Even though there's a fair amount of praise and Josiah seems to appreciate that, it doesn't seem to edge out the wariness and suspicion. "I suppose that I could help you out," he says even though he seems to be warring with helping Faraday to look good to Vasquez and not wanting to because of what he might be translating.
"What is it you need translations for?" There's a look on his face that seems to anticipate that it'll be insults.
Josiah does seem to tense a little, like he already suspects the words Faraday wants translated are more than that.
“Just a few words,” Faraday reassures, holding up a hand in a placating gesture. He identifies that suspicion on Josiah’s face easily enough – far too many men have worn that particular look around Faraday for him to not recognize it near instantly. But there’s also an undertone of something else. Caution, maybe? Wariness?
There’s not time enough to parse it out right now, though, considering Vasquez can be back at any moment, or that Josiah could decide to chase after him or return to tending the bar. So Faraday keeps his relaxed, easy grin on his face, head tilting slightly.
“Just a few words,” he repeats, and he readjusts his hand, ticking off the words with his fingers as he goes. “Querido. Cariño. Nene. Know what they mean?”
The minute the words pass by Faraday's lips, Josiah's shoulders seem to curve forward in on themselves, like he's hearing the last thing he'd wanted to hear. Sourly, he looks like he's having a private and internal war with himself, because as much as he wants to be able to believe that this is just for Faraday to go off charming someone else, he knows it's not that.
Some friend, is the clear thought that's running through his mind. "Darling. Dear. Sweetheart. Baby." The response is flat, with no emotion in his eyes. What little geniality he might have had has evaporated now that he has to give these translations.
Of course, whatever Josiah is feeling soon will become eclipsed. Vasquez has finished with the dishes, having stalled as long as he can, but he's on his way back when he hears Josiah speak in a hollow tone. "Must be someone pretty fond of you, if they're using endearments like that."
There's little to no guessing about what they're talking about, which gives Vasquez only a few options. He makes sure they can hear him coming with the drag of his boots, forcing himself to ignore his fear about what's coming next, deciding that it can't blow up in his face if he doesn't look at Faraday.
"Everything is clean," he says. "Thank you for the food," he says to Josiah, warmth in his voice despite the half-murderous look on his face for deciding to go and translate all those words for Faraday. He digs out a few coins to leave on the table, heart racing and head pounding as he tries to figure out his best route of escape -- get to the horse, load up, ride before he can get shot. Or maybe if he gets back to the room at the inn, there will be too many around for anything to happen. "I'm tired," is what he says, gesturing with little energy for the key. "I want to go lie down. Give me the key?"
Faraday’s ability to keep a straight face is near infamous to anyone who’s played against him, and it’s a skill he puts to good use at all hours of the day, almost as often as he breathes or blinks.
But the instant Josiah offers that explanation, Faraday’s expression goes slack, eyes wide and lips parting with surprise. To anyone else, it might be funny how he suddenly looks as though he’s been struck – hell, if he saw anyone looking the way he does right now, Faraday would likely howl with laughter – but there’s hardly anything funny about this, he thinks.
The truth is, Faraday doesn’t know how he feels, except like the ground has suddenly opened beneath him, and he’s spinning and falling reeling with nothing to latch onto.
Even with Vasquez making his reentrance obvious, Faraday still jumps a little when he arrives, startled like a child caught stealing sweets. He ought to thank Josiah for his assistance, just for the sake of politeness, but Faraday has completely forgotten the bartender is even there, focused as he is on Vasquez.
For a long moment, Faraday gapes at Vasquez like he’s a complete stranger – and at this point, he might as well be, for as how thoroughly turned around as Faraday’s feeling. His request for the key goes unanswered for a long moment, the words sitting atop Faraday’s mind like oil on water. When the question finally sinks in, Faraday slowly reaches for the key in his pocket, fingers wrapping around the warmed metal in a near boneless grasp.
He starts to reach across the table to hand it over, but instead, he draws it close to himself, gripping it a little more tightly. He licks his lips, trying desperately to find his voice.
“I think I’ll go with you,” Faraday croaks out – apparently he found his voice in a brittle, hollow state, given how he sounds. But now that he’s made the decision, Faraday lurches to his feet, his chair’s legs squealing and clattering as they scrape across the wooden floor.
The noise startles him out of his stupor, at least a little, and when he comes back to himself, he stares hard at Vasquez. And in a tone that brooks no argument, he says, “You and me are overdue for a talk.”
And with that, he turns to head back to the inn, expecting Vasquez to follow.
Vasquez has faced down much worse things than what's in front of him, surely, but right now, he can't bring himself to think of any of them. The way Faraday looks at him makes him want to flinch, but he remains steady and true, doesn't let the wariness or the devastation show on his face, because he knows what comes next.
His cowardly instincts tell him to run when Faraday's back is to him, but he'll never make it out of town like that without calling attention to himself and between an uncomfortable ending of a friendship and being shot in the back, he'll still take the former.
Trudging towards the inn as slowly as he can, Vasquez chides himself mentally. He should have known this day would come, because he couldn't make himself shut up when it had come to those stupid nicknames for Faraday. He'd hidden behind the Spanish as he let his affections flow freely, hidden under a thin guise. It's time to face the consequences of this, but he has to wonder if the translations haven't unearthed everything else.
All those things that Faraday hadn't been seeing because he wasn't looking -- Vasquez's jealousy, his willingness to get his hands on him to help, the pathetic way he stares at him in the embers of a fire. Smarter men would keep a hand on their gun, but Vasquez feels chastised and guilty, but not ashamed and not regretful. While Faraday knows now, Vasquez wouldn't change anything. Shame it has to come to an end like this.
Ignoring the woman at the inn when he arrives, ten steps behind Faraday, he takes the stairs and follows him into the room where he makes a point of unclipping his gun belt and setting it on the table. It's a deliberate showing, a pointed gesture that says he's an unarmed man. From there, he sinks down to sit on the corner of the bed, burying his head in his hands while he waits for Faraday to start shouting.
"So?" he prompts, hoarse and wanting to get this over with. "You said we needed to talk. Let's talk."
Faraday is still reeling from all of it, and his mind is abuzz with activity. Folks often accused Faraday of being empty-headed, of never thinking things through – which couldn’t be farther from the truth. Sure, he had a tendency to ignore good sense, but that didn’t mean he didn’t think about it, first, before grinning right in its face.
They leave the saloon, and as they do, Faraday thinks back on the past few months, tries to remember the first time he had heard querido – “darling”? – pass from Vasquez’s lips. He tries to think, tries to understand what that all means. They were all endearments, and all this time he thought they were insults, teasing nicknames. And suddenly things start clicking into place like laying down lines of train track – Vasquez’s strange bout of jealousy yesterday after seeing the smear of lipstick and rouge on Faraday’s cheek. Why he occasionally looked so uncertain when Faraday asked after what those words meant. Why the other man has managed to tolerate Faraday’s presence all this time, when most men would have left Faraday behind in the dust.
Why Vasquez was moaning Faraday’s name in his sleep, last night.
All that talk of loneliness. All that talk of things having changed. All that talk of love.
Jesus wept. For all that Faraday pats himself on the back for his insights, he couldn’t have missed all of this anymore even if he goddamn tried. Something twists in his chest, nervous and agitated, and his stomach flips.
When he makes his way to the inn, he does so automatically, hardly seeing the other folks on the street or the old, crabby proprietor of the inn. He hardly registers the climb up the stairs. He unlocks the door himself, sure, but he only seems to realize he’s done so once he hears dull thud of Vasquez’s gun holsters touching down on the table.
In fact, he’s still standing at the entrance, grasping the handle like a lifeline, before he slowly, deliberately, shuts the door behind them. For a long while, he faces the door, taking at least a dozen rallying breaths, before turning to face Vasquez properly, where the other man has folded in on himself on the edge of the bed. Faraday twists the key in his hands, just for a small outlet for the strange, nervous energy bubbling in him; he hardly realizes he’s blocking Vasquez’s primary exit. Vasquez prompts him to speak, and Faraday—
... well. For once, words escape him.
Faraday is confused. He’s reeling. He feels himself teetering on the edge of some dark drop, where a single, solid blow might send him straight over.
He licks his lips, keeping his gaze focused on Vasquez, even if the other man won’t look at him.
“Tell me what they mean,” he finally demands, his voice hoarse and thick. Josiah may have given him the answers already, but he needs to hear it from Vasquez. “Cariño. Querido. Nene.” His pronunciation is far from perfect, the vowels bending with his accent, but it’s a little more precise than his usual attempts. “And don’t you dare lie to me this time.”
Edited (i always forget to close html tags.....) 2018-01-03 19:23 (UTC)
Vasquez glances up when he hears Faraday's hesitation near the door. For a brief, blinding, and bright moment, he thinks that maybe Faraday will decide that he wants to just go. That relief ebbs into a gut-wrenching feeling when he realizes that this would mean that then Vasquez will lose his company, but he thinks that this is going to happen anyway. If he goes now, things won't get more complicated.
Instead of leaving, though, he closes the door and it sounds like the loudest gunshot. There's a finality to that because now they have to talk, now Vasquez can't leave unless he does something rash and stupid like try and knock out Faraday. For all that Vasquez might be a little taller, he has nothing on Faraday's weight, so he doesn't think that he could do that without the element of surprise.
Then, that question. When Vasquez laughs, it's empty and hollow. It's the sound of a man who's been caught and knows he has to face the noose. He can't even lie, because Josiah has proven himself to be a quick mind with his Spanish -- his pronunciations clear, his comfort evident. Of course Faraday had been holding onto those words, and of course Josiah had translated, because the hijo di puta probably didn't want to say anything that might make Vasquez annoyed. Look how that's backfired.
Breathing in slowly, he can feel the way his stomach roils with wariness, not to mention the ache of his heart pounding so hard. He doesn't act like an asshole (even though he could) and point out that he's never actually lied to Faraday. He just never answered him properly when he'd asked for translations.
"When I call you cariño, it's something like honey or sweetheart. Dear. Querido, it's something of the same. Darling." He's not speaking to Faraday while he says this, but the wooden slats of the floor where he can hear the sounds of the downstairs filtering through. "Nene is...it's the same as the others, but more personal," he admits. For all that he'd used those words sometimes to tease and to taunt, he can't hide behind them anymore.
He'd used them with sincerity, happy that he could until now, when he cannot hide anymore behind the Spanish and Faraday knows what Vasquez has been saying all this time. He should apologize, but he doesn't feel sorry for saying them, only sorry that he got caught.
"Faraday," he gets out, trying to sound casual and light, starting a campaign to convince him that it means nothing (even though to him, it means everything, but he's willing to lie to keep what he's got). "It's nothing," he vows. "Really," he promises, finally looking up once he thinks he can maintain eye contact. "I was just poking fun, that's all," he swears, even though he knows that his argument can be knocked down as easy as a house of cards.
And there it is, that bit of clarification. Maybe a few moments ago, he could’ve been convinced that they were innocent endearments, like how Faraday was fond of calling folks “friend” or “amigo,” but with an explanation like that, he can hardly overlook things.
His pulse pounds in his ears, thunderous and near deafening, and he feels— wrong-footed. Off-balance. Almost light-headed, and isn’t that patently ridiculous, that he feels like he might faint like some delicate, swooning lady. He almost wants to laugh at himself for it, something panicked and helpless, but instead, he leans back against the door, using it to prop himself up.
Faraday drops the key onto the small table by the door, and it clatters dully against the worn wood. He scrubs his face with both hands, but when Vasquez starts to speak again, he glances up between his fingers. Studies him like he sitting across from Faraday at a card table.
Faraday calls him on the lie almost instantly, his voice accusing and annoyed. “Bullshit, Vasquez.”
His hands drop from his face, and he returns Vasquez’s gaze with a hardened, resolved expression. “I already told you not to lie to me.” His jaw clenches briefly, so tightly that he worries his teeth might shatter.
He doesn’t know what to do with this, if he’s honest. He had his suspicions, thought that maybe Vasquez might have flirted with him a bit in the months since the battle in Rose Creek, but Faraday had always assumed he was being absurd. Seeing things that weren’t there. Seeing things he wanted to see—
... Wait. “Wanted to see”?
Shit. What the hell is he thinking?
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Faraday exhales sharply.
“... I don’t know what the hell to say,” he finally admits.
Vasquez digs through his pockets to unearth a cigarette, thinking that he needs something to do to fidget with his hands and his mouth so that he has something that will prevent him from saying anything else stupid. He wishes he were a better liar, but he thinks Faraday knows him too well to let him get away with any of this.
Don't lie. He's not supposed to lie, but if he tells the truth, this is going to start going so much worse and it's already terrible. He takes solace in the cigarette, closing his eyes as he lets himself spend a few minutes enjoying it, before he has to leave.
"You don't have to say anything, just don't shoot me," is his flat response. "You give me an hour, go drink at your tables, and I'll go. I've known this day would come, eventually," he admits, because if he's going to tell the truth, he might as well embrace it completely. One day, Faraday would find out what the words mean, he'd figure out Vasquez, and that would be the end of whatever this is.
It's today, that day, and Vasquez tries not to get so disappointed with himself for being upset. He'd known that this would happen, he'd planned. It's why he's got everything he needs to set out again, back to that lonely, awful life.
"If you are going to shoot me and get the reward, do it now," he says tiredly. "And don't spend all the money on cards and whiskey, I might just haunt you if you did," he says, the dark humour tiding him through the end of this, whatever's left between them. He thinks he knows that Faraday won't shoot him, but you never know what a man is capable of after he finds out that you want him in such ways.
That request startles the hell out of him, and Faraday straightens, hand dropping away from his face.
“Why the hell would I—?”
Faraday cuts himself off, and for a second, he looks insulted, glaring at Vasquez like the man had just punched him across the face. After all this time, after everything they’d gone through together, and Vasquez honestly thinks Faraday would throw all of that aside for a quick chunk of cash? His jaw clenches again, and he rocks back more firmly against the door – a strong indicator that he’s acting as a barrier between Vasquez and a quick escape.
“I’m not gonna shoot you, you goddamn idiot,” he grits out, and Faraday can hardly believe how angered he is by the suggestion. Something dark writhes in his chest at the very thought of it – something that he might recognize as a long-buried sense of protectiveness in a better moment – but Faraday tries to ignore it. “And you don’t get to go nowhere till we talk about this.”
Except, by his own admission, Faraday hardly knows what to say, nor does he know where to start, and with that command out of the way, he realizes hasn’t a single clue where to go from there. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with it, and he licks his lips, studying Vasquez as if that might spark some sort of inspiration. He flounders for a few seconds, eyes searching the other man.
Slowly, he starts, “How long have you...” But he winces at the phrasing, realizes he doesn’t know how to end that question except with had feelings for me? And it feels too— flowery, too maudlin. Faraday has never been a sentimental man – there’s little room for it in the type of life he leads – and asking it in such a manner feels disingenuous.
So he corrects himself and asks, “How long has it been?”
He feels like squirming against the edge of the bed, his whole bearing uncomfortable because he doesn't want to talk about any of this. He wants to run away. It's always been his greatest instinct when it comes to things he doesn't want to talk about, but Faraday isn't letting him because he's right in the middle of him and the outside world. He can't go anywhere, the thought making him a little dizzy as the blood drains from his brain.
"It was a joke," is his hollow echo, because he's fairly sure that Faraday wouldn't actually shoot him. Other things, though, like violence is what he's not so sure about. Not all men would react well to being told what Vasquez has just let slip.
Well, he didn't let it slip. Some little bartender had, though if not for him, it would have been someone else. Letting the cigarette rest against his lower lip, he gestures vaguely with his other hand, like he can somehow force this to be casual. "I don't know," he admits, which is true.
He can't actually look back and put a time and a day to this. He remembers that his fondness had started even in Rose Creek before the fight, when guero had become guerito. He'd looked to spend more time with Faraday, had tried to steal as many moments as he could. Was it then? He's not sure, but he can start to see how it began to stack up after. He can remember his eagerness to put hands on Faraday to heal him, to stay close and hear his terrible stories and his worse jokes.
How long has Faraday been healing at his side? Since then, he thinks.
"Months," is his hoarse reply, breathing in his exhaled smoke ring and capturing it back. Shrugging again, like he can continue to make this casual and not important. "Faraday," he's half ready to plead, ready to bargain. "I'll stop with the names, it can go back to how it was before. You won't notice a difference," he vows, because as much as it will ache and hurt, he can go back to treating Faraday as nothing more than a friend and turn every querido into a pendejo.
Maybe after all this, he's going to end up revisiting Josiah after all and not just for the drink he so desperately needs, depending on how well he thinks that could mend his broken edges.
“Months?” and Faraday echoes it back faintly, dazedly, and—
Months, which is a vague answer, but it still puts them right back to Rose Creek, when Faraday being an awful patient and snapping at anyone who came too close like cornered feral animal. No one could stand it for very long, least of all Faraday, but somehow, Vasquez endured it. Somehow, Vasquez became a near permanent fixture in Faraday’s room and sat at his side even during the darker turns of Faraday’s mood or while Faraday suffered through fevers and blinding pain. Vasquez had been an anchor through all of it, and—
Faraday never did thank Vasquez for that, did he? For the constant company, for that bullheaded insistence that he keep an eye on Faraday. Faraday never expressed how grateful he was for it, or how much he secretly enjoyed it, even as he groused and complained and protested Vasquez’s eternal fussing, his constant use of his mother tongue, and his awful jokes at Faraday’s expense.
His stomach twists, and his chest tightens a little, punching the air out of him. He watches Vasquez try to slip into that air of nonchalance, tries to pretend this is nothing, and it sparks something ugly and mean in Faraday. He scowls.
“Shut up,” he growls.
He scrubs at his face again, pushing away from the door at last, but this time it’s to pace the space in front of it as an outlet for that nervous energy building up within him. It’s a few passes in front of the door before he finally halts, facing Vasquez again.
“Were you ever gonna say?” he asks sharply, annoyance and anger to mask the confusion and the uncertainty knotting in his gut. He waves in the vague direction of the tavern across the way. “Or were you just gonna wait till I found out secondhand from some poor, random bastard, unlucky enough to get caught up in the crossfire?”
"Months," Vasquez confirms, because the truth is that it has been months where he'd started to process everything that he'd been feeling, watching as it distilled into crystallized feelings where he understood that yes, he wanted Faraday in so many ways. When Faraday snaps at him, his back straightens, shocked by the tone and the emphasis behind it.
The worst of all of this happens when Faraday asks what he does. He's promised not to lie, but if that's the case, then he's not sure that he can say anything but this: "No, I was never going to tell you," he says, with so much clarity of how bad an idea that was going to be.
He'd tried poking and prodding at Faraday to see if there was interest in return, but he'd always stopped short. He never flirted back really, never showed any special attention, and while he treated Vasquez as a friend, it had only been that. With that in mind, he knew now to make any declarations, lest he get his head shot off.
Or snapped at and stomped around, seeing as that's what's happening. "I thought maybe that when you did find out from someone, you wouldn't find out about the other things," he mumbles, putting out his cigarette when the fidgeting is only distracting him.
That he would only find out about the nicknames, not Vasquez's feelings. Dios, his stomach twists to see the way Faraday looks so furious, all because of Vasquez being an idiot. "In truth, no. No, if I could have my way, I would have let that secret tide me to the grave to preserve our friendship." That's what matters the most, after all.
In a surprising show of patience, Faraday waits for Vasquez to share his piece, though he goes right back to pacing like a caged animal. The heels of his boots clunk dully against the wooden slats, filling the silence between Vasquez’s words. He scowls briefly, once Vasquez admits that he would have gladly kept his trap shut about all this. Faraday knew Vasquez slipped into his native tongue to annoy Faraday, to say things so he wouldn’t understand, of course, but he had always figured it was because Vasquez was being an asshole, not because he was hiding something as big as all this.
It's the mention of their friendship that finally halts Faraday’s pacing, that finally makes him stop and think, and his anger gutters and dims – though it doesn’t entirely fade. He falls quiet, still as a statue as his mind races.
He supposes he can’t blame the other man, all things considered. The two of them were lonely – though Faraday would never admit as much aloud – and they found unlikely company in one another. And who would have thought with the way they met, the two of them would become friendly with one another, much less friends? But— that’s what they are now, and even if Faraday had always figured it would end one day, either because Vasquez got sick of the company or because Faraday did or said something particularly senseless to drive the other man off, he hadn’t figured it would end because of something like this.
That something twists in his chest again, something he partially recognizes as panic, but there’s a note of something else, there, too. Something sweet and warm and fluttery, and he can’t put a name to it.
Faraday is confused and angry, and he’s startled to realize it’s not because of this, not because of— whatever feelings Vasquez may have for him (and Faraday would be the first to tell the other man that those feelings aree frankly ill-advised, that he was better off with someone, anyone, else). He’s angry because Vasquez would keep him in the dark for this long, would never say, and it’s the shock of it all that’s left him in this state.
“I’m mad that you lied to me, you dumb bastard,” he finally grits out – which was rich, coming from Faraday, who dealt in half-truths and tall-tales most hours of the day. Faraday shakes his head sharply, before giving Vasquez a flat, unimpressed look.
“You been callin’ me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darlin’’ and ‘dear,’ and you honestly thought I wouldn’t put it all together? How stupid do you think I am?”
Every time Faraday gets a decent distance from the door, Vasquez judges it like he's going to try and make an escape attempt. He could always decide to burst through the window and run, but he thinks that would call attention to himself in ways he's trying to avoid. Not to mention, he's an idiot willing to sit here and listen to Faraday be mad at him, maybe because he knows it's his due.
He's the one who's made this bed, now he has to lie in it. "I didn't lie to you," he snaps, leveraging himself onto his feet. Not for the first time, he wishes he were taller than Faraday by more than a few inches, because he wants to loom and intimidate, but Faraday is nearly of a height. Yanking at his hat and shoving it on the table, he gives him a disbelieving look. "Not telling you is not lying," he snaps.
He doesn't make a crack about how stupid he thinks Faraday can be sometimes, because they're not joking anymore.
"What the fuck do you want me to say? No, I didn't think you'd put it all together because I'm better at hiding it," he says, irritated that he's started to slip and get too comfortable. He's already thinking about all the things that will slip away from him, how he won't be able to help with Faraday's leg anymore, how sleeping at night will grow awkward, and he feels his stomach churning as he realizes that it is for the best that they part ways. "Don't call me dumb," he hisses at him. "How many women do you call sweetheart and darling," he challenges. "Hmm? I know you do, I've heard it. Unless you mean something when you use it? So why should my words be different?"
He's acting like they aren't, but he's heatedly arguing now, because he wants to believe that the truth could've come out without ruining everything the way it has.
“You sure as hell haven’t been tellin’ me the truth!” Faraday snaps back, heedless of the way his voice rises. He refuses to be cowed once Vasquez gets to his feet – in fact, Faraday draws himself to his full height, expression nearly thunderous with his irritation. “You’ve been sidesteppin’ me, changin’ the subject, tellin’ me all that shit don’t matter when it obviously does.”
If it didn’t, then they wouldn’t be having this argument. If it didn’t, then Vasquez would be laughing at how completely gullible Faraday is, would be teasing and joking about how Faraday is jumping to wild conclusions instead of arguing right back.
When Vasquez tries to turn the tables on him, Faraday scowls. “You damn well know that’s different.”
Because as Vasquez is suggesting, that’s all meaningless, empty flirtation, things that slipped easily from Faraday’s lips with hardly a thought. They were practically part of his regular vocabulary. Vasquez, on the other hand, didn’t call anyone else by those names back at Rose Creek – at least, never that Faraday heard. In fact, Faraday had always been the focal point of those foreign nicknames. Guero, first, then guerito, and initially, Faraday had taken offense to the treatment – up until he recognized a note of fondness in Vasquez’s voice whenever he cast them out.
It was an easier pill to swallow after that, thanks to the way something curled in Faraday’s chest for it, warm and sweet.
Maybe back at the saloon, immediately after Josiah had translated those words, Faraday could have been led to believe that Vasquez had intended the same as Faraday would have, if he were using the endearments. If Vasquez had come out of the kitchen with that easy smile of his, that little chuckle and a good-natured insult, he could have convinced Faraday that he meant nothing by the nicknames.
But in Faraday’s experience, Vasquez has never been able to bluff worth a damn.
Instead, Vasquez had reacted like a man being led to the gallows. Guilty and heavy and full of regret. He had followed Faraday back to the inn, shamefaced and mortified, offering to leave, and—
Faraday had been too insulted by Vasquez implying he might shoot the other man for all of this, too busy covering his confusion with anger. Otherwise, he might have recognized the dread that had plummeted in his gut like a heavy stone at the thought of Vasquez leaving him behind.
Vasquez wishes that Faraday weren't being so right when it comes to this argument. True, he hadn't been lying, but he definitely had been holding back the truth because of what it would do to them. Even now, he hates that the truth came out because it means that everything that had been going so well has to change.
It does matter to him and it matters so incredibly much. That's the worst part of this. Somewhere along the line, Faraday became the most important thing in Vasquez's life, someone that he feels responsible for in a way that it doesn't scare him to have him like that.
It only scares him now to know he's about to lose it.
"Fine, it's different," he agrees, bitterly. "I'm saying that you could have found out the words without finding out the rest." It feels like he's been cut open and all of his secrets are spilling out in front of him, making him feel aching and awful. Maybe this is why he hasn't allowed himself to get close to anyone before, because when it all comes to an end, it's worse than being shot.
He can't even bring himself to call Faraday guero now, when it had been so easy to do before. "Cógeme," he breathes out, exhausted and aching. "I need a drink." He rubs a hand over his face, giving Faraday a tired look when he pulls it away. "I won't apologize," he says stubbornly. "I can't stop it, but I'll put space between us. I think maybe it's impossible now to go back to what was before." It will definitely hurt more to have to pretend and Faraday isn't so keen on the lying and the pretending.
"What does it matter that it matters?" he demands, but most of the anger has bled out of him, replaced by hollow certainty. "I know you, Faraday," he says, more of an accusation than it could be. "I know what life you like. Your red lipstick cheeks, your perfumed Henrietta, your Ethel," he lists. "That's what matters to you, so what I want, what I think or feel, it means that this..." He gestures between them, to signify their friendship, their partnership, whatever they want to call it. "It can't be any more. I can't do it," he admits, and maybe that's the most honest he's been so far.
It's not just about the awkwardness between them.
Vasquez has to confront the fact that he also can't keep watching Faraday go about the flirting and what he likes without it driving him crazy.
The accusation makes him freeze, and he looks up at Vasquez. That uncertainty writhing like an ugly, wounded creature in his chest, and it stands naked on his face.
He enjoys his women, sure; enjoys soft hands and softer lips. Living the life he leads means he’s often left starved for a kind, gentle touch – especially because, more often than not, the physical contact he tends to otherwise attract are fists to the face or the gut. But that ache hasn’t been so sharp, these days; he hasn’t longed for that kind of attention in a long while, hasn’t felt that particular ache since they left Rose Creek, when before, it would hit him like a physical blow.
It matters – of course it matters &dnash; but Faraday can hardly say why. Maybe it’s because he hates being left in the dark, or maybe it’s because he hates the idea of being lied to for all this time. It’s like playing without a full deck, like playing blind.
Or maybe it’s because it rouses something warm and sweet and frantic in him, and he doesn’t have a name for it, hardly knows what it means. And the lack of knowing makes him nervous.
That almost broken quality of Vasquez’s voice makes something bitter churn in Faraday’s gut, and Faraday swallows thickly, licking his lips.
“What’s that mean?” he asks sharply, dread clawing at the back of his sternum. “What are you sayin’? You’re not— you’re not plannin’ on goin’, are you?”
He hates to even think it, but Vasquez doesn't see how this works otherwise. It's uncomfortable for Faraday because now he knows how Vasquez has been lying. It's terrible for Vasquez because he'll stay jealous and now he won't even get his pet names and his touches. It's a miserable life he's seeing in his future, but it's the one that's safest for all of them.
"Maybe I'll go back, find Sam so I don't have to go back into hiding," he admits dully, because he can't do that either, not now that traveling with Faraday has given him a taste of what freedom on the road's been like.
Maybe he can develop another personality, another face, stay in a small town and create a new identity. Then again, didn't Powder Dan try and do exactly this? It would only work for so long, so Sam is the best bet, if he'd take him on.
"I can't stay, Faraday," he says, shaking his head at the whole idea. He hasn't used an endearment since this fight broke out and it feels like they're clawing to get out, but he needs to learn now, more than ever, to stop saying them. He won't get to again. "I'm too jealous. You're very uncomfortable. It's no good."
He wants to step forward, clasp Faraday by the shoulder and tell him that he's sorry that he fucked it all up. He is, but only for that. It's hard to believe that only a few hours ago, he'd been so happy to ride into town and have a nice comfortable bed and --
Vasquez glances over his shoulder to the bed, flashing Faraday a tired smile. "Take the room, it's yours," he says, returning to pick up his hat and set it back on his head, hooking his holsters back onto his hips before heading to the door. His things are still in the saddlebag that he hoists up off the floor slowly, gripping the strap in his unsteady fingers (hidden by how tightly he holds it). "If I can't find Sam, I'll go back to Rose Creek."
He nods, thinking that he's got a plan and it involves running away. No surprises there, but at least it's better than facing the mess that he's caused, letting himself let someone in the way he did.
Faraday stares stupidly as Vasquez moves around the room, as he speaks, as he formulates a plan of attack, and—
For the second time today, Faraday feels like the ground has opened up beneath him, like he’s falling and falling and falling, with no end in sight, and—
He has no idea what to do.
He’s only half-listening to Vasquez’s words, the majority of them drowned out by the way his pulse pounds in his ears, roaring and echoing, but he catches the gist of it. Vasquez is leaving. Vasquez is leaving, and Faraday knew this day would come eventually, but not now. It feels like they’ve only just set out together; Faraday expected them to part ways some weeks or months down the line, but not this soon.
Once Vasquez lifts up his saddlebags, Faraday snaps back to himself, like he’s blinking awake after dozing off, and he straightens, putting his back to the door.
“No.”
The word tears itself from his throat, escapes on a barely voiced rasp; he hardly realizes he’s said it until its fallen from his lips, but— well, he sure as hell isn’t taking it back.
(But what he really wants to say is Don’t go.)
“Hell, Vasquez. It’s been all of ten minutes of—” And he falters for the right word, the right phrasing. “—of me... knowing. We haven’t even tried.”
When Faraday backs into the door and blocks his way out, panic and a haze of impulse floods him for the briefest of seconds when he thinks about stupid things like trying to wrestle him away from it, knocking him unconscious, and all other kinds of stupid ideas. Luckily, it clears quickly enough, even if his gut is twisting up, wrenched by the bad idea of all of this.
"What, I get no say in this?" he snaps at him, irritably, as he narrows his eyes at Faraday, wondering why he's not allowed to do what he wants (even though this isn't what he wants, but it will be the best in the long run).
Disbelief is dominant on his face as he scoffs. "I don't want to sit around a campfire miserably waiting while you flirt with the women in towns I can't go into, some pathetic idiota enamorado and eventually left when you find something better because now you don't want to come back."
It had been so much better when Faraday had been in the dark and none of this was a problem for them.
"You're not going to let me help with your pain," he points out. "Because now you'll see my hands on you differently. Every time I tease you now, you're saying you don't flinch, won't look away?" He shakes his head, having convinced himself of the certainty of this future in his mind. "Tried what? Tried that? You didn't even want to talk about the dream I had last night, now you're going to be okay knowing all this? Having it in your face? No eres tan estúpido, you know that won't work."
Something sinks in his gut again, because Vasquez has something of a point. This— thing between them is going to color their interactions, their conversations. And he has a point, that the dream Vasquez had had last night had been awkward as hell, had made something tangle in Faraday’s chest, uncertain of how to proceed, but—
“That— that was different,” he insists again, and he feels color rising up his neck, coloring his cheeks, as he stumbles over his words. “That was— I thought you were— I didn’t think—”
He had assumed – wrongly, apparently – that Vasquez would have appreciated Faraday saving him the embarrassment of having to explain himself, would have appreciated Faraday’s rare instance of discretion. Dreams were hardly indicators of reality, anyway. Just because a man dreamed he had the head of a horse didn’t mean that’s what he wanted, and Faraday had imagined it was the same sort of situation, here.
He shakes his head sharply, frustrated and redirecting his focus.
“Stop doing that,” he snaps, once Vasquez slips into his native tongue again. “Talk so I can understand it, damn it.”
A silly thing to focus on, but far easier than the wild, snapping creature whose shadow has fallen over them.
Faraday still isn't moving away and he's stammering so much that Vasquez knows that he's right. He's also getting to the point of embarrassment and frustration that he's rounding up on being an asshole of big proportions, stepping a little further so that he's in Faraday's space, gearing up for a fight.
"You didn't think, not a surprise," he tells him, sneering. "You want for me to speak English? Fine," he snaps, even though the Spanish had been because in his heightened state of emotion, Spanish is just easier for him to fall back on, but if Faraday wants all of the truth, then he can have it all.
Let him flush and stammer and feel awkward around him, if he's going to demand it, then Vasquez is happy to keep going down this awful, endless track. "I said that I don't want to sit around like a lovesick idiot while you flirt with your women," he says, pushing at Faraday's shoulder to push him against the door, wanting to get out of this room. "That you're not so stupid to think that everything can go on the same." Another push and he cocks his head to the side, challenging. "That you'll sit there and let your leg lock up, stop joking with me, that's what should be your future?"
He wants to push and push, make Faraday snap and see the point -- this can't work and the sooner they both understand it, the sooner they can deal with the separation, the sooner Vasquez can go lick his wounds and mend his heart.
"Let me out," he says, low and sharp. "I want out of this fucking room," he says, breathing out the profanity like he's exhausted. "I need a drink."
Each word that passes through Vasquez’s lips feels like a blow, like the sharp, ripping lash of a whip. Even back at Rose Creek, when the two of them were circling one another like wary, starved dogs, Vasquez had never spoken to him like this.
It hurts, in a way, even if it’s hardly the harshest thing anyone has ever said to him. But as with most things, it just serves to stoke Faraday’s ire, making his expression darken and darken until his jaw clenches so tightly he thinks his teeth might shatter with it. He bears each of Vasquez’s shoves with surprising composure, even if his fingers reflexively twitch for the reassuring weight of his revolvers – but they’re just talking. Just talking. And even with as angry as the two of them are, snapping and snarling, Faraday isn’t about to go for his guns.
They’re friends, after all.
Or... were friends, and the thought is yet another blow to the gut.
He takes breath after steadying breath, trying to swallow down the anger rising up his throat like bile.
“If I let you out,” he says slowly, with a patience he hardly feels but seems able to mimic a little effectively. “I don’t trust that you’re not gonna run off.”
And it hangs silently in the air between them, the words he doesn’t speak: I don’t want you to go.
Selfish of him, he knows, but Faraday has always been a selfish bastard.
He needs to keep swinging, keep pushing, twisting the knife until Faraday sees the blood and decides that it's a lost cause, no matter how much it tears him apart to do this. He keeps staying right where he is, he doesn't even push back when Vasquez pushes at him. That had been his first hope for escape, thinking maybe if he could bait Faraday into a fistfight, he could scramble his way out.
Then, instead of arguing back or shouting, he just speaks calmly and patiently. Gaping at him with disbelief, Vasquez wonders what the hell has changed to make him so mature and calm.
Without meaning to, he sags a little in the shoulders, not taking his eyes off Faraday. "I'm not going to go," he vows, even if Faraday won't believe him. "I'm just going to go back to the saloon and drink until I pass out." He can't just go, not yet, he just doesn't want to be stuck in this room.
Now that the anger has ebbed slightly, Vasquez sees how close he is to Faraday, how intimately close. Stepping back, he swallows back other words, ones that are cruel and aimed to hurt.
"Why do you care so much that I stay?" he asks, because maybe that's the answer he really needs, before he can make a decision about what happens next.
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"What is it you need translations for?" There's a look on his face that seems to anticipate that it'll be insults.
Josiah does seem to tense a little, like he already suspects the words Faraday wants translated are more than that.
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There’s not time enough to parse it out right now, though, considering Vasquez can be back at any moment, or that Josiah could decide to chase after him or return to tending the bar. So Faraday keeps his relaxed, easy grin on his face, head tilting slightly.
“Just a few words,” he repeats, and he readjusts his hand, ticking off the words with his fingers as he goes. “Querido. Cariño. Nene. Know what they mean?”
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Some friend, is the clear thought that's running through his mind. "Darling. Dear. Sweetheart. Baby." The response is flat, with no emotion in his eyes. What little geniality he might have had has evaporated now that he has to give these translations.
Of course, whatever Josiah is feeling soon will become eclipsed. Vasquez has finished with the dishes, having stalled as long as he can, but he's on his way back when he hears Josiah speak in a hollow tone. "Must be someone pretty fond of you, if they're using endearments like that."
There's little to no guessing about what they're talking about, which gives Vasquez only a few options. He makes sure they can hear him coming with the drag of his boots, forcing himself to ignore his fear about what's coming next, deciding that it can't blow up in his face if he doesn't look at Faraday.
"Everything is clean," he says. "Thank you for the food," he says to Josiah, warmth in his voice despite the half-murderous look on his face for deciding to go and translate all those words for Faraday. He digs out a few coins to leave on the table, heart racing and head pounding as he tries to figure out his best route of escape -- get to the horse, load up, ride before he can get shot. Or maybe if he gets back to the room at the inn, there will be too many around for anything to happen. "I'm tired," is what he says, gesturing with little energy for the key. "I want to go lie down. Give me the key?"
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But the instant Josiah offers that explanation, Faraday’s expression goes slack, eyes wide and lips parting with surprise. To anyone else, it might be funny how he suddenly looks as though he’s been struck – hell, if he saw anyone looking the way he does right now, Faraday would likely howl with laughter – but there’s hardly anything funny about this, he thinks.
The truth is, Faraday doesn’t know how he feels, except like the ground has suddenly opened beneath him, and he’s spinning and falling reeling with nothing to latch onto.
Even with Vasquez making his reentrance obvious, Faraday still jumps a little when he arrives, startled like a child caught stealing sweets. He ought to thank Josiah for his assistance, just for the sake of politeness, but Faraday has completely forgotten the bartender is even there, focused as he is on Vasquez.
For a long moment, Faraday gapes at Vasquez like he’s a complete stranger – and at this point, he might as well be, for as how thoroughly turned around as Faraday’s feeling. His request for the key goes unanswered for a long moment, the words sitting atop Faraday’s mind like oil on water. When the question finally sinks in, Faraday slowly reaches for the key in his pocket, fingers wrapping around the warmed metal in a near boneless grasp.
He starts to reach across the table to hand it over, but instead, he draws it close to himself, gripping it a little more tightly. He licks his lips, trying desperately to find his voice.
“I think I’ll go with you,” Faraday croaks out – apparently he found his voice in a brittle, hollow state, given how he sounds. But now that he’s made the decision, Faraday lurches to his feet, his chair’s legs squealing and clattering as they scrape across the wooden floor.
The noise startles him out of his stupor, at least a little, and when he comes back to himself, he stares hard at Vasquez. And in a tone that brooks no argument, he says, “You and me are overdue for a talk.”
And with that, he turns to head back to the inn, expecting Vasquez to follow.
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His cowardly instincts tell him to run when Faraday's back is to him, but he'll never make it out of town like that without calling attention to himself and between an uncomfortable ending of a friendship and being shot in the back, he'll still take the former.
Trudging towards the inn as slowly as he can, Vasquez chides himself mentally. He should have known this day would come, because he couldn't make himself shut up when it had come to those stupid nicknames for Faraday. He'd hidden behind the Spanish as he let his affections flow freely, hidden under a thin guise. It's time to face the consequences of this, but he has to wonder if the translations haven't unearthed everything else.
All those things that Faraday hadn't been seeing because he wasn't looking -- Vasquez's jealousy, his willingness to get his hands on him to help, the pathetic way he stares at him in the embers of a fire. Smarter men would keep a hand on their gun, but Vasquez feels chastised and guilty, but not ashamed and not regretful. While Faraday knows now, Vasquez wouldn't change anything. Shame it has to come to an end like this.
Ignoring the woman at the inn when he arrives, ten steps behind Faraday, he takes the stairs and follows him into the room where he makes a point of unclipping his gun belt and setting it on the table. It's a deliberate showing, a pointed gesture that says he's an unarmed man. From there, he sinks down to sit on the corner of the bed, burying his head in his hands while he waits for Faraday to start shouting.
"So?" he prompts, hoarse and wanting to get this over with. "You said we needed to talk. Let's talk."
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They leave the saloon, and as they do, Faraday thinks back on the past few months, tries to remember the first time he had heard querido – “darling”? – pass from Vasquez’s lips. He tries to think, tries to understand what that all means. They were all endearments, and all this time he thought they were insults, teasing nicknames. And suddenly things start clicking into place like laying down lines of train track – Vasquez’s strange bout of jealousy yesterday after seeing the smear of lipstick and rouge on Faraday’s cheek. Why he occasionally looked so uncertain when Faraday asked after what those words meant. Why the other man has managed to tolerate Faraday’s presence all this time, when most men would have left Faraday behind in the dust.
Why Vasquez was moaning Faraday’s name in his sleep, last night.
All that talk of loneliness. All that talk of things having changed. All that talk of love.
Jesus wept. For all that Faraday pats himself on the back for his insights, he couldn’t have missed all of this anymore even if he goddamn tried. Something twists in his chest, nervous and agitated, and his stomach flips.
When he makes his way to the inn, he does so automatically, hardly seeing the other folks on the street or the old, crabby proprietor of the inn. He hardly registers the climb up the stairs. He unlocks the door himself, sure, but he only seems to realize he’s done so once he hears dull thud of Vasquez’s gun holsters touching down on the table.
In fact, he’s still standing at the entrance, grasping the handle like a lifeline, before he slowly, deliberately, shuts the door behind them. For a long while, he faces the door, taking at least a dozen rallying breaths, before turning to face Vasquez properly, where the other man has folded in on himself on the edge of the bed. Faraday twists the key in his hands, just for a small outlet for the strange, nervous energy bubbling in him; he hardly realizes he’s blocking Vasquez’s primary exit. Vasquez prompts him to speak, and Faraday—
... well. For once, words escape him.
Faraday is confused. He’s reeling. He feels himself teetering on the edge of some dark drop, where a single, solid blow might send him straight over.
He licks his lips, keeping his gaze focused on Vasquez, even if the other man won’t look at him.
“Tell me what they mean,” he finally demands, his voice hoarse and thick. Josiah may have given him the answers already, but he needs to hear it from Vasquez. “Cariño. Querido. Nene.” His pronunciation is far from perfect, the vowels bending with his accent, but it’s a little more precise than his usual attempts. “And don’t you dare lie to me this time.”
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Instead of leaving, though, he closes the door and it sounds like the loudest gunshot. There's a finality to that because now they have to talk, now Vasquez can't leave unless he does something rash and stupid like try and knock out Faraday. For all that Vasquez might be a little taller, he has nothing on Faraday's weight, so he doesn't think that he could do that without the element of surprise.
Then, that question. When Vasquez laughs, it's empty and hollow. It's the sound of a man who's been caught and knows he has to face the noose. He can't even lie, because Josiah has proven himself to be a quick mind with his Spanish -- his pronunciations clear, his comfort evident. Of course Faraday had been holding onto those words, and of course Josiah had translated, because the hijo di puta probably didn't want to say anything that might make Vasquez annoyed. Look how that's backfired.
Breathing in slowly, he can feel the way his stomach roils with wariness, not to mention the ache of his heart pounding so hard. He doesn't act like an asshole (even though he could) and point out that he's never actually lied to Faraday. He just never answered him properly when he'd asked for translations.
"When I call you cariño, it's something like honey or sweetheart. Dear. Querido, it's something of the same. Darling." He's not speaking to Faraday while he says this, but the wooden slats of the floor where he can hear the sounds of the downstairs filtering through. "Nene is...it's the same as the others, but more personal," he admits. For all that he'd used those words sometimes to tease and to taunt, he can't hide behind them anymore.
He'd used them with sincerity, happy that he could until now, when he cannot hide anymore behind the Spanish and Faraday knows what Vasquez has been saying all this time. He should apologize, but he doesn't feel sorry for saying them, only sorry that he got caught.
"Faraday," he gets out, trying to sound casual and light, starting a campaign to convince him that it means nothing (even though to him, it means everything, but he's willing to lie to keep what he's got). "It's nothing," he vows. "Really," he promises, finally looking up once he thinks he can maintain eye contact. "I was just poking fun, that's all," he swears, even though he knows that his argument can be knocked down as easy as a house of cards.
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His pulse pounds in his ears, thunderous and near deafening, and he feels— wrong-footed. Off-balance. Almost light-headed, and isn’t that patently ridiculous, that he feels like he might faint like some delicate, swooning lady. He almost wants to laugh at himself for it, something panicked and helpless, but instead, he leans back against the door, using it to prop himself up.
Faraday drops the key onto the small table by the door, and it clatters dully against the worn wood. He scrubs his face with both hands, but when Vasquez starts to speak again, he glances up between his fingers. Studies him like he sitting across from Faraday at a card table.
Faraday calls him on the lie almost instantly, his voice accusing and annoyed. “Bullshit, Vasquez.”
His hands drop from his face, and he returns Vasquez’s gaze with a hardened, resolved expression. “I already told you not to lie to me.” His jaw clenches briefly, so tightly that he worries his teeth might shatter.
He doesn’t know what to do with this, if he’s honest. He had his suspicions, thought that maybe Vasquez might have flirted with him a bit in the months since the battle in Rose Creek, but Faraday had always assumed he was being absurd. Seeing things that weren’t there. Seeing things he wanted to see—
... Wait. “Wanted to see”?
Shit. What the hell is he thinking?
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Faraday exhales sharply.
“... I don’t know what the hell to say,” he finally admits.
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Don't lie. He's not supposed to lie, but if he tells the truth, this is going to start going so much worse and it's already terrible. He takes solace in the cigarette, closing his eyes as he lets himself spend a few minutes enjoying it, before he has to leave.
"You don't have to say anything, just don't shoot me," is his flat response. "You give me an hour, go drink at your tables, and I'll go. I've known this day would come, eventually," he admits, because if he's going to tell the truth, he might as well embrace it completely. One day, Faraday would find out what the words mean, he'd figure out Vasquez, and that would be the end of whatever this is.
It's today, that day, and Vasquez tries not to get so disappointed with himself for being upset. He'd known that this would happen, he'd planned. It's why he's got everything he needs to set out again, back to that lonely, awful life.
"If you are going to shoot me and get the reward, do it now," he says tiredly. "And don't spend all the money on cards and whiskey, I might just haunt you if you did," he says, the dark humour tiding him through the end of this, whatever's left between them. He thinks he knows that Faraday won't shoot him, but you never know what a man is capable of after he finds out that you want him in such ways.
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“Why the hell would I—?”
Faraday cuts himself off, and for a second, he looks insulted, glaring at Vasquez like the man had just punched him across the face. After all this time, after everything they’d gone through together, and Vasquez honestly thinks Faraday would throw all of that aside for a quick chunk of cash? His jaw clenches again, and he rocks back more firmly against the door – a strong indicator that he’s acting as a barrier between Vasquez and a quick escape.
“I’m not gonna shoot you, you goddamn idiot,” he grits out, and Faraday can hardly believe how angered he is by the suggestion. Something dark writhes in his chest at the very thought of it – something that he might recognize as a long-buried sense of protectiveness in a better moment – but Faraday tries to ignore it. “And you don’t get to go nowhere till we talk about this.”
Except, by his own admission, Faraday hardly knows what to say, nor does he know where to start, and with that command out of the way, he realizes hasn’t a single clue where to go from there. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with it, and he licks his lips, studying Vasquez as if that might spark some sort of inspiration. He flounders for a few seconds, eyes searching the other man.
Slowly, he starts, “How long have you...” But he winces at the phrasing, realizes he doesn’t know how to end that question except with had feelings for me? And it feels too— flowery, too maudlin. Faraday has never been a sentimental man – there’s little room for it in the type of life he leads – and asking it in such a manner feels disingenuous.
So he corrects himself and asks, “How long has it been?”
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"It was a joke," is his hollow echo, because he's fairly sure that Faraday wouldn't actually shoot him. Other things, though, like violence is what he's not so sure about. Not all men would react well to being told what Vasquez has just let slip.
Well, he didn't let it slip. Some little bartender had, though if not for him, it would have been someone else. Letting the cigarette rest against his lower lip, he gestures vaguely with his other hand, like he can somehow force this to be casual. "I don't know," he admits, which is true.
He can't actually look back and put a time and a day to this. He remembers that his fondness had started even in Rose Creek before the fight, when guero had become guerito. He'd looked to spend more time with Faraday, had tried to steal as many moments as he could. Was it then? He's not sure, but he can start to see how it began to stack up after. He can remember his eagerness to put hands on Faraday to heal him, to stay close and hear his terrible stories and his worse jokes.
How long has Faraday been healing at his side? Since then, he thinks.
"Months," is his hoarse reply, breathing in his exhaled smoke ring and capturing it back. Shrugging again, like he can continue to make this casual and not important. "Faraday," he's half ready to plead, ready to bargain. "I'll stop with the names, it can go back to how it was before. You won't notice a difference," he vows, because as much as it will ache and hurt, he can go back to treating Faraday as nothing more than a friend and turn every querido into a pendejo.
Maybe after all this, he's going to end up revisiting Josiah after all and not just for the drink he so desperately needs, depending on how well he thinks that could mend his broken edges.
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Months, which is a vague answer, but it still puts them right back to Rose Creek, when Faraday being an awful patient and snapping at anyone who came too close like cornered feral animal. No one could stand it for very long, least of all Faraday, but somehow, Vasquez endured it. Somehow, Vasquez became a near permanent fixture in Faraday’s room and sat at his side even during the darker turns of Faraday’s mood or while Faraday suffered through fevers and blinding pain. Vasquez had been an anchor through all of it, and—
Faraday never did thank Vasquez for that, did he? For the constant company, for that bullheaded insistence that he keep an eye on Faraday. Faraday never expressed how grateful he was for it, or how much he secretly enjoyed it, even as he groused and complained and protested Vasquez’s eternal fussing, his constant use of his mother tongue, and his awful jokes at Faraday’s expense.
His stomach twists, and his chest tightens a little, punching the air out of him. He watches Vasquez try to slip into that air of nonchalance, tries to pretend this is nothing, and it sparks something ugly and mean in Faraday. He scowls.
“Shut up,” he growls.
He scrubs at his face again, pushing away from the door at last, but this time it’s to pace the space in front of it as an outlet for that nervous energy building up within him. It’s a few passes in front of the door before he finally halts, facing Vasquez again.
“Were you ever gonna say?” he asks sharply, annoyance and anger to mask the confusion and the uncertainty knotting in his gut. He waves in the vague direction of the tavern across the way. “Or were you just gonna wait till I found out secondhand from some poor, random bastard, unlucky enough to get caught up in the crossfire?”
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The worst of all of this happens when Faraday asks what he does. He's promised not to lie, but if that's the case, then he's not sure that he can say anything but this: "No, I was never going to tell you," he says, with so much clarity of how bad an idea that was going to be.
He'd tried poking and prodding at Faraday to see if there was interest in return, but he'd always stopped short. He never flirted back really, never showed any special attention, and while he treated Vasquez as a friend, it had only been that. With that in mind, he knew now to make any declarations, lest he get his head shot off.
Or snapped at and stomped around, seeing as that's what's happening. "I thought maybe that when you did find out from someone, you wouldn't find out about the other things," he mumbles, putting out his cigarette when the fidgeting is only distracting him.
That he would only find out about the nicknames, not Vasquez's feelings. Dios, his stomach twists to see the way Faraday looks so furious, all because of Vasquez being an idiot. "In truth, no. No, if I could have my way, I would have let that secret tide me to the grave to preserve our friendship." That's what matters the most, after all.
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It's the mention of their friendship that finally halts Faraday’s pacing, that finally makes him stop and think, and his anger gutters and dims – though it doesn’t entirely fade. He falls quiet, still as a statue as his mind races.
He supposes he can’t blame the other man, all things considered. The two of them were lonely – though Faraday would never admit as much aloud – and they found unlikely company in one another. And who would have thought with the way they met, the two of them would become friendly with one another, much less friends? But— that’s what they are now, and even if Faraday had always figured it would end one day, either because Vasquez got sick of the company or because Faraday did or said something particularly senseless to drive the other man off, he hadn’t figured it would end because of something like this.
That something twists in his chest again, something he partially recognizes as panic, but there’s a note of something else, there, too. Something sweet and warm and fluttery, and he can’t put a name to it.
Faraday is confused and angry, and he’s startled to realize it’s not because of this, not because of— whatever feelings Vasquez may have for him (and Faraday would be the first to tell the other man that those feelings aree frankly ill-advised, that he was better off with someone, anyone, else). He’s angry because Vasquez would keep him in the dark for this long, would never say, and it’s the shock of it all that’s left him in this state.
“I’m mad that you lied to me, you dumb bastard,” he finally grits out – which was rich, coming from Faraday, who dealt in half-truths and tall-tales most hours of the day. Faraday shakes his head sharply, before giving Vasquez a flat, unimpressed look.
“You been callin’ me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darlin’’ and ‘dear,’ and you honestly thought I wouldn’t put it all together? How stupid do you think I am?”
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He's the one who's made this bed, now he has to lie in it. "I didn't lie to you," he snaps, leveraging himself onto his feet. Not for the first time, he wishes he were taller than Faraday by more than a few inches, because he wants to loom and intimidate, but Faraday is nearly of a height. Yanking at his hat and shoving it on the table, he gives him a disbelieving look. "Not telling you is not lying," he snaps.
He doesn't make a crack about how stupid he thinks Faraday can be sometimes, because they're not joking anymore.
"What the fuck do you want me to say? No, I didn't think you'd put it all together because I'm better at hiding it," he says, irritated that he's started to slip and get too comfortable. He's already thinking about all the things that will slip away from him, how he won't be able to help with Faraday's leg anymore, how sleeping at night will grow awkward, and he feels his stomach churning as he realizes that it is for the best that they part ways. "Don't call me dumb," he hisses at him. "How many women do you call sweetheart and darling," he challenges. "Hmm? I know you do, I've heard it. Unless you mean something when you use it? So why should my words be different?"
He's acting like they aren't, but he's heatedly arguing now, because he wants to believe that the truth could've come out without ruining everything the way it has.
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If it didn’t, then they wouldn’t be having this argument. If it didn’t, then Vasquez would be laughing at how completely gullible Faraday is, would be teasing and joking about how Faraday is jumping to wild conclusions instead of arguing right back.
When Vasquez tries to turn the tables on him, Faraday scowls. “You damn well know that’s different.”
Because as Vasquez is suggesting, that’s all meaningless, empty flirtation, things that slipped easily from Faraday’s lips with hardly a thought. They were practically part of his regular vocabulary. Vasquez, on the other hand, didn’t call anyone else by those names back at Rose Creek – at least, never that Faraday heard. In fact, Faraday had always been the focal point of those foreign nicknames. Guero, first, then guerito, and initially, Faraday had taken offense to the treatment – up until he recognized a note of fondness in Vasquez’s voice whenever he cast them out.
It was an easier pill to swallow after that, thanks to the way something curled in Faraday’s chest for it, warm and sweet.
Maybe back at the saloon, immediately after Josiah had translated those words, Faraday could have been led to believe that Vasquez had intended the same as Faraday would have, if he were using the endearments. If Vasquez had come out of the kitchen with that easy smile of his, that little chuckle and a good-natured insult, he could have convinced Faraday that he meant nothing by the nicknames.
But in Faraday’s experience, Vasquez has never been able to bluff worth a damn.
Instead, Vasquez had reacted like a man being led to the gallows. Guilty and heavy and full of regret. He had followed Faraday back to the inn, shamefaced and mortified, offering to leave, and—
Faraday had been too insulted by Vasquez implying he might shoot the other man for all of this, too busy covering his confusion with anger. Otherwise, he might have recognized the dread that had plummeted in his gut like a heavy stone at the thought of Vasquez leaving him behind.
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It does matter to him and it matters so incredibly much. That's the worst part of this. Somewhere along the line, Faraday became the most important thing in Vasquez's life, someone that he feels responsible for in a way that it doesn't scare him to have him like that.
It only scares him now to know he's about to lose it.
"Fine, it's different," he agrees, bitterly. "I'm saying that you could have found out the words without finding out the rest." It feels like he's been cut open and all of his secrets are spilling out in front of him, making him feel aching and awful. Maybe this is why he hasn't allowed himself to get close to anyone before, because when it all comes to an end, it's worse than being shot.
He can't even bring himself to call Faraday guero now, when it had been so easy to do before. "Cógeme," he breathes out, exhausted and aching. "I need a drink." He rubs a hand over his face, giving Faraday a tired look when he pulls it away. "I won't apologize," he says stubbornly. "I can't stop it, but I'll put space between us. I think maybe it's impossible now to go back to what was before." It will definitely hurt more to have to pretend and Faraday isn't so keen on the lying and the pretending.
"What does it matter that it matters?" he demands, but most of the anger has bled out of him, replaced by hollow certainty. "I know you, Faraday," he says, more of an accusation than it could be. "I know what life you like. Your red lipstick cheeks, your perfumed Henrietta, your Ethel," he lists. "That's what matters to you, so what I want, what I think or feel, it means that this..." He gestures between them, to signify their friendship, their partnership, whatever they want to call it. "It can't be any more. I can't do it," he admits, and maybe that's the most honest he's been so far.
It's not just about the awkwardness between them.
Vasquez has to confront the fact that he also can't keep watching Faraday go about the flirting and what he likes without it driving him crazy.
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He enjoys his women, sure; enjoys soft hands and softer lips. Living the life he leads means he’s often left starved for a kind, gentle touch – especially because, more often than not, the physical contact he tends to otherwise attract are fists to the face or the gut. But that ache hasn’t been so sharp, these days; he hasn’t longed for that kind of attention in a long while, hasn’t felt that particular ache since they left Rose Creek, when before, it would hit him like a physical blow.
It matters – of course it matters &dnash; but Faraday can hardly say why. Maybe it’s because he hates being left in the dark, or maybe it’s because he hates the idea of being lied to for all this time. It’s like playing without a full deck, like playing blind.
Or maybe it’s because it rouses something warm and sweet and frantic in him, and he doesn’t have a name for it, hardly knows what it means. And the lack of knowing makes him nervous.
That almost broken quality of Vasquez’s voice makes something bitter churn in Faraday’s gut, and Faraday swallows thickly, licking his lips.
“What’s that mean?” he asks sharply, dread clawing at the back of his sternum. “What are you sayin’? You’re not— you’re not plannin’ on goin’, are you?”
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"Maybe I'll go back, find Sam so I don't have to go back into hiding," he admits dully, because he can't do that either, not now that traveling with Faraday has given him a taste of what freedom on the road's been like.
Maybe he can develop another personality, another face, stay in a small town and create a new identity. Then again, didn't Powder Dan try and do exactly this? It would only work for so long, so Sam is the best bet, if he'd take him on.
"I can't stay, Faraday," he says, shaking his head at the whole idea. He hasn't used an endearment since this fight broke out and it feels like they're clawing to get out, but he needs to learn now, more than ever, to stop saying them. He won't get to again. "I'm too jealous. You're very uncomfortable. It's no good."
He wants to step forward, clasp Faraday by the shoulder and tell him that he's sorry that he fucked it all up. He is, but only for that. It's hard to believe that only a few hours ago, he'd been so happy to ride into town and have a nice comfortable bed and --
Vasquez glances over his shoulder to the bed, flashing Faraday a tired smile. "Take the room, it's yours," he says, returning to pick up his hat and set it back on his head, hooking his holsters back onto his hips before heading to the door. His things are still in the saddlebag that he hoists up off the floor slowly, gripping the strap in his unsteady fingers (hidden by how tightly he holds it). "If I can't find Sam, I'll go back to Rose Creek."
He nods, thinking that he's got a plan and it involves running away. No surprises there, but at least it's better than facing the mess that he's caused, letting himself let someone in the way he did.
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For the second time today, Faraday feels like the ground has opened up beneath him, like he’s falling and falling and falling, with no end in sight, and—
He has no idea what to do.
He’s only half-listening to Vasquez’s words, the majority of them drowned out by the way his pulse pounds in his ears, roaring and echoing, but he catches the gist of it. Vasquez is leaving. Vasquez is leaving, and Faraday knew this day would come eventually, but not now. It feels like they’ve only just set out together; Faraday expected them to part ways some weeks or months down the line, but not this soon.
Once Vasquez lifts up his saddlebags, Faraday snaps back to himself, like he’s blinking awake after dozing off, and he straightens, putting his back to the door.
“No.”
The word tears itself from his throat, escapes on a barely voiced rasp; he hardly realizes he’s said it until its fallen from his lips, but— well, he sure as hell isn’t taking it back.
(But what he really wants to say is Don’t go.)
“Hell, Vasquez. It’s been all of ten minutes of—” And he falters for the right word, the right phrasing. “—of me... knowing. We haven’t even tried.”
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"What, I get no say in this?" he snaps at him, irritably, as he narrows his eyes at Faraday, wondering why he's not allowed to do what he wants (even though this isn't what he wants, but it will be the best in the long run).
Disbelief is dominant on his face as he scoffs. "I don't want to sit around a campfire miserably waiting while you flirt with the women in towns I can't go into, some pathetic idiota enamorado and eventually left when you find something better because now you don't want to come back."
It had been so much better when Faraday had been in the dark and none of this was a problem for them.
"You're not going to let me help with your pain," he points out. "Because now you'll see my hands on you differently. Every time I tease you now, you're saying you don't flinch, won't look away?" He shakes his head, having convinced himself of the certainty of this future in his mind. "Tried what? Tried that? You didn't even want to talk about the dream I had last night, now you're going to be okay knowing all this? Having it in your face? No eres tan estúpido, you know that won't work."
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“That— that was different,” he insists again, and he feels color rising up his neck, coloring his cheeks, as he stumbles over his words. “That was— I thought you were— I didn’t think—”
He had assumed – wrongly, apparently – that Vasquez would have appreciated Faraday saving him the embarrassment of having to explain himself, would have appreciated Faraday’s rare instance of discretion. Dreams were hardly indicators of reality, anyway. Just because a man dreamed he had the head of a horse didn’t mean that’s what he wanted, and Faraday had imagined it was the same sort of situation, here.
He shakes his head sharply, frustrated and redirecting his focus.
“Stop doing that,” he snaps, once Vasquez slips into his native tongue again. “Talk so I can understand it, damn it.”
A silly thing to focus on, but far easier than the wild, snapping creature whose shadow has fallen over them.
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"You didn't think, not a surprise," he tells him, sneering. "You want for me to speak English? Fine," he snaps, even though the Spanish had been because in his heightened state of emotion, Spanish is just easier for him to fall back on, but if Faraday wants all of the truth, then he can have it all.
Let him flush and stammer and feel awkward around him, if he's going to demand it, then Vasquez is happy to keep going down this awful, endless track. "I said that I don't want to sit around like a lovesick idiot while you flirt with your women," he says, pushing at Faraday's shoulder to push him against the door, wanting to get out of this room. "That you're not so stupid to think that everything can go on the same." Another push and he cocks his head to the side, challenging. "That you'll sit there and let your leg lock up, stop joking with me, that's what should be your future?"
He wants to push and push, make Faraday snap and see the point -- this can't work and the sooner they both understand it, the sooner they can deal with the separation, the sooner Vasquez can go lick his wounds and mend his heart.
"Let me out," he says, low and sharp. "I want out of this fucking room," he says, breathing out the profanity like he's exhausted. "I need a drink."
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It hurts, in a way, even if it’s hardly the harshest thing anyone has ever said to him. But as with most things, it just serves to stoke Faraday’s ire, making his expression darken and darken until his jaw clenches so tightly he thinks his teeth might shatter with it. He bears each of Vasquez’s shoves with surprising composure, even if his fingers reflexively twitch for the reassuring weight of his revolvers – but they’re just talking. Just talking. And even with as angry as the two of them are, snapping and snarling, Faraday isn’t about to go for his guns.
They’re friends, after all.
Or... were friends, and the thought is yet another blow to the gut.
He takes breath after steadying breath, trying to swallow down the anger rising up his throat like bile.
“If I let you out,” he says slowly, with a patience he hardly feels but seems able to mimic a little effectively. “I don’t trust that you’re not gonna run off.”
And it hangs silently in the air between them, the words he doesn’t speak: I don’t want you to go.
Selfish of him, he knows, but Faraday has always been a selfish bastard.
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Then, instead of arguing back or shouting, he just speaks calmly and patiently. Gaping at him with disbelief, Vasquez wonders what the hell has changed to make him so mature and calm.
Without meaning to, he sags a little in the shoulders, not taking his eyes off Faraday. "I'm not going to go," he vows, even if Faraday won't believe him. "I'm just going to go back to the saloon and drink until I pass out." He can't just go, not yet, he just doesn't want to be stuck in this room.
Now that the anger has ebbed slightly, Vasquez sees how close he is to Faraday, how intimately close. Stepping back, he swallows back other words, ones that are cruel and aimed to hurt.
"Why do you care so much that I stay?" he asks, because maybe that's the answer he really needs, before he can make a decision about what happens next.
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