts over to Vasquez, to the way he seems so familiar with the barkeep, and Faraday feels a bitter curl in his gut. It's an abrupt, strange sort of thing that he quickly shakes off, looking back to Henrietta. "Seemed a serendipitous turn of events, seein' as how I get to see you again."
Henrietta laughs, something light and musical like bells. Her hands smooth down his upper arms, as she leans against his back, whispering in his ear, "Flatterer."
A table calls for the saloon girl's attention, though, and she straightens slowly, giving them a light wave to signal her return. She promises Faraday she'll be back soon with a quick peck on his cheek, leaving a faint red mark. After that, she returns to the table of revelers, and Faraday refocuses on Vasquez at the bar.
(He doesn't realize it, but he's frowning a little sourly.)
The barkeep is a very handsome man who has his attentions, but the truth is that Vasquez finds himself answering questions a little shortly, wanting them to be over, wanting to get back to the table and Faraday. Still, he doesn't want to rush away, so he leans over and makes sure that they're going to get the very best whiskey, murmuring a low, gracias, guapo to him, sliding his fingers back. When he returns to the table, he has a bottle and glasses in his hand.
Faraday looks upset, though why, Vasquez has no idea. "I see your girl came back to see you," is his annoyed comment, gesturing to the red mark on Faraday's cheek, settling in a chair where he can sprawl, facing the door (and as a consequence, the barkeep, who he tosses a smirk and a wink as he lifts the whiskey bottle in thanks before pouring glasses for the both of them).
"This should be better than the last bottle you got," he says, tapping Faraday's glass against his own before setting it down in front of him. Henrietta is not the only one who can grease up someone with pretty smiles and loose touches.
When he wants to be, Vasquez can be plenty charming. It's just that travelling with Faraday, he had no use, because the other man never seemed to mind when he threw him an insult. In fact, he seemed to even like it, so Vasquez just never stopped, peppering in the sneaky affections that he can.
"Don't even think about bringing her back to the room, guapo," he says, for the second time in as many moments, but apparently, that's not such a good thing, because the barkeep is serving some of the tables and hears, drifting by to give them a searching look, very clearly drawn by the nickname.
"Is everything fine?"
"Everything is perfect," Vasquez guarantees with a charming grin, squeezing his forearm gently enough to assure, but firm enough to tell him that he shouldn't ask any more and should return to the bar.
When Vasquez returns the table, Faraday still seems to be almost sulking, eyes narrowed and eyebrows knit together, as though in disapproval. He brushes his fingers across his cheek at Vasquez's prompting, and when his fingers come away red, he lets out a humorless sort of laugh, wiping the rest of it away.
"I was gonna introduce you two," Faraday says, words sliding out of the side of his mouth as he frowns. "Doubt I'll bother, if you're gonna seem so surly about it."
It doesn't slip his notice, the way Vasquez's attentions keep returning to the bartender, and Faraday feels that bitter twist in his gut again for it – an emotion he can hardly identify, except for how little he likes it.
When Vasquez pours out the glasses, Faraday pulls his own closer toward himself, his mood darkening with each word that slips from Vasquez's lips. Another of those insulting nicknames, except Faraday sees the way the bartender perks up at it, like some dog who's heard its master shape its name. When he comes over, Faraday gives the other man a considering look, almost sizing him up, but his eyes snap to the way Vasquez squeezes the other man's arm.
That bitter curl flares to life, and Faraday glares first at the barkeep's retreating back, then to Vasquez, with that stupid smile curling his lips. When the other man is out of earshot, Faraday forces his expression to smooth out, looking down at the glass of whiskey instead of Vasquez.
If Faraday ends up introducing him to Henrietta, it won't go over well. He doubts that she'd understand the sharp jealousy that he'd pour into his words and it's not like he can tell her to stay away from Faraday because he has no claim, so maybe it's best if they stay acquaintances from afar, before something happens.
Besides, he has the barkeep to focus on, an easy distraction both because of the ease he has on the eyes, but also because he's the man responsible for their drinks and the food order he'd placed. What's strange, though, is how Faraday acts.
"I told you that I could be very charming," he says as he sips the whiskey and lets out a low laugh of delight when it is incredible. Apparently his flirtations have found their mark this time and paid off. "Let him think he is my friend until he brings me food piling the plate, whiskey as good as this," he says, feeling like a weight is pulled off his chest.
There's something else happening and while Vasquez isn't stupid, he is occasionally the kind of hopeful that is. Something is going on with Faraday. Shifting closer, he moves a hand to Faraday's bad leg, to the knee, and offers the lightest squeeze to get his attention.
"What?" he asks. "Did he act like a jackass when you were here before?" Annoyance hits him next, because if Faraday can cozy up with Henrietta, then why can't he have a civil conversation (even if it's borderline flirtatious) with someone else. "What do you care, when you have your pretty girl flitting over you?"
Faraday takes a sip from his own glass, and— grudgingly, he admits it is the top shelf stuff. Not exactly the type you offer to cowboys and gamblers haunting the corners of your establishment. With the payment from Rose Creek, Faraday could have afforded it, but why would he want to when the shitty stuff gets you just as drunk and in half the time?
He’s busy examining the wood grain of the table, scowling down at it like he might scare off the stains, when Vasquez squeezes his knee. He stiffens with the unexpected contact, and his gaze darts up to Vasquez.
“He was fine,” is the first reassurance that leaves his lips. He offered drinks quick enough, yesterday, and was nothing less than civil, as most bartenders are. Vasquez’s next question, though, draws a derisive snort from Faraday, and his gaze darts away again.
“Who said I cared? ‘Cause I don’t. Chat up whoever you want, it don’t matter none to me.”
Vasquez wishes that Faraday's answer didn't get him so annoyed. "Fine," he snaps back, snippy and annoyed. He drains back half of his glass of whiskey, glaring at Faraday from over it, not sure why he's upset that Faraday doesn't care, so why should he?
When the barkeep signals to him, Vasquez scrapes his chair as he stands, one hand firmly on Faraday's shoulders while he heads to the back kitchen with the barkeep so he can fetch the plates of food.
"Choose what you want," he says, to Vasquez's delight.
He pries biscuits and breads from the table, fresh and hot fried meats, and as much vegetables as he can lade down on two plates. When he steps back towards the main room, the barkeep stops him by the door and for a moment, Vasquez wonders if he needs to go for his guns. Luckily, it turns out his life is in no danger, only his virtue.
"Maybe after, you might want to take advantage of our rooms?" he offers, a pointed look sliding over him.
He could, but should he? It's not that Faraday is likely willing to give him this (and if he's honest, he's after a lot more than a quick tumble, has been deep in his own feelings for so, so long). Letting out a reluctant sound of disappointment, he thinks that his need for touch will have to continue unsatisfied. "I'm here with a friend," Vasquez says apologetically. "Maybe, if I come back on my own..." He tries to keep the promise open, because he wants his food and his drink.
"Maybe," the barkeep agrees. "I'm Josiah, by the way."
"Ale," he offers, knowing that he's only being so kind to get something, but it feels good to talk to someone and not expect to be hanged.
He pushes back into the dining room to settle the plates back to their table, settling into his chair to chew a biscuit thoughtfully, staring at Faraday for a long moment, wondering why he lets Faraday get under his skin so much. No, that's a lie. He knows why, but he needs to stop letting it, when he's struggling against something that's useless. "Eat your food, querido," he instructs. "Since my chatting up got us these portions."
Vasquez’s snappy response makes Faraday bristle, and he straightens in his chair a little in response. It’s petulant, he knows. It’s childish, that the way Vasquez speaks to him makes him want to gear up for a fight. It’s hardly the first time Vasquez has used that tone on him, and when they’re on the road, it usually garners little more than a snort from Faraday. But here, with the quiet hum of voices around them, with the way something prickles in Faraday’s gut – the source and meaning of which is completely lost on Faraday – it only serves to jab at the ugly thing already festering in him.
It’s both a relief and a giant disappointment when Vasquez is called away by his new “friend,” and Faraday grits his teeth with irritation. He throws back most of his glass – the flavor wasted on him, considering he was always more fond of drinking to get drunk, rather than drinking for flavor – and pours himself another share. He waits, glaring balefully at the doors to the kitchen, worry spiking sharply with how long it takes for Vasquez to return. They still had to be careful, regardless of the way they’re hissing at one another like wet cats; if that infuriating bastard got himself into trouble, Faraday would never forgive himself for allowing it to happen.
But Vasquez returns, two plates laden with food, and Faraday can’t help but eye it all warily, gaze flicking to the kitchen, when the barkeep makes his own exit. Is it his imagination, or does the man look slightly disappointed? And is it his imagination, or does the man cast Faraday an annoyed look, like he were some stone in the road impeding the other man’s progress? Faraday, in his usual way, working solely on reflex, casts the other man a bright, winning smile, which seems to shake the barkeep out of whatever mood he had fallen into.
“That new friend of yours don’t look too happy,” Faraday says, voice carefully idle, as he plucks up the roll from the proffered plate.
Absently, Vasquez now has to make a decision to tell the truth or not. Walking away from the table and getting food in his stomach has calmed him somewhat, but even so, he's only a little tipsy and usually, he leans heavy on liquor to give him this courage. In the end (after two biscuits and some meat), he's warm and content and decides that he's going to just say it.
They're already being snippy at one another, maybe if they do end up fighting or having troubles, it can all be at once before it gets resolved, instead of another fight at another time. "Same reason your Henrietta looked disappointed when you left town yesterday, probably," he replies, and though he might feel courageous to speak like this, his head is bowed down and his gaze is fixed on his fingers prying open a piece of bread.
Not so courageous when it comes to this after all.
Eventually, he peers up from his food so that he can reach for the whiskey, adding a splash to his glass so he can wet down the food. "His name is Josiah, he was very ... welcoming," Vasquez decides on the word for it. "That's all." His actions should speak for themselves, though. Instead of upstairs with Josiah in some back supply room, he's at the table eating dinner with Faraday. That's the choice he's made, and Faraday should be able to see that, even if sometimes, Vasquez suspects the man of overlooking the very obvious.
The response draws Faraday’s gaze back to Vasquez, and his eyes narrow, trying to puzzle out what that complaint means. Vasquez seems awful sour about Henrietta, for reasons Faraday still can’t quite figure out. He had assumed, yesterday, that the other man was envious of Faraday’s opportunity to enjoy the company of lovely women, but now, though, that hardly seems the case; if it were, then Vasquez would surely be more bitter with Faraday than with the saloon girl, as he currently seems to be.
He chews the words over, arching an eyebrow with the emphasis that Vasquez gives the word “welcoming,” and after a second or two, Faraday rocks back a little with sudden understanding.
“... Ah,” is about all he can manage, caught off-guard by the realization. He peers across the table, trying to study Vasquez’s face. A little difficult to do, with the way the other man has his head bowed.
“You... weren’t interested?” and he asks it as levelly as he can. The answer shouldn’t interest him as much as it does, but for whatever reason, he finds himself waiting a little anxiously for the response.
Digging out his box of matches, he fiddles with them to keep his hands busy, thinking that no one would ever suspect this wary and almost nervous man to be a wanted outlaw, so maybe this conversation works in his favour. "Maybe sometime before, yes, I would have been interested," he hears himself shape the words before he takes the time to think about how Faraday will react to them, but they're out now.
He might as well finish speaking. "Things are different now," he says, glancing up at Faraday when he finds some strength. Though, he's not so sure why things are so different. He'd asked for the oil, thinking to have it for something just like this, but the minute a proposition lands at his feet and all he'd thought was, I'd rather spend the night playing cards with Faraday. Even if nothing ever happened, he'd rather be here.
Fighting and hissing at each other and taunting and teasing, this is where he wants to be. Shrugging his shoulder, he lets it fall, wondering why he's so wary when this would have come to light eventually.
Well, not all of it, but this part, where his preferences sometimes lie, that part, he thinks was inevitable. His feelings for Faraday? Not so likely to come out so easy. "Sometimes I'm interested in pretty Henriettas, with their soft curves and pretty eyes and smiles, who can make you feel good. Sometimes, it's a Josiah, who can pin you down and make you feel alive and strong and also good. Different good." His stomach roiling a little, he sets his plate in front of him to switch to a cigarette, as if he can somehow smoke his nerves away.
Faraday's always been good about keeping his emotions off his face – a necessity for how often he finds himself at card tables, making his living on lying through his teeth. He puts it to good use now, listening as Vasquez nervously works his way through his explanation.
Things are different now, Vasquez says, and Faraday wonders if he means the bounty on his head, or if he means the company he keeps, or if he means Faraday, in particular. And he wonders, more than that, if Vasquez finds it a hindrance. Wouldn't be the first time Faraday's made a nuisance of himself, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time his presence had been an unwelcome one; if Faraday were in the habit of being honest, he'd admit that he's suspected Vasquez would eventually tire of him.
(Most folks do.)
Vasquez's preferences hardly surprise him. Traveling as much as he has, Faraday's met more than a few men who shared those same particular interests. Faraday thinks he knows what he likes – dark hair, dark eyes, a sharp wit and a clever tongue. Like Henrietta, whose bell-like laughter rings out with the men she's amusing at their table. Like Maria, months and months ago, with her clever hands in a darkened room. Like Ethel before her, with a voice like a nightingale, singing in a crowded saloon.
He's not sure why he feels that bitter twinge in his gut, why something rakes at the back of his ribs when Faraday glances over at Josiah, busying himself with another order. He keeps it from showing, though, that mask of ease and vague amusement clinging to his face.
"Why not indulge?" is what Faraday hears himself asking, even if he wants to kick himself for it.
Vasquez's eyes widen for the briefest of moments and it takes all of his attention not to let his cigarette fall out of his fingers when Faraday asks that. He would have to zero in on the one terrible question that's bound to lead them down an awkward path. Faraday knows him well enough to know when he lies, so he knows that he can't win by presenting lies.
What he can do is try and aggravate Faraday until he gets so angry, so furious, that maybe he forgets the question to begin with. He keeps asking himself the same question, why he won't go upstairs and indulge, and he thinks that he knows why.
Strangely, in the face of options lying and enraging Faraday, Vasquez opts instead for the truth. "I'm tired of something empty," is what he says, feeling exhausted. "Just as much as responsibility weights me down and scares me, Rose Creek and what happened showed me that if I die tomorrow, then I die without knowing what so many others do." Then again, he knows some of it, because he knows what he feels. He just doesn't have the experience of it to warm him on cold nights out on the road, aching with loneliness and touch-starved apart from when Faraday indulges him.
"Josiah, Henrietta, they're not what I want," he says, shaking his head vigorously as he smokes his cigarette, stretching his legs a little as if he's debating an escape he's going to make. "That's all, querido, leave it be," he coaxes tiredly, even though he suspects that's the last thing Faraday will do. "Maybe, sometime, after a fight, I will be so pent up and riled, then I will let someone take me in a back room." He shrugs as he says it. "Tonight? It's very rude to bring a lover back to a shared room, isn't it," he adds, setting aside his cigarette so he can stuff his face with food before he says anything more.
Faraday can see the way gears turn in Vasquez’s head. Faraday had framed the question as a suggestion – You should go have some fun while the getting’s good – but the instant the words had left his mouth, he had wanted to go bang his head against a wall, or to bury himself into a hole so deep the sunlight might never reach him.
(Because suddenly, he was worried that Vasquez might change his mind, might nod decisively and seek out Josiah’s company, as Faraday had proposed. The thought that Vasquez might say yes made his stomach churn for reasons he can hardly identify.)
Instead, Vasquez answers the question as Faraday had posed it to him. Often, Faraday is hardly concerned with how awkward his probing questions can be, but that was typically because he knew it wouldn’t chase him beyond the edges of town. This time, though, that bare snippet of honest, of earnestness, stuns Faraday into silence, and he stares at Vasquez from across the table.
He’s not sure he ever knew about Vasquez’s fear of responsibility, though Faraday surely relates to it – that strange, heaviness of knowing someone else depends on you, that weight of another person’s life resting on your shoulders. Faraday was certain that on the off-chance that he survived the fight in Rose Creek, he would surely shuck that yoke. But he hasn’t, because he’s still willingly sitting across from Vasquez, isn’t he?
At length, his gaze drops to his plate – still half-full with food, because the conversation has distracted him, has stolen his appetite. He frowns for a second or two before dragging his gaze up to Vasquez, and as the other man suspected, Faraday doesn’t leave it alone.
“What’s there to know?” and he asks it with obvious curiosity, head tilting a little as he watches Vasquez. “Seems to me you’ve been doin’ just fine for yourself.”
He's really going to make Vasquez talk about this. Here he'd thought that he could escape, that it wouldn't actually come down to this, but then Faraday has to go and talk about what it is that Vasquez is missing out on. He could write a list, but the first and last point would be about the man sitting across from him.
Vasquez enjoys his head where it is, of course, so he's not going to do that. Still, he's going to have to say something or end up storming out and he's still eating, so he's not leaving until he's had his fill. "My parents, they had love," he says, sharing something that he hasn't told anyone. "To my father, my mother was his corazon, his everything. No matter what was taken from us, they had each other and they had me and my sisters. I grew up scared of that, because why would you want a person that you could never escape."
Then he'd met someone to make him realize it just takes the right person. He hates that he can't turn it off, hates that he still wants it.
"Sex is easy," he says dismissively, "giving your whole heart to someone and having them hold it in turn, keep them warm, love them," he exhales, thinking that it's not a life he'll ever get. "I don't know that. The best I've ever done is ..." Well, the best he's ever done is here, now. Settled by Faraday's bedside and waiting for him to heal, putting his hands on him to heal him, taunting and teasing him until he's falling over with laughter.
Shrugging, he lets that sentence fall away. "You're telling me you never wanted to be with someone as more than just sex?" he asks, even though he wishes he hadn't, because he's sure he won't like the answer, no matter what it is.
He had expected Vasquez to snap and ignore him – as he tended to do – but either because he finds Faraday’s questioning annoying enough, or because he doesn’t actually mind speaking on this, he answers. Faraday watches him, studying the other man’s face. More of that honesty, and Faraday is hardly used to anyone being forthcoming with him (even if he’s unaware that Vasquez is holding back a fair bit).
Love, apparently, is the answer, and with anyone else, Faraday might have barked out a laugh and set into ridiculing them for that maudlin response, would’ve sneered at how sentimental it was. Hard to do that with Vasquez, considering he’s seen what the man can do, knows they’ve both experienced hardship and pain. Syrupy as it is, Faraday can hardly blame the man for wanting something like this.
When Vasquez turns the question on him, Faraday pauses, chewing slowly on a forkful of food. He hasn’t thought about love overly much. Sex, like Vasquez had said, is far easier. Giving yourself to someone was risky, and Faraday was hardly around any folks long enough for those roots to take hold.
... Though that isn’t true, and Faraday huffs out a rueful sort of laugh.
“Once, maybe,” he says slowly. He’s not in the habit of being honest, but he’s spun this story a few times, in his more drunken moments. Not with Vasquez, as far as he can remember, but in saloons with complete strangers, certainly. It could hardly hurt to tell it now, he thinks. “I was young, just left home. Dumb and gangly and still tryin’ to find my feet, takin’ up odd jobs and ranch work. Made my way to a saloon, and up on a little wood box stood the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, singin’ the most beautiful song I’d ever heard.”
And he remembers her briefly – dark curls framing her face, dark eyes glittering with mischief and wit. The sharp way she teased, the way she spoke exactly what was on her mind.
Faraday pauses again, shrugging before returning to his meal. He continues on in good humor. “Like I said, though, I was young and dumb, so it hardly counts. Thought I might’ve had a chance, but Ethel had plenty other suitors at the time that she hardly looked at me twice.”
Vasquez is relieved to hear about a story so far in the past that it bears no potential on Faraday deciding that he wants to seek that out himself and leave him. For Vasquez, being lovesick with unrequited feelings means nothing changes and he stays. For Faraday to fall in love with someone else means that he goes back to being on his own.
It's a miserable, painful possibility, and one that he's not looking forward to. "You weren't so charming then?" Vasquez can't help but tease with a huff, finishing the last of the food on his plate. "Your life would've been so different, I think, if she'd taken you in. Maybe you would be a doting husband, a father, with no adventure in his life at all."
Despite the private conversation, Josiah doesn't seem to read any tension between them, drifting over to clean the plate. Despite Vasquez's rejection earlier, he seems to be weathering it well enough, even if he's treating Vasquez a little like Faraday doesn't exist. "Taste good, doesn't it, handsome? Or should I say guapo?" he adds, teasing and pitched in a lower tone, trying to seem exotic and flirtatious by using the Spanish, a language he clearly knows given the way his mouth forms around the word.
As Vasquez freezes up, he doesn't think that it had been quiet enough, because there's no way Faraday didn't catch that. It's just one of the nicknames, but he has a terrible feeling that it's enough of a glance to get the gist.
"Very good food," he replies, brusque. "Do you want help with the dishes? I'll help," he decides, getting up and reaching out to take Faraday's plate, regardless of what's left on it, piling the dishes in his arms and leaving a befuddled Josiah standing there in his wake while Vasquez carts the dishes to the kitchen he'd seen before to escape what he's dreading comes next.
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It will make him cringe, of course, but then, most of Faraday's Spanish does that. Trotting at an easy pace, he tucks his hat and most of his identifying materials into his saddlebag, not daring to go for a cigar or cigarette on the off chance someone knows his habit of smoking.
Now that town is in sight, he can feel the swell of excitement, like he hasn't in so long. "What was the tavern like? What about the rooms?" It's been so long since Rose Creek, he likely sounds like a desperate man. Stomach grumbling, a yearning look comes over his face. "I'd give anything for a hot meal."
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Vasquez’s excitement is near palpable as they approach the edge of the town, and Faraday feels himself grinning, despite his earlier frustration at the other man. Maybe this was a decent idea, if only to give Vasquez a change of pace. Sleeping under the stars, enjoying the quiet of nature, was all good and well, but sometimes, a man just needed the company of other people to stave off that feeling of loneliness.
“Dunno about the rooms,” he replies honestly. “Didn’t see ‘em, myself.”
He didn’t have reason to, either. His stay in the town was relatively brief, even if he did leave Vasquez waiting a good while.
(Even if Henrietta, the pretty saloon girl from yesterday, did try to coax him into renting a room for the night.)
“Saloon’s alright,” and his review is accompanied by a shrug, as though to silently add, I’ve seen better. “Decent prices. Bartender’s pour could stand to be a little heavier, but they ain’t servin’ the usual rotgut, at least.”
At that last comment Faraday breathes out a quick, soft laugh.
“Food’s decent, too. Try not to let your stomach eat itself whole ‘fore we get there.”
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"If it's easier." And then it will be his name on Faraday's lips, not some alias, not someone else. He's now jealous of himself, which is so stupid that he must have not slept enough, clearly. Still, the town's presence is overwhelming him and he doesn't much care as soon as he reaches the outskirts.
Paranoia swoops in, as expected. He feels like everyone is staring (which they probably are, he doesn't have to be recognized to be stared at because most little towns don't like a Mexican in them), and as he dismounts the horse, his eyes are bright as he takes in the crush of people, the sound of them, the movement. It's not a big town, but it's enough.
"Rooms, food, then saloon," he says, figuring that's a decent order of business, tying his horse up near the trough to let her get some water, drifting into the town and trying not to instantly let his hand go to his pistols.
Glancing back for Faraday, he gives him an excited nod, trying to get him to hurry. "If you'd come faster, my stomach wouldn't have to worry, then I could get something in me after we get rooms." He figures he owes Faraday a peaceful night of sleep, despite the little voice in his head that says, he might take her to his bed, this could be a very bad idea, but if that happens, Vasquez will just have to get blazingly drunk.
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He had heard Vasquez mention his given name in passing, but seeing as how he hadn’t introduced himself with it, Faraday never risked using it. He figured it was a personal thing, in much the same way Faraday preferred being called by his surname, rather than the name his mother had given him. Too personal. Too close, to be called Josh after so many years.
Sam, Goodnight and Billy, and even the reclusive Jack Horne had offered up their first names as easy as you please. And Red Harvest seemed to tolerate being called an abbreviated “Red,” once Faraday realized he understood their language. Faraday’s introduction to Vasquez, on the other hand, had been short, perfunctory, with a level of tension by which Faraday had been puzzled.
(Apparently his actual introduction to Vasquez had hardly been pleasant, but the alcohol had made the memory hazy.)
But they’ve entered the town, and as though some switch has been thrown, Faraday can see the tension creeping into the set of Vasquez’s shoulders. As they’re hitching up their horses, Faraday takes an easy glance around – a marked difference from the wary way Vasquez goes about it. Yes, there are eyes on them, but Faraday figures it’s more from the oddity of two foreign men in their small town.
Vasquez urges them onward, and Faraday lets out a patient sort of sigh. After a split-second decision, Faraday frowns down at Jack, giving the stallion one companionable pat on the neck before putting on a limp (though considering the state of his leg, he doesn’t have to play it up too much) and making his way over to Vasquez. He tosses an arm around Vasquez’s shoulders. To anyone looking, it would appear as though an injured man was seeking the help of his riding companion, and little more.
“Relax, would you?” he says in an undertone – loud enough that Vasquez can hear it over the usual hubbub of a town starting its day, but soft enough that anyone nearby couldn’t hear him. “You keep lookin’ as hunted as you do, someone’s gonna get suspicious.”
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Still, as he breathes out slowly, the warmth of Faraday's arm over his shoulder starts to shut down the more frantic parts of his brain, trying not to feel nervous, but it's been a long time and last time, he had at least six other people watching his back and they'd needed him.
"They're staring because I'm Mexican, cabron, I know that," he mutters back, gritting his teeth. "Still doesn't mean I have to like it." The good news is that no one is pulling out a warrant, no one is pointing at him. Heading towards the inn, he moves his hand to Faraday's hip, squeezing a little to give him a little help up the stairs.
Or maybe it's just for him, a brief reassurance to Faraday in lieu of being given one himself. "Come on, carino," he says, swallowing back whatever other words, the nickname slipping out in the face of his worry. "Get us some rooms."
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He thinks for a second about how if things were different, if the two of them were strangers arriving in town at the same time, Faraday would have been wary of the Vasquez – though strangely, that would have been more for the way he carried himself than for the color of his skin. It was the same with Sam, when their paths first crossed – the grave demeanor, the gun gleaming at his hip, the way he held his back straight against the weight of too many ghosts sitting on his shoulders. Vasquez wasn’t nearly as severe as Sam had been, that day in Amador City, but there’s an echo of it, all the same. A dangerous man, completely aware of how dangerous he was.
Of course, Faraday knows better now, with the benefit of all that time spent driving one another mad with their joking and teasing back at Rose Creek. Vasquez was still dangerous, of course, but so was Faraday. And he still trusted Vasquez with his life.
The inn is nothing to write home about, of course, given the size of the town, and more than anything, the stairs leading to the inn’s porch prove more daunting than anything so far. It’s not much of an act, the way he hobbles up, leaning heavily on Vasquez when his leg hitches just before the landing. It’s shameful, really, that weakness, and he feels a familiar curl of bitterness for it, like oily smoke. But it’s eased away near instantly when he feels the way Vasquez squeezes his hip, calloused hand warm even through the fabric of his trousers, and helps him up that final stretch. (His mouth goes dry with it, but he hardly knows why.)
Vasquez doesn’t have to tell him twice, though, and Faraday leaves Vasquez at the door to make his way up to the proprietor – a severe-looking older woman, with salt and pepper hair and a moue like she’s perpetually sucking on a lemon. He sweet talks her in his usual way, turning up his trademarked charm as he leans on the counter. After a few moments, he pushes off, and she places a key in his hand, casting a quick, almost wary glance at Vasquez before busying herself with a record book. When Faraday returns to Vasquez, it’s with a faintly sheepish air.
“So,” he says brightly – too brightly, maybe. “Good news? Got a room.” And he jangles the key, pointing to the floor above them.
The phrasing, of course, betrays that there’s more to it than that, and he clears his throat. A little less brightly, “Bad news is, it’s... a room.”
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He occupies himself by lighting a cigarette in the corner, working his way through the majority of it while he keeps a steady eye on Faraday, both to watch his back and also because he enjoys watching him, with no other motives.
If his parents could see him now, losing his head and heart over a guero jackass, he'd be in for a scolding, he thinks. He ducks his head and grins when Faraday seems to manage to talk the grizzled woman into at least acceptance of him, but when he returns, Vasquez squints at his words.
"Que?" Then he clarifies, "a" room, one single room. "It's fine," he says dismissively. In fact, it's probably better this way, because now Vasquez might stand a chance of sleeping if he knows that someone else will be there. "You wanted a bed, I'll take the floor." His back is used to such aches and he's had worse. He's just happy for the roof over his head, the warmth, and the prospect of food that he's willing to let Faraday have the mattress.
Besides, it won't be the first time Faraday has a bed and Vasquez sits uncomfortably near him, after all those weeks in Rose Creek. "Food," he says, putting out his cigarette, because maybe he's so fixated on this that he isn't thinking about such shared space.
Definitely isn't thinking about all the dangerous things that can happen with shared space, especially after his drunken episode the night before.
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(Not the worst idea, Faraday figures, but with how oddly anxious the other man seemed to be with enjoying the comforts of civilization, it seemed an inauspicious end.)
Not the case, apparently, and when Vasquez urges them on elsewhere, Faraday huffs out a laugh, tucking the key into his pocket.
"Fine, fine," he says, while waving a hand toward the door. "We'll follow your nose, then. You're liable to direct us someplace palatable, then."
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He reaches out to pluck at Faraday's vest and give him a light tug, a sign to start walking. The only trouble when they reach this little place is that Vasquez sees a pretty young woman with dark hair light up as soon as they enter.
"Mierda," he mutters under his breath, and steers Faraday towards a table before Henrietta (so he assumes) can interrupt, thinking that she has a new chance. At least with their shared room, there will be no chance for Faraday to charm her back.
Speaking of charm, he remembers their little wager and while it might not be on the table, it's also still a good idea to keep people distracted. Plastering on an easygoing smile, letting the tension drain his shoulders, Vasquez thinks that an outgoing, gregarious man won't flag people as an outlaw. Running a hand through his hair, he settles Faraday at a table before he goes to lean against the bar.
The bartender (and possibly owner of this place) is a handsome young man drying glasses behind the bar, with deep blue eyes, a well-coiffed moustache, and very nice fingers. If he were completely desperate, hadn't been keeping company, he would've been a very tempting thing. Right now, to get him heaping plates of food and liquor, he might be acting friendlier than normal, leaning forward, reaching out to absently tap the man's hand to try and forge a connection, keeping the conversation light and easy.
Besides, with his back set this way, he can avoid the inevitable -- when Henrietta decides to say hello to Faraday again, something he doubts he can watch without losing his easygoing front.
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But before Faraday can ask what the matter is, he sees the way Vasquez's attitude shifts, the way he seems completely at ease in a way Faraday hasn't seen since Rose Creek. It suits him, he abruptly thinks, words stopping up for a second in his throat, and when Vasquez directs him to a table, Faraday forgets to commend him for it.
But he's not so far gone, at least, that he's forgotten that $500 reward for Vasquez's head. He's mindful of the patrons of the saloon, scanning the room casually enough – something well-practiced, considering he was more than used to watching his own back. Not too difficult, keeping an eye on Vasquez on top of it. When Vasquez leans against the bar, Henrietta just so happens to saunter her way over, smiling in that pretty way that Faraday remembers from yesterday.
"Back so soon?" she asks, and her hand trails along the back of his shoulders as she moves around his chair. "Thought you were movin' along to the next town?"
"Change of plans," Faraday says, shrugging. His gaze darts over to Vasquez, to the way he seems so familiar with the barkeep, and Faraday feels a bitter curl in his gut. It's an abrupt, strange sort of thing that he quickly shakes off, looking back to Henrietta. "Seemed a serendipitous turn of events, seein' as how I get to see you again."
Henrietta laughs, something light and musical like bells. Her hands smooth down his upper arms, as she leans against his back, whispering in his ear, "Flatterer."
A table calls for the saloon girl's attention, though, and she straightens slowly, giving them a light wave to signal her return. She promises Faraday she'll be back soon with a quick peck on his cheek, leaving a faint red mark. After that, she returns to the table of revelers, and Faraday refocuses on Vasquez at the bar.
(He doesn't realize it, but he's frowning a little sourly.)
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Faraday looks upset, though why, Vasquez has no idea. "I see your girl came back to see you," is his annoyed comment, gesturing to the red mark on Faraday's cheek, settling in a chair where he can sprawl, facing the door (and as a consequence, the barkeep, who he tosses a smirk and a wink as he lifts the whiskey bottle in thanks before pouring glasses for the both of them).
"This should be better than the last bottle you got," he says, tapping Faraday's glass against his own before setting it down in front of him. Henrietta is not the only one who can grease up someone with pretty smiles and loose touches.
When he wants to be, Vasquez can be plenty charming. It's just that travelling with Faraday, he had no use, because the other man never seemed to mind when he threw him an insult. In fact, he seemed to even like it, so Vasquez just never stopped, peppering in the sneaky affections that he can.
"Don't even think about bringing her back to the room, guapo," he says, for the second time in as many moments, but apparently, that's not such a good thing, because the barkeep is serving some of the tables and hears, drifting by to give them a searching look, very clearly drawn by the nickname.
"Is everything fine?"
"Everything is perfect," Vasquez guarantees with a charming grin, squeezing his forearm gently enough to assure, but firm enough to tell him that he shouldn't ask any more and should return to the bar.
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"I was gonna introduce you two," Faraday says, words sliding out of the side of his mouth as he frowns. "Doubt I'll bother, if you're gonna seem so surly about it."
It doesn't slip his notice, the way Vasquez's attentions keep returning to the bartender, and Faraday feels that bitter twist in his gut again for it – an emotion he can hardly identify, except for how little he likes it.
When Vasquez pours out the glasses, Faraday pulls his own closer toward himself, his mood darkening with each word that slips from Vasquez's lips. Another of those insulting nicknames, except Faraday sees the way the bartender perks up at it, like some dog who's heard its master shape its name. When he comes over, Faraday gives the other man a considering look, almost sizing him up, but his eyes snap to the way Vasquez squeezes the other man's arm.
That bitter curl flares to life, and Faraday glares first at the barkeep's retreating back, then to Vasquez, with that stupid smile curling his lips. When the other man is out of earshot, Faraday forces his expression to smooth out, looking down at the glass of whiskey instead of Vasquez.
"See you've made a friend."
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Besides, he has the barkeep to focus on, an easy distraction both because of the ease he has on the eyes, but also because he's the man responsible for their drinks and the food order he'd placed. What's strange, though, is how Faraday acts.
"I told you that I could be very charming," he says as he sips the whiskey and lets out a low laugh of delight when it is incredible. Apparently his flirtations have found their mark this time and paid off. "Let him think he is my friend until he brings me food piling the plate, whiskey as good as this," he says, feeling like a weight is pulled off his chest.
There's something else happening and while Vasquez isn't stupid, he is occasionally the kind of hopeful that is. Something is going on with Faraday. Shifting closer, he moves a hand to Faraday's bad leg, to the knee, and offers the lightest squeeze to get his attention.
"What?" he asks. "Did he act like a jackass when you were here before?" Annoyance hits him next, because if Faraday can cozy up with Henrietta, then why can't he have a civil conversation (even if it's borderline flirtatious) with someone else. "What do you care, when you have your pretty girl flitting over you?"
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He’s busy examining the wood grain of the table, scowling down at it like he might scare off the stains, when Vasquez squeezes his knee. He stiffens with the unexpected contact, and his gaze darts up to Vasquez.
“He was fine,” is the first reassurance that leaves his lips. He offered drinks quick enough, yesterday, and was nothing less than civil, as most bartenders are. Vasquez’s next question, though, draws a derisive snort from Faraday, and his gaze darts away again.
“Who said I cared? ‘Cause I don’t. Chat up whoever you want, it don’t matter none to me.”
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When the barkeep signals to him, Vasquez scrapes his chair as he stands, one hand firmly on Faraday's shoulders while he heads to the back kitchen with the barkeep so he can fetch the plates of food.
"Choose what you want," he says, to Vasquez's delight.
He pries biscuits and breads from the table, fresh and hot fried meats, and as much vegetables as he can lade down on two plates. When he steps back towards the main room, the barkeep stops him by the door and for a moment, Vasquez wonders if he needs to go for his guns. Luckily, it turns out his life is in no danger, only his virtue.
"Maybe after, you might want to take advantage of our rooms?" he offers, a pointed look sliding over him.
He could, but should he? It's not that Faraday is likely willing to give him this (and if he's honest, he's after a lot more than a quick tumble, has been deep in his own feelings for so, so long). Letting out a reluctant sound of disappointment, he thinks that his need for touch will have to continue unsatisfied. "I'm here with a friend," Vasquez says apologetically. "Maybe, if I come back on my own..." He tries to keep the promise open, because he wants his food and his drink.
"Maybe," the barkeep agrees. "I'm Josiah, by the way."
"Ale," he offers, knowing that he's only being so kind to get something, but it feels good to talk to someone and not expect to be hanged.
He pushes back into the dining room to settle the plates back to their table, settling into his chair to chew a biscuit thoughtfully, staring at Faraday for a long moment, wondering why he lets Faraday get under his skin so much. No, that's a lie. He knows why, but he needs to stop letting it, when he's struggling against something that's useless. "Eat your food, querido," he instructs. "Since my chatting up got us these portions."
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It’s both a relief and a giant disappointment when Vasquez is called away by his new “friend,” and Faraday grits his teeth with irritation. He throws back most of his glass – the flavor wasted on him, considering he was always more fond of drinking to get drunk, rather than drinking for flavor – and pours himself another share. He waits, glaring balefully at the doors to the kitchen, worry spiking sharply with how long it takes for Vasquez to return. They still had to be careful, regardless of the way they’re hissing at one another like wet cats; if that infuriating bastard got himself into trouble, Faraday would never forgive himself for allowing it to happen.
But Vasquez returns, two plates laden with food, and Faraday can’t help but eye it all warily, gaze flicking to the kitchen, when the barkeep makes his own exit. Is it his imagination, or does the man look slightly disappointed? And is it his imagination, or does the man cast Faraday an annoyed look, like he were some stone in the road impeding the other man’s progress? Faraday, in his usual way, working solely on reflex, casts the other man a bright, winning smile, which seems to shake the barkeep out of whatever mood he had fallen into.
“That new friend of yours don’t look too happy,” Faraday says, voice carefully idle, as he plucks up the roll from the proffered plate.
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They're already being snippy at one another, maybe if they do end up fighting or having troubles, it can all be at once before it gets resolved, instead of another fight at another time. "Same reason your Henrietta looked disappointed when you left town yesterday, probably," he replies, and though he might feel courageous to speak like this, his head is bowed down and his gaze is fixed on his fingers prying open a piece of bread.
Not so courageous when it comes to this after all.
Eventually, he peers up from his food so that he can reach for the whiskey, adding a splash to his glass so he can wet down the food. "His name is Josiah, he was very ... welcoming," Vasquez decides on the word for it. "That's all." His actions should speak for themselves, though. Instead of upstairs with Josiah in some back supply room, he's at the table eating dinner with Faraday. That's the choice he's made, and Faraday should be able to see that, even if sometimes, Vasquez suspects the man of overlooking the very obvious.
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He chews the words over, arching an eyebrow with the emphasis that Vasquez gives the word “welcoming,” and after a second or two, Faraday rocks back a little with sudden understanding.
“... Ah,” is about all he can manage, caught off-guard by the realization. He peers across the table, trying to study Vasquez’s face. A little difficult to do, with the way the other man has his head bowed.
“You... weren’t interested?” and he asks it as levelly as he can. The answer shouldn’t interest him as much as it does, but for whatever reason, he finds himself waiting a little anxiously for the response.
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He might as well finish speaking. "Things are different now," he says, glancing up at Faraday when he finds some strength. Though, he's not so sure why things are so different. He'd asked for the oil, thinking to have it for something just like this, but the minute a proposition lands at his feet and all he'd thought was, I'd rather spend the night playing cards with Faraday. Even if nothing ever happened, he'd rather be here.
Fighting and hissing at each other and taunting and teasing, this is where he wants to be. Shrugging his shoulder, he lets it fall, wondering why he's so wary when this would have come to light eventually.
Well, not all of it, but this part, where his preferences sometimes lie, that part, he thinks was inevitable. His feelings for Faraday? Not so likely to come out so easy. "Sometimes I'm interested in pretty Henriettas, with their soft curves and pretty eyes and smiles, who can make you feel good. Sometimes, it's a Josiah, who can pin you down and make you feel alive and strong and also good. Different good." His stomach roiling a little, he sets his plate in front of him to switch to a cigarette, as if he can somehow smoke his nerves away.
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Things are different now, Vasquez says, and Faraday wonders if he means the bounty on his head, or if he means the company he keeps, or if he means Faraday, in particular. And he wonders, more than that, if Vasquez finds it a hindrance. Wouldn't be the first time Faraday's made a nuisance of himself, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time his presence had been an unwelcome one; if Faraday were in the habit of being honest, he'd admit that he's suspected Vasquez would eventually tire of him.
(Most folks do.)
Vasquez's preferences hardly surprise him. Traveling as much as he has, Faraday's met more than a few men who shared those same particular interests. Faraday thinks he knows what he likes – dark hair, dark eyes, a sharp wit and a clever tongue. Like Henrietta, whose bell-like laughter rings out with the men she's amusing at their table. Like Maria, months and months ago, with her clever hands in a darkened room. Like Ethel before her, with a voice like a nightingale, singing in a crowded saloon.
He's not sure why he feels that bitter twinge in his gut, why something rakes at the back of his ribs when Faraday glances over at Josiah, busying himself with another order. He keeps it from showing, though, that mask of ease and vague amusement clinging to his face.
"Why not indulge?" is what Faraday hears himself asking, even if he wants to kick himself for it.
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What he can do is try and aggravate Faraday until he gets so angry, so furious, that maybe he forgets the question to begin with. He keeps asking himself the same question, why he won't go upstairs and indulge, and he thinks that he knows why.
Strangely, in the face of options lying and enraging Faraday, Vasquez opts instead for the truth. "I'm tired of something empty," is what he says, feeling exhausted. "Just as much as responsibility weights me down and scares me, Rose Creek and what happened showed me that if I die tomorrow, then I die without knowing what so many others do." Then again, he knows some of it, because he knows what he feels. He just doesn't have the experience of it to warm him on cold nights out on the road, aching with loneliness and touch-starved apart from when Faraday indulges him.
"Josiah, Henrietta, they're not what I want," he says, shaking his head vigorously as he smokes his cigarette, stretching his legs a little as if he's debating an escape he's going to make. "That's all, querido, leave it be," he coaxes tiredly, even though he suspects that's the last thing Faraday will do. "Maybe, sometime, after a fight, I will be so pent up and riled, then I will let someone take me in a back room." He shrugs as he says it. "Tonight? It's very rude to bring a lover back to a shared room, isn't it," he adds, setting aside his cigarette so he can stuff his face with food before he says anything more.
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(Because suddenly, he was worried that Vasquez might change his mind, might nod decisively and seek out Josiah’s company, as Faraday had proposed. The thought that Vasquez might say yes made his stomach churn for reasons he can hardly identify.)
Instead, Vasquez answers the question as Faraday had posed it to him. Often, Faraday is hardly concerned with how awkward his probing questions can be, but that was typically because he knew it wouldn’t chase him beyond the edges of town. This time, though, that bare snippet of honest, of earnestness, stuns Faraday into silence, and he stares at Vasquez from across the table.
He’s not sure he ever knew about Vasquez’s fear of responsibility, though Faraday surely relates to it – that strange, heaviness of knowing someone else depends on you, that weight of another person’s life resting on your shoulders. Faraday was certain that on the off-chance that he survived the fight in Rose Creek, he would surely shuck that yoke. But he hasn’t, because he’s still willingly sitting across from Vasquez, isn’t he?
At length, his gaze drops to his plate – still half-full with food, because the conversation has distracted him, has stolen his appetite. He frowns for a second or two before dragging his gaze up to Vasquez, and as the other man suspected, Faraday doesn’t leave it alone.
“What’s there to know?” and he asks it with obvious curiosity, head tilting a little as he watches Vasquez. “Seems to me you’ve been doin’ just fine for yourself.”
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Vasquez enjoys his head where it is, of course, so he's not going to do that. Still, he's going to have to say something or end up storming out and he's still eating, so he's not leaving until he's had his fill. "My parents, they had love," he says, sharing something that he hasn't told anyone. "To my father, my mother was his corazon, his everything. No matter what was taken from us, they had each other and they had me and my sisters. I grew up scared of that, because why would you want a person that you could never escape."
Then he'd met someone to make him realize it just takes the right person. He hates that he can't turn it off, hates that he still wants it.
"Sex is easy," he says dismissively, "giving your whole heart to someone and having them hold it in turn, keep them warm, love them," he exhales, thinking that it's not a life he'll ever get. "I don't know that. The best I've ever done is ..." Well, the best he's ever done is here, now. Settled by Faraday's bedside and waiting for him to heal, putting his hands on him to heal him, taunting and teasing him until he's falling over with laughter.
Shrugging, he lets that sentence fall away. "You're telling me you never wanted to be with someone as more than just sex?" he asks, even though he wishes he hadn't, because he's sure he won't like the answer, no matter what it is.
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Love, apparently, is the answer, and with anyone else, Faraday might have barked out a laugh and set into ridiculing them for that maudlin response, would’ve sneered at how sentimental it was. Hard to do that with Vasquez, considering he’s seen what the man can do, knows they’ve both experienced hardship and pain. Syrupy as it is, Faraday can hardly blame the man for wanting something like this.
When Vasquez turns the question on him, Faraday pauses, chewing slowly on a forkful of food. He hasn’t thought about love overly much. Sex, like Vasquez had said, is far easier. Giving yourself to someone was risky, and Faraday was hardly around any folks long enough for those roots to take hold.
... Though that isn’t true, and Faraday huffs out a rueful sort of laugh.
“Once, maybe,” he says slowly. He’s not in the habit of being honest, but he’s spun this story a few times, in his more drunken moments. Not with Vasquez, as far as he can remember, but in saloons with complete strangers, certainly. It could hardly hurt to tell it now, he thinks. “I was young, just left home. Dumb and gangly and still tryin’ to find my feet, takin’ up odd jobs and ranch work. Made my way to a saloon, and up on a little wood box stood the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, singin’ the most beautiful song I’d ever heard.”
And he remembers her briefly – dark curls framing her face, dark eyes glittering with mischief and wit. The sharp way she teased, the way she spoke exactly what was on her mind.
Faraday pauses again, shrugging before returning to his meal. He continues on in good humor. “Like I said, though, I was young and dumb, so it hardly counts. Thought I might’ve had a chance, but Ethel had plenty other suitors at the time that she hardly looked at me twice.”
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It's a miserable, painful possibility, and one that he's not looking forward to. "You weren't so charming then?" Vasquez can't help but tease with a huff, finishing the last of the food on his plate. "Your life would've been so different, I think, if she'd taken you in. Maybe you would be a doting husband, a father, with no adventure in his life at all."
Despite the private conversation, Josiah doesn't seem to read any tension between them, drifting over to clean the plate. Despite Vasquez's rejection earlier, he seems to be weathering it well enough, even if he's treating Vasquez a little like Faraday doesn't exist. "Taste good, doesn't it, handsome? Or should I say guapo?" he adds, teasing and pitched in a lower tone, trying to seem exotic and flirtatious by using the Spanish, a language he clearly knows given the way his mouth forms around the word.
As Vasquez freezes up, he doesn't think that it had been quiet enough, because there's no way Faraday didn't catch that. It's just one of the nicknames, but he has a terrible feeling that it's enough of a glance to get the gist.
"Very good food," he replies, brusque. "Do you want help with the dishes? I'll help," he decides, getting up and reaching out to take Faraday's plate, regardless of what's left on it, piling the dishes in his arms and leaving a befuddled Josiah standing there in his wake while Vasquez carts the dishes to the kitchen he'd seen before to escape what he's dreading comes next.
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