Faraday lets out a short huff of feigned irritation, once Vasquez finally gives Faraday some space, wearing that little pout. He rolls his eyes as he pulls back, slipping out of the bed and looking for something appropriate to wipe his hand and his belly.
He sacrifices his wild rag for it, feeling the way Vasquez tracks his movements with an oddly hungry gaze, and Faraday hesitates, trying to decide if he finds it embarrassing or if he ought to indulge the other man by taking his time. He splits the difference, unhurried but not molasses-slow, and returns to sit on the edge of the bed with the rag, holding it out for Vasquez to wipe himself down.
"You seemed to be the one havin' doubts," Faraday replies almost smugly. "Seemed like you were the one who needed convincin' of that fact."
Vasquez reaches out for the rag, finally sitting up once he's found some energy within himself to do it. He takes his time with it, not taking his eyes off of Faraday while he works the rag, setting it on the bedside table when he's mostly clean.
Sitting up (if a bit reluctantly), he reaches for where he's discarded his shirt, tugging it back on even if it's a wrinkled mess, followed by his underpants, sitting on the edge of the bed only to light up two cigarillos, handing one out to Faraday before he slumps back against the headboard. He must look a mess, with his lips swollen and shiny, his hair a disaster, but the sheer satisfaction on his face shows that he's happy it happened.
"This morning, I didn't think you wanted any of this," he points out, with a gesture of his smoke. "Now you're talking about again? I had to make sure."
Once Vasquez starts getting himself decent, Faraday all too happily follows suit. He was a good-looking man, once, with only a handful of scars to recommend him; now, though, he feels like he must be a frightful mess. Vasquez might be accustomed to the sight, as is Faraday, but that doesn't necessarily make it a pleasant one.
Faraday pulls on his shirt, tugs on his underwear and pants, and sits on the edge of the bed, his back pressed against Vasquez's knee. He doesn't fare much better than Vasquez, really, his own lips similarly swollen, with a bit of sweat glistening on his brow. Vain man that he is, he tries to straighten his hair a bit, for all the good it'll do him.
He takes the proffered cigarillo – Faraday typically preferred his own cigars, but he had never been one to turn down a good smoke – and he rests it between his lips. He calms a little, pulling in a mouthful of smoke. At Vasquez's words, he breathes out a small, barely there chuckle.
"Trust me, compadre," he replies with a small, crooked smile, "no one's more surprised 'bout all this than me."
Somehow, though, he manages to sound pleased about it. He takes another pensive drag from the cigarillo, letting the smoke drift out from between his lips to the ceiling.
Slowly, he says, "I think I'm good, though. If you're good, that is." He pauses for a second, then adds a little pointedly, "Which means if you try'n' skip out on me, I'm trackin' you down and beatin' the hell out of you. Hear me?"
Vasquez does make a disappointed noise when Faraday starts to busy himself in getting himself dressed, his own legs still mostly bare as he stretches them out on the bed, smoking with the ease of someone who hasn't managed to get feeling back to all his limbs. Reaching out with a hand, he slides his thumb in a rubbing circling motion against Faraday's hip as he tries to pluck and pull at his shirt, getting close enough for a kiss.
"I'm not going anywhere," he vows, his voice low and rough. Smug as anything, he lays back on the bed and thinks that they're not going to have as much luck roughing it in the future, not now that they've done this, not when there's so much more to do.
The very thought of actually fucking Faraday, letting him fuck him, gives him a shiver, but he can be patient and wait. "Wouldn't want to give you any reason to have to do work," he jibes, but the touch and the smile on his lips counters any words.
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He sacrifices his wild rag for it, feeling the way Vasquez tracks his movements with an oddly hungry gaze, and Faraday hesitates, trying to decide if he finds it embarrassing or if he ought to indulge the other man by taking his time. He splits the difference, unhurried but not molasses-slow, and returns to sit on the edge of the bed with the rag, holding it out for Vasquez to wipe himself down.
"You seemed to be the one havin' doubts," Faraday replies almost smugly. "Seemed like you were the one who needed convincin' of that fact."
no subject
Sitting up (if a bit reluctantly), he reaches for where he's discarded his shirt, tugging it back on even if it's a wrinkled mess, followed by his underpants, sitting on the edge of the bed only to light up two cigarillos, handing one out to Faraday before he slumps back against the headboard. He must look a mess, with his lips swollen and shiny, his hair a disaster, but the sheer satisfaction on his face shows that he's happy it happened.
"This morning, I didn't think you wanted any of this," he points out, with a gesture of his smoke. "Now you're talking about again? I had to make sure."
no subject
Faraday pulls on his shirt, tugs on his underwear and pants, and sits on the edge of the bed, his back pressed against Vasquez's knee. He doesn't fare much better than Vasquez, really, his own lips similarly swollen, with a bit of sweat glistening on his brow. Vain man that he is, he tries to straighten his hair a bit, for all the good it'll do him.
He takes the proffered cigarillo – Faraday typically preferred his own cigars, but he had never been one to turn down a good smoke – and he rests it between his lips. He calms a little, pulling in a mouthful of smoke. At Vasquez's words, he breathes out a small, barely there chuckle.
"Trust me, compadre," he replies with a small, crooked smile, "no one's more surprised 'bout all this than me."
Somehow, though, he manages to sound pleased about it. He takes another pensive drag from the cigarillo, letting the smoke drift out from between his lips to the ceiling.
Slowly, he says, "I think I'm good, though. If you're good, that is." He pauses for a second, then adds a little pointedly, "Which means if you try'n' skip out on me, I'm trackin' you down and beatin' the hell out of you. Hear me?"
no subject
"I'm not going anywhere," he vows, his voice low and rough. Smug as anything, he lays back on the bed and thinks that they're not going to have as much luck roughing it in the future, not now that they've done this, not when there's so much more to do.
The very thought of actually fucking Faraday, letting him fuck him, gives him a shiver, but he can be patient and wait. "Wouldn't want to give you any reason to have to do work," he jibes, but the touch and the smile on his lips counters any words.