quinientos | for peacemakers

"Maybe," he says, of the threat of a haircut in Rose Creek, because he does like the way it feels when Faraday's hands are threaded deep in his hair, yanking at it and making him beg and cry out. That's not something he's eager to give up, if he's honest.

Licking his lip and pressing his tongue to his teeth when Faraday studies him so close, he can't help the way he takes advantage of them being so close, grabbing Faraday by the belt to yank him in, standing toe to toe, his chin up like he intends to lay down a challenge.

"Is that sigh disappointment in the way I look?" he asks, voice low, like they have to keep secrets from the wilderness around them. "You didn't seem to mind it so much last time you saw me pinned over you, hand on you."

He lets out a small, startled sound as Vasquez yanks him in close, hands reflexively gripping Vasquez’s borrowed shirt to keep his balance.

“The hell are you—”

That’s as far as Faraday gets before Vasquez is glaring at him, and Faraday is caught off-guard by it. He blinks owlishly at the other man for a second or two, but then Vasquez speaks, using that low, husky tone that makes something white-hot twist in his stomach. Color rises in his cheeks at the reminder, and he licks his lips reflexively, mouth going dry.

Faraday has to admit, that particular sight from the other night was a pleasant one, and one he was all too happy to witness again.

But he inhales sharply, like he’s waking from a trance, and he rocks back to put a little space between them again – though only a little. Just enough to let him think clearly.

“Take this seriously, Vas,” he grumbles, though he knows the words are rich, coming from Faraday of all people. “You know we gotta go about this careful.”

He nearly darts forward to steal a brazen kiss, but Faraday steps back before he can, which leaves him to instead give him a patently disapproving look, not sulking, but annoyed. It's not Faraday's fault, either, it's just that every time they want comforts, he has to go through this stupid show of being someone else and looking like someone else.

"I know, I know," he grumbles, releasing his grip on Faraday's belt, reaching for his hat to tuck it away rather than putting it back on his head. "But," he admits, cocking his head to the side, "I know that you have my back," he points out.

That's what makes all the difference between before and now. That said, he tries to ignore the surging panic in his gut, the one that says that Faraday's going to eventually tire of all the trouble and work that goes into keeping him alive, that he'll go. He's not so good at hiding it, so he's sure the thoughts show on his face as he tucks everything back into his saddlebags.

"Do you want more time? Or should we keep riding?"

Faraday feels a pang of loss as Vasquez releases him – stupid of him, considering Faraday was the first to put some distance between them in the first place. He lets his hands drop to his sides for a moment, and at Vasquez’s words of reassurance, Faraday feels some of the tension drain from his frame. His expression softens a little, warms a little, because they rarely speak aloud how much they trust one another.

It can go unsaid, Faraday knows. By now, it would take a bigger fool than Faraday to understand that they trust one another with their lives, but hearing it still makes his chest clench a little tenderly.

He shakes it off when that dark look passes Vasquez’s face, though, and Faraday frowns at him. For a few seconds, he bites his tongue, uncertain of whether he should point it out. He nearly lets it lie, but in a shocking moment of clarity, Faraday recognizes that if he leaves it alone, it might distract the both of them. They have to ride into town with clear heads.

He ignores Vasquez’s question for the time being, tilting his head to better examine Vasquez’s expression and body language.

“What was that about?” he asks, a bare edge of concern slipping into his voice. “You had a peculiar look on your face, just then.”

What's the chances that he could lie and get away with it? Given how poorly the last lie had gone (though, he could also argue that the last lie turned out incredible seeing as look where they are now). Still, that doesn't mean he has to face Faraday when he confesses to the truth. Shrugging, he deliberately doesn't look in Faraday's direction as he decides that it's easier to just ignore him.

"You don't strike me as someone who wants to be around when things get hard and far from fun," he says with a shrug of his shoulders, because it's not like they've been facing adversity and Faraday's injury had meant Vasquez stayed.

Sometimes he wonders, if it had been the other way around, would he have been left to mend in Rose Creek on his own?

"I think, maybe, one day, you'll get tired of always having to watch my back, protect me, avoid towns and not have a real life." Selfishly, Vasquez knows that if he had a choice, it would eventually start to wear at even him. "I don't like the thought of becoming a burden that you start to resent."

That was far from the answer Faraday had expected.

In fact, if he were in the habit of being honest, he’d admit that he expected Vasquez to brush him off, to insist that everything was fine, and that Faraday was jumping at shadows. It wouldn’t have been the first time Vasquez had lied to his face or, at the very least, shoved the truth to one side and avoided the topic entirely.

But he answers, and the way Vasquez turns his back on Faraday tells him that he’s being honest, and that fact alone punches the air from him. None of their usual bullshit, none of their usual artifice – just naked honesty that Faraday barely knows how to handle. He stares at Vasquez’s back, eyes wide and mouth open, stands there like he’s been shot in the gut, and the pain hasn’t settled just yet.

All this time, Faraday had been privately terrified that Vasquez would grow tired of him. That Vasquez would tired of his endless ribbing and complaining and his need to fill silence with mindless chatter. That Faraday’s occasional infirmity in the cold or after long bouts of riding, when they’d have to slow or stop traveling altogether, would grate on Vasquez’s nerves. That Vasquez would just get sick of him, like so many others had in the past.

Faraday’s always felt like the burden, here, and for a strange, breathless second, the ridiculousness of Vasquez uttering those words strikes him as funny.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, and the words fall from his lips before he can properly think on them, as so many of his comments do. His voice is brightened by a quiet wave of amusement. “You think dodgin’ a couple towns and keepin’ an eye out for trouble is really enough to drive me off?”

The two of them had spent a surreal, hellish week together, preparing for the battle in Rose Creek, and that had been impossible and about one of the worst experiences in his life. The constant competition of excitement and dread mixing with each passing minute would have made a lesser man run for the hills. But Faraday had stuck that out, though a part of him knew the others expected him to be the one to abandon the fight, out of any of the mismatched seven.

As soon as Faraday calls him an idiot, he's turning around so he can argue with that, because he's not being an idiot, he thinks that Faraday is only seeing the short term. Glaring at him, he doesn't know if he's actually going to be able to argue with him because Faraday is persistently stubborn about so many things, and why not this? "Yes," he argues, heatedly. "I do."

"I think that dodging towns and keeping an eye out for trouble is exciting now and interesting, but after months, it becomes awful. I know, I've done it," he says, eyes flashing like a wounded animal who's just seen the thing hunting it again.

That's the trouble, it's not now that he thinks is the problem. It's that he thinks that he's already gone for Faraday in ways he doesn't want to talk about, and if he loses him later, when he's only feeling more, it will hurt like nothing has before.

"Don't call me an idiot," he spits at him. "You say you don't mind now, but what about in six months? A year?" He's never looked that far ahead, never knowing if he'd stay alive, but it seems impossible that Faraday would actually put up with this. "A lifetime?" he challenges. "Someone's going to leave, but it won't be me."

The question catches him off-guard, and his mouth well truly drops open.

He had been thinking about this arrangement – this relationship, such as it is – in the abstract. Clinging to it for another week, a fortnight, a month, and feeling relieved that they’ve managed to keep things up for as long as they have. A part of him had always been certain that Vasquez would turn his back on him, but he hadn’t ever thought about how long this might last.

Six months, Vasquez says. A year. A lifetime. That’s a hell of a lot longer than anyone’s ever thought about sticking it out with him, aside from his own mother, God rest her soul.

Hell, Faraday has barely thought about his own life that far ahead. Faraday makes an awful habit of gambling with his life that each birthday is a pleasantly surprising milestone. His mind can barely wrap around planning just a couple of weeks in the future, much less a lifetime, for however much time he’s got left on this Earth.

That wounded look that crosses Vasquez’s face makes his stomach sour, and Faraday winces, reaching out to tentatively rest a hand against Vasquez’s arm. “I’m not plannin’ on goin’ anywhere,” he replies sincerely, almost mulishly. He doesn’t know what else he can say, considering looking as far into the future as Vasquez is saying might as well be like standing into a pitch black room and describing what’s across the way.

He just... can’t do it.

“Listen,” he says, carefully picking his words. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m in so long as you’re in, and I don’t see that changin’.”

To be completely fair, a lifetime for them could very well only be a year, given the danger they get into. For Vasquez with a price on his head, a lifetime could be a few months, but still, it's something that needs to be said. What he doesn't expect is for Faraday to start making stubborn comments that he's not going anywhere. "Trust me, if I was going to have walked away, it would have been Rose Creek when you were healing," he says bluntly, even if he's drifting closer to Faraday at the touch to his arm. "You? You're not a good patient," he informs him, as if he needs the reminding. "So? I'm in." Ignoring the fact that they're still in public, near to a trail, Vasquez sets his fingers to Faraday's neck to squeeze gently, not stupid enough to do something like kiss him in the light of day, but the way he lets his fingers drift over his skin is a promise and a show of his surprised gratitude. "Besides, there is always Rose Creek that's safe," he admits, "When you miss your gambling too much and I want a comfortable bed and meals, at least we have somewhere, until everyone forgets about the bounty on my head."

“So there we are, then,” Faraday says brightly, trying to mask his relief with a bright, crooked smile. “Looks like we got that figured out.”

He leans into Vasquez’s touch, his hand coming up to rest over Vasquez’s. He squeezes the other man’s hand briefly in assurance. They’ve made it this far, Faraday thinks, and it’s the longest anyone has stuck it out with him. If they can last all these months without driving one another away, Faraday figures, then surely the two of them can last for however much longer Faraday’s got on his borrowed time.

One last squeeze of Vasquez’s hand before Faraday rolls his shoulders, a little embarrassed by how earnest this entire exchange has been. Faraday’s used to couching his words in half-truths and jokes, and this is a bit out of his usual purview.

“Are we goin’ back to town, or are we just gonna stand here, palavering over nothing?”

Faraday is annoyingly handsome sometimes, and worse is right now, when he's all bright and cheerful and all the things that Vasquez had worried about seem to melt away so that he doesn't have to think about it. Still, he's also handsome and Vasquez likes to look at him, so, maybe it's not such a bad thing.

His breath catches, just for a second, when Faraday rests his hand on top of his, a brief moment where he almost can't believe that it's still happening, impossible seeming as it is.

Still, Faraday's words break that soft moment quickly. "Who taught you such a big word?" he asks dubiously, getting back on his horse to answer that yes, they are still heading back into town, even if there's doubts and worries about what he looks like. "Do you even know what it means?" Because, honestly, Vasquez doesn't. For all that his English is fairly good, it's still a second language.

Faraday lets out a derisive snort at the question. He may not be the smartest of the bunch, but his natural gift for storytelling means he has a surprisingly varied vocabulary.

“I know plenty of big words,” he cuts back, affronted – though it’s more for show than anything. He pauses as he turns back to Jack, stretching out his leg one last time before climbing into his saddle. He’s slower about it than he normally would be, but the brief reprieve is enough to have calmed the ache until a dull throb. He sighs with relief once he settles into position, a hand rubbing reflexively over the old wound.

And he continues on with a bright smile, “That one means bullshittin’.”

"So, you'll learn all these fancy big words, but you won't learn Spanish?" He shakes his head, like he's disappointed in Faraday for this, and even if he's mostly joking, there's a tiny part of him that means it. He wouldn't mind hearing proper Spanish from Faraday's lips, but maybe that's just a fantasy that will never come true.

He's already several paces ahead of Faraday and Jack, even if he leans back to make a few clucking noises for Jack to join him, digging through his bag for a few pieces of dried meat for him, if he can catch up to him.

"Take your time," he advises. "Let Jack do the work to get us to town, you just relax, then I'll take care of you."

“I know plenty of Spanish,” Faraday says primly, and he appends the thought with a purposely round and drawling, “pendejo.”

And his accompanying grin does a great deal to take away the bite of the insult. What little Spanish Faraday knows were words and phrases flung at him from across card tables and bars, which naturally means everything he knows are the more common oaths or invectives that chased him from town to town. It’s a fact that Vasquez surely knows by now.

Jack snorts a little, speeding up slightly to fall into step, trailing a step behind to sniff at whatever food Vasquez had produced. Faraday’s mouth twists to one side, displaying a sort of token irritation.

“You’re gonna fatten him up if you feed him like that.”

"And yet you didn't know querido for how long?" Vasquez can't help his snort, as if their fight over that whole business is years back instead of only a few weeks. He's good at glossing over the things he doesn't want to think about, though, and this happens to be one of them. When Jack eats from his hand tentatively, he can't help his pleased grin.

Besides, "At least one of us will be good and fattened up." For all that Faraday has been getting food for them, it's not like he's ever going to have enough and he's had too many months of starving to make up for. He could use another few weeks like Rose Creek, where they just fed and fed, no matter what they asked for.

"Besides, now he likes me," he insists. "We're bonding."

The jab about not knowing the meaning of “querido” earns Vasquez a flat glare. It would figure, of course, that Faraday would only know the swears and oaths in Vasquez’s mother tongue, considering how often they were leveled at him. More often than not, insults were flung at his back as he departed from a card table – puta madre, chingado, cabrón – which left little room for endearments, like the ones Vasquez was so fond of draping over his shoulders like a warm blanket.

Hell, genuine endearments, even in English, were rarely offered to him, except from saloon girls looking to keep him occupied and putting down good money on rotgut in a rundown groggery. It makes the situation with Vasquez entirely new and strange, though not unwelcome.

Faraday can’t help letting out another derisive snort.

“He likes food,” Faraday corrects. “Jack don’t like no one but me.”

Which may be something of a lie, considering Vasquez has done little to earn Jack’s ire, and the stallion wasn’t likely to trample the man, as he might with any other stranger. Still, there are days where Faraday might liken Jack to a barn cat – half-feral, but tolerant of the company of others. And a little protective of Faraday, in his own way.

"You weren't supposed to like me, but look where we ended up," Vasquez says, aware that he's being cocky and a bit of an asshole about it when he smirks, but he can't help it if it's true. After all, Faraday had been ready to shoot him and look where they are now. True, he thinks sometimes there's probably still the need and want to shoot each other, but they have better ways to get out that aggression.

The next bit of dried meat, he feeds himself, because he also needs to keep himself steady. The one after that, though, it goes beside him, but higher, for Faraday instead of the horse. "I don't know, sometimes I think he likes me because you like me, you know," he points out.

"If he starts to bite at me, then, hermoso, then I'll start to worry what I've done."

Faraday takes the proffered piece of jerky, munching on it thoughtfully.

Then, he says flatly, "I think you're annoying as hell and infuriating and I have no idea where you got the impression that I liked you."

But as with Faraday's usual protests along this vein, he hardly means it, and more than that, Vasquez has more than enough evidence to the contrary to show that Faraday is lying through his teeth. It's why Faraday simply breathes out a laugh, spurring Jack forward.

"C'mon. I wanna get there before sunset."

Hours later, they arrive at the edge of the town in question, just as the sun begins its downward descent toward the horizon. The light of day takes on a darker cast, casting long, stretching shadows, and Faraday rocks in his saddle, carefully moving his leg to alleviate the cramp in his leg.

The town is small, and Faraday wonders if the folks living here had even thought to name it. It boasts the usual amenities – a tavern, a boarding house, a general store, and a laundry – but beyond that, Faraday can't spot anything special to recommend it, nothing to set it apart from all the others.

He catches the eye of a few folks, offering a friendly smile that does little to allay their apparent misgivings at the sight of the two of them, and when the townspeople hurry away, Faraday lets out a quick, affronted huff.

"Well, ain't this a warm welcome?" he asks sarcastically, pitching his voice low for only Vasquez to hear.

He doesn't mind being annoying and infuriating so long as those are the traits that Faraday is going to keep liking, seeing as he thinks that's why they get along so well. It's because they're not the typical men and women of a small town, content to live a life that's boring (if Vasquez has an opinion about it), grinning as he watches Faraday riding off.

Vasquez gives his mare a light prodding kick to get him into action to follow, mindful of Faraday's descent from his saddle when they arrive. He's in a hurry to get off his own horse, noticing that people are rushing away, but that it typically happens after they get too long of a look at him.

With a sinking feeling, Vasquez already knows why they're not so inclined to smile at Faraday.

"You're keeping unwanted company," he says flatly, wishing he could nudge all the bitterness and anger from his tone, but it still comes across. One hand on Faraday's back to gently ease him off of Jack, he glances up to the general store and the boarding house, wondering which one is better to stop at first. "We have enough cigarettes and other supplies to get a room or do you want to stop for things, first?"

Because he'd meant it when he said that if they had a bed, Faraday could do things to him, but while Vasquez might enjoy an adventure, fucking without oil isn't one he's very keen on.

You’re keeping unwanted company, Vasquez says, and being purposefully obtuse, Faraday replies primly, “Now, that’s an awful way to talk about Jack.”

He knows exactly what Vasquez is trying to say, and he can hear the displeasure in the other man’s voice, clear as day. That doesn’t mean Faraday agrees with the assessment, nor does he particularly care what other folks think; he hasn’t cared for most of his life, after all. He doubts he’ll make a habit of it now.

And he gives the stallion a fond pat on its neck as he climbs off, and it speaks to his discomfort that he does nothing to wave off Vasquez’s assistance. Once he’s fully dismounted, his bad leg buckles a little, but he catches himself on Vasquez’s shoulder with a quick, annoyed huff.

But even this is a ruse to get him close into Vasquez’s space, and as he leans against the other man, looking for all the world like he’s just trying to get his bearings, he flashes Vasquez a private, challenging grin.

He murmurs, “As I recall, I was promised a bed and some begging.”

He backs away after a second, giving the back of Vasquez’s neck a gentle, affectionate squeeze. A little more conversationally, “Though I suppose we oughta get supplies. Second I sit down, I’m not entirely sure I’ll be inclined to stand back up.”

Vasquez manages to lay a look on Faraday that implies that he's not very funny, if he ever thought to convince Vasquez that he was. Shifting a little to catch Faraday when his leg buckles, he gets one hand on his back, the other around his hip to prevent him from falling. Of course, the minute he gets closed, it gets all too clear that this was never about falling.

"I keep my promises, cabron," he guarantees. There are no sweet endearments here, solely the low, growled promise of a man who intends to enjoy himself. The squeeze to his neck does wonders to calm him and he feels the fight bleed from him a little.

"Cigarettes and food it is," he agrees, trying to temper his accent, as if they can't already see him for the Mexican he is by looks alone. He still tries to duck his head every time a passer-by stares too long, and he really doesn't like the whispers, because they could mean anything.

Why can't he just enjoy a comfortable bed and this man beside him? Why is this so much to ask after all the good they've done?

They head into the general store, first, but Faraday can feel Vasquez’s discomfort rolling from him like thick, oily waves. He casts the other man a concerned sidelong glance.

“If you keep looking so guilty,” he murmurs, “folks are gonna think you’re guilty.”

Faraday has survived this long on his confidence – and failing that, on his uncanny knack for misdirection. He knows when and how to draw or divert attention, and in this case, Vasquez might as well be shouting at the top of his lungs and waving his arms around with the way he’s going on.

“Quit lookin’ like you’re sorry for just breathin’, would you?”

He's not sorry for it, he's just on his guard. It's not like he's been living the way he had been before Rose Creek, but there's an uneasiness that Vasquez hasn't felt in a long time and it's all because of this town. He still keeps his head ducked down, trying not to call attention to himself.

He does linger closer to Faraday, partly because he wants the cover, but also because he just likes being close. Although, this close, he can smell the man. Reaching for some soaps, he puts it in Faraday's hand. "Make sure we bring this and find a bucket of water. I probably don't smell much better."

After all, how can they? They're on the road so often. He aimlessly wanders, tense as he notices someone outside talking to another man and pointing to him, making like he's going into his pocket for something.

That's not a good sign.

"Querido, I'm going to go wait in the back and smoke, okay?"

Faraday rolls his eyes as Vasquez presses the soap into his hands, but he grumbles good-naturedly under his breath. He similarly moves through the aisles, picking up only a few few other supplies. His and Vasquez’s stores are reasonably well-stocked as is, and while he knows they shouldn’t take too much advantage, he knows they’re liable to get a steep discount at Rose Creek.

The store clerk watches the two of them warily, but Faraday only offers the man a bright, sunny smile. He takes a step toward him, but Vasquez’s words interrupt him. He frowns, items in hand.

“Can’t it wait?” he asks. “We’re nearly done here as is.”

Vasquez has a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach that if he decides to wait much longer, they're going to come in with guns and a warrant and then he's going to have to shoot his way out, which is the furthest thing from what he actually wants. Still, he tries to exhale and breathe calm, thinking that acting suspicious will only get someone after him.

"Can't help being eager for a bath," he jokes, trying to sound casual and warm, trying to make it so that his voice isn't as accented as normal, emulating Faraday's patter in his words. Prying off his hat, he tucks it under his arm and fiddles with his hair, trying to make the curls more prominent to make him look different from the poster.

Unfortunately, he can't shake the feeling that maybe his greed for a bed had been a bad idea.

for peacemakers

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i'm so sorry for the delay! work kicked my ass

totally understand! I'm in similar places :( hence morning or night tag rounds

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