quinientos | for peacemakers

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.

Faraday maintains his poker face for a breath or two, watching Vasquez act wholly out of character. There’s a reason for it, Faraday knows. Something’s wrong. And rather than push Vasquez too much further on it, Faraday nods, forces his expression to smooth out.

“Go on, then,” he says evenly, with his usual lilt in place. He tips his head toward the store’s other exit. “I’ll meet you out there. I’ll be quick.”

And even as he’s saying it, he’s moving toward the clerk. His pace is calm, seemingly leisurely, but there’s a purpose to his step, a brevity of movement that speaks to some level of urgency. If Vasquez feels the need to beat a hasty retreat, then Faraday doesn’t plan on being too far behind. (He can only move so fast these days, after all.)

Vasquez doesn't know how to shake the bad feeling, but he thinks slipping out the other door and taking cover ought to be a good start. No one is waiting for him out there, so he thinks maybe he's made it in the clear. Lighting up a cigarette, Vasquez slides his hat back on his head and leans himself up against the nearest wall until Faraday can join him.

"Hey," comes a voice, from nearby. "You there."

Tense, but trying not to let his hand slide to his gun just yet, Vasquez lifts his gaze to find one of the two men that had been lurking outside the store approaching him. What's worse is that there's a slip of paper out of his pocket, which means that this is going to be bad.

There's only two ways out of this. Three, maybe, if he's lucky.

In every single version, though, someone ends up dead. "I'm just waiting for my friend," he says, trying to sound plenty American. "I don't want any trouble."

There's a click of a gun right by his ear and Vasquez feels the barrel of it against his neck, cold and daunting. There's the second man, then. "You should've thought of that before you killed that ranger," he snaps, glaring up at him from where he stands.

Cigarette still between his lips, Vasquez raises both hands in the air. He's a fast shot, but he's not Billy. If he tried to go for his gun, he'd be dead within seconds. The best he's got to hope for now is that they decide to take him in alive and he can figure out an escape strategy when Faraday realizes what's happened.

"Tie him," the first insists, so it looks like he is going to a jail cell after all. Maybe he should've gone for his gun. Maybe there's not a shred of bloodlust between the two, but that's not a risk to take. He lets them shove and pull him around, scraping coarse ropes over his hands as he spits out the cigarette, hoping that at least Faraday is out in time to see where he's been taken.

True to his word, Faraday is quick about paying for their items. The clerk, either wary of strangers or wary of the company that Faraday keeps, despite the open, friendly smile Faraday offers him, offers him little in the way of chit-chat, taking his coin and returning Faradays, “Thank you kindly,” with only a curt nod.

This town just keeps getting friendlier and friendlier, Faraday thinks.

But he takes his little burlap bag with their items, slinging it over his shoulder as he steps outside. He couldn’t possibly be more than a few moments after Vasquez, but when he steps into the fading sunlight, glancing around, he doesn’t see Vasquez. What he does see is a fallen cigarette and far too many footprints for one man, and his stomach drops straight to the center of the Earth.

He curses, following the tracks; he might not have Jack Horne’s skill for it, but the footprints are clear enough, considering the men didn’t bother to hide themselves. He’s at least mindful enough of the situation that rather than go barreling after whoever has taken Vasquez, like his instinct is screaming at him to do, he goes about it slowly, maintains that easy pace.

He catches sight of the men just in time to watch the two of them, with Vasquez tied between them, stepping into the little ramshackle building they call the local jail. Faraday curses under his breath, casting around and getting his bearings. A part of him wants to rush in, guns blazing, and pull Vasquez the hell out of there, but even Faraday knows he has to go about this smart. If he starts dropping men, then that would surely leave a trail.

For a second, he wishes Chisolm was here. Scary bastard would have a plan in a goddamn instant, Faraday thinks.

Breathing out a sharp sigh, his hands clenching into tight fists, he tries to come up with an idea.

... all things considered, it’s not an amazing plan, if one can call it a plan at all.

It mostly involves sneaking into the jailhouse in the dead of night, while its guard – one of the men who had taken Vasquez in earlier, Faraday thinks – quietly dozes by the light of a single oil lamp. As he suspected, the jail isn’t much of anything; a town as small as this wasn’t bound to have anything fancy. It appears to be a one-room building, with a guard on one side and a narrow, barred jail cell in a corner. The guard sits in his chair, feet kicked up on a nearby bench and his face covered by his hat.

And Faraday creeps in, furious, staying low to the ground and moving slowly, testing each step against the wooden planks to avoid causing the floorboards to creak under his weight.

When he gets to the jail cell, Vasquez quickly starts to think about strategy. They clearly want the money for his head alive, or maybe they want to sell him for an even higher price to someone who wants him dead. Whatever it is, they shoved him into the cell with his hands still tied, depriving him of water and the comfort of his hands being free. Lucky for him, he's got a few loose pieces of metal wire in his gun belt to help him in a jam with his guns and it's in the right place to start pushing to try and saw the rope.

Of course, the way it's going, it will take hours. He stays quiet, knowing that antagonizing his captors is a bad idea, no matter how badly he wants to do it. The last thing he needs is one of them to decide to shoot.

It's a shame Vasquez has to go and ruin it, though. He doesn't mean to piss anyone off, but after a few hours of sitting here, he complains about his throat being dry and asks for some water. Big mistake, it turns out, because the burly one enters the cell and instead of water, what Vasques gets is a new black eye that doesn't go with his colouring at all.

"So, no?"

"Not for Mexican scum like you."

Definitely a no. Vasquez didn't even manage to steal a key or a weapon off him while he'd been so helpfully mauled, which is his own fault for not being prepared. As the eye starts to swell, he settles his back against the wall and keeps working at his ropes, eyes on the door. He's telling himself that Faraday wouldn't have just taken off, that he's coming. Maybe if he keeps telling himself this, he'll even believe it.

It takes time, but then, when the guard has gone to sleep, he hears the door. Shifting to his knees while trying not to rustle, Vasquez tries to work a little harder to start tearing his bonds.

Nodding to the desk, he wants to get Faraday's attention to hope that maybe he'll see the gun that's been on the desk. He doesn't want Faraday to shoot, but he doesn't think pistolwhipping the guard into unconsciousness is such a bad idea.

With as dim as the lamp is set, Vasquez’s cell sits just at the edge of the ring of light. From here, Faraday can’t get a good look at the man, but he doesn’t smell the telltale stench of blood, doesn’t spot anything particularly worrisome about Vasquez’s stance. He’s... well, not fine considering he’s locked up in a goddamn jail cell, but not in much need of patching up.

That’s something, he supposes, not much, but something. It does little for the rage writhing in his belly like some ugly, caged animal.

He catches sight of Vasquez’s nod, follows the other man’s gaze to the gun on the desk, resting in its holster. Apparently the guard had taken off his gun belt while he napped. Slowly, he takes hold of the gun, watching the dozing man for signs of waking, and once it’s fully in his grasp, he reels back, slamming the butt of the gun against the man’s temple.

The man only grunts, crumbling, but Faraday grabs hold of the man’s elbow with his free hand, easing him slowly to the ground to minimize the noise. He freezes, listening, waiting, before he searches the man’s unconscious form for a set of keys.

He finally snags the ring, tucked away inside the man's vest, and he lets out out a small, triumphant sound. Faraday hurries to the cell as quietly and as quickly as he dares.

"Just so long as we're both clear," he hisses, "comin' back here was your idea."

The murderous glare on Vasquez's face tells Faraday that he already knows how bad of an idea this was. He's not dwelling on it consciously, but it's in the back of his head simmering that if they can't trust any town apart from Rose Creek, then what the hell does his life look like and is it worth it, being on the road like this. He can't get to his feet, awkwardly tied up the way he is, but at least he can glare.

"Cut me free now, blame me later," he snipes back at Faraday, his joy and relief at seeing him overwhelmed at this specific moment with the irritation that Faraday's words have left in him, rubbing raw like a bad wound. He wishes that the guard had been hit harder, but if he'd died, it would've been worse.

Holding out his tied hands, he shifts to his knees and one foot to stagger to his feet clumsily, waiting to be cut loose, trying to stay somewhat in the shadows. "They took my guns, my lasso," he says. "My hat," he adds, and the bag had gone too. All his worldly possessions, which probably would've been rifled through and sold if he'd been shot, hung, or arrested.

There's a terrifying swoop in his stomach and he closes his eyes briefly, wondering what future he has. It's not a good thought, but right now, he's full of bad ones.

Faraday duly ignores the death glare Vasquez sends his way – it’s nothing too different from the norm, at any rate – and he shoves the door open. Slipping the key ring over his wrist, he enters the cell and looks Vasquez over. Nothing life-threatening, that he can see, which tells him his captors intended to keep Vasquez alive and well for transport.

Hardly a comfort, honestly.

He slips his knife from its sheath, examining Vasquez’s wrists for the easiest section to cut. Looks like Vasquez got something of a head start, and Faraday carefully moves to work at the same section. He lets Vasquez speak, but he pauses when he hears a strange quality to the other man’s voice, a strange little hitch in his breath, and Faraday looks up from his work, startled.

“Vas,” he murmurs, an worry flares in his gut, cold and bitter. He reaches up his free hand, resting a rough palm against Vasquez’s cheek. His thumb gently brushes just beneath the worst of the bruising around Vasquez’s eye. “Hey, darlin’. C’mon. Look at me.”

Vasquez tenses his jaw, aware that this isn't something they should be doing in a jail cell, not when the other guard could be coming at any minute. He draws away from Faraday's hand, even if that's all he currently wants nothing more than to sink into the warmth of his hand and coax Faraday into kissing the bruising until it burns, trying to replace these feelings. "Come on, we shouldn't stay here."

The last thing he needs is for them to come back and arrest Faraday with him. Not only would it make their chances of rescue slim to nothing, but he's not sure he could bear to see Faraday in a cell and awaiting punishment because of him.

He still squeezes Faraday's hand as he passes, starting to rifle through the possessions. He takes back his things, but steals more than belongs to him, feeling owed. It's a rapid business, but it helps to calm his mind a little, though the panic still is there, making him breathe harder and his vision feels like it's blurry in a haze of trying to understand what's going to happen next.

"You got the supplies, yes? Because we're definitely leaving," he says bluntly, no matter how badly he'd wanted a firm bed under his back tonight.

When Vasquez pulls away, Faraday’s startled by how much it smarts, and he stills for a long moment. The quick squeeze of his hand mollifies him, but only a little, and his expression is grim as Vasquez takes back his belongings and then some.

He’s not great at this. Navigating this... romance thing, because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A courtship. Only they’ve skip straight past the literal courting to the good part – which is for the best, considering Faraday’s relationship with patience has always been fraught. But worrying for someone, feeling terrified for someone, spending the whole day, blaming himself for being so slow, for letting this happen—

It's new to him. And he’s not entirely sure how to— do this.

As Vasquez rummages through the guard’s pockets, Faraday plucks down a pair of shackles hanging from the wall.

“Yeah,” a little gruffly, because Faraday’s still feeling the sting from Vasquez’s earlier snub. “I got the supplies.”

Faraday kneels down to cuff one of the man’s wrists to the man’s ankle. He yanks off the guard’s wild rag, while he’s at it, winding it up and tying it tightly around the man’s mouth. A tactic to slow the man down and buy them time, if they need it.

“Horses are waiting for us down the road.”

He feels a little wild and untethered, even as he tries desperately to reach towards the anchor that he wants. It's Faraday and he's so close, but that edge of desperation is killing him, making him want to be close and far at the same time. He's looming above the guard and debating whether he wants to hit him a little more, but he wants so badly to be at the horses.

Buckling his gun belt, he yanks his bag up and finds that his breath is still a little too sharp for his liking. It's dark outside and he lingers at the door because he doesn't want to go just yet.

"It was supposed to be a nice time," he says, defeated and feeling the fight starting to sink out of him. "You and I, we were supposed to get a break and I ruined it. This awful price on my head."

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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