Faraday's hands clutch at the fabric of Vasquez/s vest, knuckles turning white and hands shaking. He grits his teeth against the sharp ache running up his leg, echoing along his hip and side, eyes screwed shut as he sucks in breath after labored breath. Most of his weight is pressed against Vasquez, and he balances on his good leg to give his injured leg a rest, however momentary.
Vasquez's breath is hot against his ear, and in another moment, he'd notice the peculiar way it calms something in him. As it is now, Faraday concerns himself with keeping himself upright, pressing his brow against Vasquez's shoulder as he tries to catch his breath.
"I'm fine," he grits out. A lie, of course – he's anything but fine, and that’s clear just from looking at him. They’re alone, thankfully, which means no one saw that frankly shameful display of his attempt at traversing stairs (stairs, of all the damn things). "Lost my footing, is all."
Vasquez inhales sharply when Faraday lies like that, mainly because it brings into stark relief how close they're pressed together. If sanity and logic was in his head, he would shove Faraday off of him, but it's not. The pain in both his breathing and his voice makes Vasquez stupid for a minute (though it could probably be argued that he gets stupid around Faraday in general) and that hand on Faraday's upper back drifts, for a brief moment touching at his neck before his thumb drags a hard line up the nape, ruffling against fair hair where his blunt nail catches it.
"You're not fine," he replies, but it's hissed quietly, already searching the room. Squeezing at Faraday's bad side, he gives some of the light pressure the doctor said might help, not just to help, but to guide. "There," he says. "Come on, let's get you sitting and I'll buy you a round of something strong enough to give you a second wind."
Of course, that means moving from this position and Vasquez tips his head to the ceiling, as if praying somehow to God to give him guidance about why he finds that to be such a disappointing idea.
Moments ago, Faraday might have bristled at being guided, at being coaxed along like some frightened calf, but in the here and now, he merely nods against Vasquez. Vasquez squeezes at Faraday’s injured side, and he gasps, startled, wincing at the added pressure.
“The hell are you—?”
The pain doesn’t fade – Faraday doubts anything but an act of God might make it disappear, with the way it’s shrieking at him – but the sharpness of it is sanded away a little, allows him to take a deep breath at last. It’s helping a little, whatever it is Vasquez is doing, and Faraday’s grip on the other man’s vest eases. He pushes away, giving them both a little more room to breathe.
When Vasquez mentions buying him a round, Faraday huffs out an embittered sort of laugh.
“Better make that a promise,” he grits out – because alcohol will always be a strong motivator for a man who prefers to spend his days half-corned. He finally lifts his head, taking stock of their surroundings. A chair nearby seems his best bet, and Faraday clenches his jaw as he points himself toward it. It’s a testament to how badly he feels that he doesn’t try to make it on his own, or that he doesn’t grouse about needing the help. Instead, Faraday wordlessly maneuvers himself so that Vasquez supports his bad side, an arm thrown around Vasquez’s shoulders to keep himself upright.
Vasquez moves swiftly with the adjustment, angling his body so that he's pressed hip to hip with Faraday, slouching a little in order to give him more to hold onto, if he wants it. He should feel relieved for the space between them now that Faraday has eased away, but his brow is pinched and his lips curve downwards, like he isn't sure exactly why he's so upset. He settles on thinking that he's just upset that Bogue's idiots got so close to blowing them all up, seeing as it's a convenient place to put his anger.
"Lo prometo," he vows, of the promise to get him alcohol. He drags the chair closer by hooking his ankle around one of the legs, bending to pull it over and maneuver Faraday's body carefully.
Settling him in, Vasquez leans over him as he has to push his weight forward with Faraday's to get him into the chair, taking a bit longer to step away than he should, because the worry is eating at him like a worry he hasn't felt in years. Eventually, he convinces himself that Faraday isn't going anywhere, that he won't be stupid enough to try.
"I'll be right back," Vasquez promises, digging through his pockets to find a cigarette and his matchbox, setting it down for Faraday to smoke while he's gone.
With no one around, he has to go to one of the townspeople who's awake, in this case, the master of the whorehouse and uses the man's own gold coins to sweet-talk him into a bottle of something strong. The proprietor looks him over, glances at the coin, then back as he slides a bottle of whiskey over. "For that, you can have an hour or so upstairs, if you like."
Vasquez raises his brow, briefly considering it, mainly because it has been a very long time and while he's lonely and starving for touch, you don't sleep with strange women because you could wake up with a gun to your forehead, being as most women would relish the chance for $500 and a new start. Lonely and cold, it is.
"I'll stick with the booze," Vasquez says, heading back to where he'd left Faraday, his pace quicker than he wants to think about. The relief is in his breath when he sees Faraday hasn't moved, lifting up the bottle with victory. "See? My word is good."
Faraday grunts out some noise of gratitude when Vasquez leaves behind the matchbox and the cigarette, and Faraday avails himself of Vasquez’s generosity. With the cigarette perched between his lips, Faraday tries not to think too hard on the clumsy way he strikes the match against the striking surface of the box, or how disgustingly familiar it is to have that fix match snap in his shaking fingers. (He remembers blood and pain and cold, mounting dread that blackness might overtake him before he could perform his trick.) He lets the two pieces fall to the floor, and he kicks them away with his good leg and tries again. The second attempt, at least, is far more successful than the first, and he brings the lit match up to the cigarette, breathes in a mouthful of smoke and exhales it up to the ceiling.
Vasquez isn’t gone as long as Faraday might have figured, and not nearly long enough for Faraday to entertain the idea of standing, of stretching out the knotted, strained muscle of his bad leg. Instead, he kneads at his hip with the heel of his palm, cigarette held between the fingers of his other hand, and glances up when he hears the familiar tread of Vasquez’s step.
He’s come to recognize the weight of Vasquez’s footfalls on the wooden floors, the particular measure and weight of them. An odd thing, surely, and odder still to find comfort in the sound. Faraday doesn’t relax by any means, but when he spots Vasquez, he lets out a slow breath, smoke curling upward with the exhale. His expression doesn’t soften, but some of the hardness in his gaze fades away.
Faraday holds Vasquez’s matchbox out on the palm of his hand. “Here I thought you were all hot air,” he says, and he tries for something teasing, something to get Vasquez’s dander up. Instead, his voice comes out strained and exhausted.
Vasquez slumps into the chair next to Faraday after he fetches two mostly-clean glasses from the sideboard, letting them knock into each other as he settles down beside Faraday at the table, digging out his own cigar before he thinks that maybe five in one day is a few too many and he's not so stressed now that he needs it. He can see Faraday is fine, they're still planning to set out together (or he hopes they are), and while he might be in pain, he's still alive.
The snort on his lips is sincere as he takes the matches and tucks the into his vest pocket, but his brow is furrowed. "Only in the mornings," is his absent reply, his energy level about as low as Faraday's.
"Que esta mal?" he asks, hearing that weariness in his voice. "Is it your leg?" he asks, eyes slowly following the path of Faraday's hand, settling on where he has his fingers kneading against his hip. If they were upstairs, he could force Faraday to lie down and let Vasquez help, but this isn't as convenient.
"Do you want to go back up?" he suggests, probably hovering closer to fussing than Faraday likes, but he doesn't care.
Considering Vasquez does the both of them the favor of retrieving glasses, the least Faraday can do is pour them their drinks. He grabs up the bottle, and with one hand still occupied in applying pressure to his aching leg, he uncorks the whiskey with his teeth, spitting the stopper onto the table, where it bounces and rolls to a stop at the edge. Faraday’s always head a heavy hand when it comes to pouring, and it shows in the healthy shares he doles out to the both of them. Setting the bottle aside in favor of the glass, Faraday knocks back a mouthful, sighing as the familiar burn works its way down his throat.
His gaze flits over to Vasquez at the unfamiliar words, and Faraday frowns on reflex. It’s just as well that Vasquez follows up in plain English, cutting off any possible complaints Faraday might have offered. As it is, Faraday considers denying it, just out of sheer, stubborn spite, but the both of them know the answer to Vasquez’s question. Lying about it won’t change the reality of it.
Faraday scowls down at his glass for a second before huffing out a frustrated sound. “Seized up on me,” he grits out. “That’s all.” And that’s putting it mildly, admittedly, but it’s as much of a concession as Faraday is likely to give.
He downs another mouthful, waiting for that warmth to pool in him. Drinking as often as he does means it will take some time yet before the liquor settles, before it starts loosening him up and taking away the worst of the pain. But sure enough, Vasquez starts fussing, and Faraday hasn’t had nearly enough whiskey yet to make the attention endearing rather than irritating.
“Stop that,” he snaps. “It’s a cramp, Vasquez. You’re actin’ like I’m some sickly granny stumblin’ out in the cold.”
Vasquez can drink just as fast, as hard, as much as Faraday (the nights before Rose Creek have proven that), but he'd been stupidly tipsy then, so eager to laugh that he'd fallen off his chair at least twice that night, all eyes on Faraday for his stupid jokes and idiot talk of his guns. He's not sure he's in any mood for that, now, but a few drinks can't hurt him. He finished the first glass of whiskey fast so he can draw the second out. Lucky for him, Faraday's heavy hand means the first is enough to take the edge of his worry and make Vasquez just that much more pleasant to be around.
The problem is, Faraday's leg is seizing up after one flight of stairs. How are they supposed to ride out on it? It's not like Vasquez can go into towns for supplies or even be around Faraday too much when there are people, because a man with a distinctive limp will be easy to spot.
"Sorry that I'm worried it hurts you," he snaps, taken aback for a moment. He'd meant to cut sharper, say that he's sorry that he's worried about his own ass on the line with Faraday being so poorly, but in the heat of his anger, something else had come out. He's too tired and half-drunk, he decides, irritated with himself. "Maybe it's too soon to go," he says, deciding a fifth cigarette is exactly what he needs, bowing forward to light it and sucks it back until it calms him enough that he can take another drink.
"I don't know how I can help," he confesses bluntly.
For all that he might fuss or worry, the doctor has given him one thing to try helping, but he thinks only time and maybe alcohol will truly help. Shame that Vasquez's patience is starting to run low when it comes to seeing Faraday hurt.
Faraday blinks at Vasquez, startled by the words, by the heat in them. He had expected some lecture on his stupidity, on his stubbornness – old, familiar censures from his childhood, shouted at him by his mother, rest her soul. Their conversations were usually filled with barbs, with cheap potshots, with hardly any sincerity between them. But everything Vasquez just spouted off wasn’t on the script, was far too honest.
And Faraday, a man who talked in half-truths, smirking all the while, has no idea how to respond.
For a long while, he’s silent, staring at Vasquez blankly. The man might as well have spoken in his mother tongue, for all Faraday appears to comprehend him, but slowly, Faraday comes out of his daze, shaking himself.
“I don’t recall askin’ for help,” he croaks out. Moments ago, the words would have been cast out angrily, snapping like a chained dog. Now, however, his voice is uncertain, the words slow, like he’s testing each step and hoping for stable ground. He falls quiet again, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass, before gulps down another mouthful.
“Listen, Vasquez,” Faraday says, still slow, still uncertain. He pauses to wipe at the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. The admission he has to make is a bitter thing to say aloud, and for a second, he grimaces with it. He pushes himself onward, though. “Maybe I ain’t ready, after all. So if you’d rather move on...”
Vasquez closes his eyes as he smokes, letting the tobacco curl over his lips as he exhales and then inhales the last breath of it, knowing that the weariness in his bones isn't all because of Faraday, but the worry there is. His shoulders are sagging forward, not just because of the pain drawing one down, but because he hates feeling defeated like this and he does.
How can he fight off Bogue and all his men, help steal Faraday from the clutches of death, and not be able to help the man? What good is he?
"Don't have to ask, that's the point," Vasquez rumbles, his voice low and sincere. He pinches at the thick paper of the cigarette as he holds it aloft, staring at the stream of smoke before he sticks it back into the corner of his lips to look to Faraday, watching him drink and consider, not sure he wants to know what's coming next.
Turns out, he's not surprised when Faraday launches into a stupid idea, though it's not like Vasquez knows what to do with it. So instead, he shrugs. "Move on where?" he retorts. "If you're trying to get rid of me and don't want me around, say so, guero. I'm not the one in a rush to leave town. No bounty hunters here today for my hairs," he points out. "Even if they are the handsomest ones in town," he can't help tease, trying desperately to get a rise out of Faraday or a laugh or something.
He reaches out and catches Faraday's wrist when he lifts his glass to drink, brushing his thumb against the pulse point before he lowers that hand, wanting Faraday to not be drinking when he speaks.
"They would give you a place to stay, I think," he says, heart beating higher and higher. "Maybe, I don't know, maybe I could stay too until you feel right."
Faraday snorts out a laugh at Vasquez’s obvious attempt at lightening the mood. He should probably remind the man that staying in one place this long likely wouldn’t do Vasquez any favors – especially considering eventually, someone with a folded slip of paper bearing a poor likeness was liable to come looking for him. But Vasquez had snapped at him earlier when Faraday had pointed that out, and while Faraday went looking for fights more often than not, this particularly fight doesn’t feel like one either of them would win.
He lifts his glass, looking to finish the whiskey off, but Vasquez captures his wrist. Faraday blinks at him, startled and puzzled by the contact all over again. Weeks ago, a move like that would have had Faraday drawing his guns on the other man, shooting first before bothering to ask any questions. Now, though, he feels his heart lurch in his chest, feels a strange spark kick up in his stomach, but Vasquez’s calloused hand pulls away before Faraday can properly examine that peculiar sensation.
“I stay another minute in this town,” he grumbles, setting the glass back on the table, “I’m gonna go mad.”
Domesticity and Faraday mix about as well as oil and water, after all. He made a habit of staying in towns until the well had run dry – which typically meant a handful of days. He’s been in Rose Creek for months, now, with hardly anything to keep him occupied.
“You can’t honestly tell me you’re not itchin’ to get out just as much as I am.”
"Of course I don't want to stay," he snaps instantly, pinching the bridge of his nose before he turns back to the cigarette, cracking his neck back and forth as he tries to figure out something that he can actually do before Faraday drives him insane. He wants to go, but he can't physically go. "If we go, you will be hurt out there, then I can only do the things the doctor shows," Vasquez points out, pouring himself a new glass of whiskey like this will be the one that calms him down.
"You said it before. I stay, someone finds me, they shoot me and then I'm dead," he says, even saying the words makes him edgy and sharp. "I can get supplies, I can make sure we're ready to go, but guerito," he exhales, shaking his head. "If you're not ready, then what are we supposed to do?"
He says we through this all, because the truth is, he's not going back out there on his own. He's not sure he could bear the loneliness again, especially not after he's met men like the others. Especially not after he's met Faraday and learned how good it feels to bicker and push and prod, have someone who's willing to match and meet you at every step. There are other reasons he wants to keep Faraday close, but seeing as they are impossible dreams that will get him shot, Vasquez keeps those to himself.
"I could try and help," he offers, a last resort, "with the pain. I could use my hands, try and work some of the aches the drinking doesn't take away. If not that, then what? I'm bad at stitching," he warns. "You don't want to open up on my watch."
Faraday bites down on any protests that rise up in his throat. He ought to insist that Vasquez move on without him; a man looking to keep out of the noose shouldn't stand still long enough to let it settle around his neck. But Faraday has always been a selfish man, and when it hardly seems to occur to Vasquez that leaving on his own is an option, Faraday keeps his trap shut.
He follows suit in finishing off his glass of whiskey, and he deposits the empty tumbler back on the table. Vasquez's offer earns a slightly uncertain look.
"Most of me's healed up," Faraday reminds the other man. A few parts of him are still sewn shut, but even those bits are more healed than not; the wounds were unlikely to open up again, unless Faraday really set his mind to it (which he absolutely could, given it's Faraday.) It's the lingering aches and pains that are proving difficult to handle, even if Faraday refuses to admit as much aloud. It's the weakness that's settled into his bones that's holding him back.
He peers at Vasquez for a second, studying him. Then cautiously, he asks, "What is it the doctor showed you how to do, exactly?"
Vasquez stares down at the smoke curling off his cigarette, not entirely sure that he'd been expecting to face this down so early, but it would've come up eventually. "I have to get the thing he gave me to help," he admits, seeing as he'd left it upstairs in his rooms. Not only that, but it's an embarrassing thing, probably, to do this in public.
Faraday is right that he's healed up, so maybe it's not about expecting to see Faraday split open again on the road. Maybe it's worse? Maybe some part of Vasquez can't bear to think of Faraday in pain, whereas when he'd met the man for the first time, all that he'd wanted to do was put a bullet through him.
Funny how much weeks can change your opinion. Sobriety, weeks, and the realization that Faraday is no worse than Vasquez himself and maybe that's what he's been missing out on. "The muscles, doctor says they must heal, but you have scars," he explains. "He says many don't agree, but that if you work at the muscle enough with your hands or un instrumento redondo, then maybe it will make the pain stop?"
"Worth a try," Vasquez gives his opinion with a shrug of his shoulders. "Could find a prettier face than mine to help you with it," he can't help adding at least one jibe, "but we both know there are no prettier."
The hesitation before Vasquez speaks seems a bit telling, and the frown stays fixed on Faraday's face. The other man offers his explanation, and judging by the skeptical look Faraday casts him, Faraday seems to number himself among those who disagree with this physician.
"Sounds like it'd just make things worse," he says slowly. If the muscle already aches, Faraday's not entirely certain if poking at it will make things much better. Then again, Faraday's not qualified to offer his thoughts on most things, aside from shooting or gambling, so what does he know?
He rolls his eyes at Vasquez's joke. "I can think of at least a dozen mugs a far sight easier on the eyes than yours, amigo," Faraday says, giving a vague wave of his hand toward the front door of the establishment. (Granted, he can think of them – a number of them were saloon girls whose name he's half-forgotten with time – but it doesn't necessarily mean he'd prefer their company to Vasquez's. But hell if he'll let the bastard know that.)
Faraday lets out a sigh, scrubbing at his face.
"So?" and the word comes out on an exhale. "We givin' this a shot?"
The surprise that registers on his face is impossible to hide, no matter how much he tries. He'd been ready to pass off his offer as a stupid thing, but then Faraday is being agreeable, which leaves him dry-mouthed and empty-voiced for a moment. "It should be somewhere more private, I think," he manages, when words come back to him.
"Maybe a spare room here or at the brothel?" He wishes he hadn't made that offer, belatedly, but it's already out. His skin prickles with the heat of embarrassment and he's on his feet, glancing up the stairs and wondering if he should bother to suggest they go back up again. "Or you can try the stairs the other way. I could help, if you want it," he offers.
Faraday looks beyond tired, a feeling Vasquez understands intimately. He hadn't been lying when he said he wants to get out of town, but not until he's sure there's a safe path. The last thing he needs is someone getting word that Vasquez is travelling with a limping Irishman, ready to shoot on sight as soon as they hit the town borders.
It's probably not going to be a very different life for him, still needing to hide and being far from safe, but he's deluding himself into thinking it will all be better because of Faraday. Maybe he's drunken than he'd thought. "You choose, guero," he offers. "Where do we go?"
Faraday's eyes narrow at that open shock on Vasquez's face, at his suggestion of moving somewhere more private. Just what was it that Vasquez was intending to do, exactly?
When Vasquez stands with obvious agitation, with his skin coloring with a sudden blush, Faraday can't help but stare at him, equal parts curious and startled. He's not sure if he's ever seen Vasquez quite like this, caught somewhere between wanting to bolt and staying put out of stubbornness. And Faraday, meanwhile, is caught between wanting to tease the other man relentlessly and keeping his gob shut.
And that's an effort for Faraday, keeping his mouth shut so he doesn't stick a foot in it, but somehow, he manages it. Still, he tucks the thoughts away for later, and carefully gets to his feet. He keeps his weight leaned to one side, his injured leg still smarting something awful if he stops favoring it, and keeps a hand on the edge of the table to help balance himself.
"Might as well head back up," he says slowly, casting the stairs a baleful glare before returning his attention to the other man. He observes Vasquez with his usual sharpshooter's stare. "Seems you don't wanna risk us runnin' into anyone, and the room upstair's about as private as we're gonna get."
Vasquez stubbornly continues to stand at full height, even if without his hat, his hair is rumpled and he's never bothered to fully do up the vest, which means he's not exactly very menacing and put-together. Still, now that Faraday is agreeing (again), he's confronted with the reality of following through on his word.
He can do this. There's no reason for him to turn tail and run, even though he would manage to get to his horse without Faraday being able to catch up to him. His arm may be bloody and hurt, but his legs are just fine. Breathing in deeply, he reprimands himself and moves towards the stairs to stand behind Faraday, glad he's not going to have to say too loudly that he's also scared of being marked as an easy target. He needs Faraday moving normally.
Then again, 'loud, drunken, cheat Irishman' isn't going to go unnoticed, but then, they can threaten and shoot their way through that problem. "Last thing we need is people talking what they don't know about," he says, accent rough and his English faltering a little in the mess of his thoughts. He reaches a hand out, beckoning him with a low whistle as he gestures for him to come. "Andale, guero," he says, focusing on the task at hand and not the one that comes after.
Faraday’s frown deepens as he watches the other man. The man is acting as though Faraday’s discovered some old, embarrassing, childhood secret, with the way he’s posturing and steeling himself. If this is how Vasquez is going to react whenever Faraday takes a chance on being reasonable, Faraday’s not quite sure if he ought to agree with him more or less often. Admittedly, there is something a little funny about the way Vasquez falters, and even as Faraday watches Vasquez with narrowed eyes, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
And apparently the amusement is enough to smooth away the barbed mess of his pride, and he accepts Vasquez’s help up the stairs with little complaint, one arm slung over Vasquez’s shoulders. It’s just as well, considering the trek down had done few favors for his energy; by the time they reach the upper floor, Faraday is exhausted all over again, teeth clenched against the ache of his bad leg.
When they make it back to the privacy of Faraday’s room, Faraday collapses onto his bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He wipes at his brow with the back of his wrist, the knuckles of his other hand digging into the knotted muscle of his thigh.
As with most things, the pain just makes Faraday angry, and he grits out, “Damned leg.”
"Shh, shh, sh," Vasquez clucks his tongue and gently tries to soothe away that pain like Faraday is a bolting horse, settling his things on the nearest table as he collects his dignity and his thoughts and bearings, which makes him like a different man. Of course, it could also be said that helping Faraday had shut down the worrying parts of his mind and made him focus only on the heat of Faraday's fingers on his shoulder, the pained sounds he's making.
He fetches the small wooden object the doctor had given, but as he sets a knee on the bed beside Faraday, he thinks maybe he'll try the hand first, what Faraday is doing with little effect. "Lay down," he coaxes, one hand on Faraday's shoulder as he slowly bears in to forcibly do it, staring at the small distance between them as he presses the other hand to Faraday's hip on the bad side, ready to play dirty if Faraday fights him on this.
"Let me help you," scratches out past the rawness of his throat, feeling exposed to the heart of it as he slides back towards the leg in question, settling on his behind rather than a knee and putting the cylindrical roll on the covers as he twists up his lips in concentration, forehead furrowed, before putting hands to the place to the side of where the worst of the scarring would be. The palpitations of his hand are slow, steady, but deep. "Say if it's too much," he insists.
Evidently it’s one thing to accept Vasquez’s offer; it’s an entirely different thing to accept his help. He watches Vasquez move around the room, gathering up his resolve like water collects other droplets on a window pane. It’s odd, it’s worrying, and Faraday’s jaw tics as he forces himself to swallow his own pride.
At Vasquez’s prompting, as Vasquez’s hand rests against his shoulder and hip, Faraday resists for a few seconds – mostly out of stubbornness – but he lays himself down on the bed, eyes narrowed as he watches Vasquez’s every move. Faraday feels exposed in a way he doesn’t quite appreciate. He trusts the other man with his life – that much was certain – but their current positions are precarious. It’s like wandering out onto the frozen surface of a lake, wondering if the ice will bear their weight, each step tentative and wary.
But soon enough, Vasquez sets in, fingers digging into the knotted muscle, and a pained grunt punches itself out through gritted teeth. It hurts, it aches, and even if Faraday knows it’s for the best, his initial instinct is to lash out, to curl up an protect himself like a wounded animal. He doesn’t, though, instead forcing his hands to twist into the covers on the bed, knuckles turning white and bloodless with the strength of his grip.
“I ain’t that delicate,” Faraday bites out. “It’s fine.”
Vasquez isn't sure what state he's in, but delicate is more than a good enough description for the way he's sort of losing control of himself, his mind, his thoughts. He banishes all panic about Faraday being hurt because he's not. He's mended and healed and Vasquez is only working on him because he's in pain. Inhaling sharply, he then tries not to think about how close he is with Faraday.
"You're in pain," he snaps right back at him, as irritable as Faraday but probably not for the same reasons. Somehow in all this mess, Vasquez went and did the thing he swore he'd never do -- take responsibility for someone.
He has to bear in a little if Faraday wants him to go harder, not straddling him exactly, but looming above him as he moves his other hand there as well, massaging in slow, prodding movements, brushing his thumb in a slow gentle sweep right after when he's done before repeating the same, starting to move down the line of his outside thigh. "Okay, guapo?" he checks.
Faraday scowls on instinct when Vasquez snaps at him. He would never admit it, but it’s better that Vasquez respond with that same fire – if there had been anything approaching pity, he would have put a stop to all of this and kicked Vasquez out to tend to his wounded pride.
As it is, it’s Faraday clenches his jaw, fingers twisted so tightly into the sheets that his hand shake. He holds his breath in his lungs as the pain sharpens and fades with each pass of Vasquez’s ministrations. It’s better, he thinks, though it feels as though it’s ages before it reaches that point, and he slowly lets the breath out through his lips.
“It’s fine,” he repeats, though his voice isn’t quite as strained as it had been the last time he said those words. Exhausted, sure, but not nearly as pained. He licks his lips, props himself up on an elbow. “The hell’s that mean? ‘Guapo.’” And he repeats back the word with his usual clumsy accent. Naturally, he assumes it’s a brand new insult, and Faraday bristles at it.
"You want to know what it means?" is Vasquez's absent reply as he avoids looking at Faraday while he works on the leg, taking advantage of the task at hand to give him a good excuse to not have to look Faraday in the eye and give away any sign that he'd just called the man 'handsome'. "Learn Spanish, then you'll know what I call you," he retorts.
He can tell that it's starting to help because some of the pain has melted away from Faraday's voice. Glancing up, he can also tell that he's in a more relaxed position, which means that it's time to bring the wooden cylinder into it, digging it and rolling it over the strong muscle of his thigh, his breaths deepening and evening out as he keeps his mind on the task at hand and not the fact his hands are all over Faraday.
Talk about getting what he wants, only not at all.
"I think, maybe, that's better," he says after a long while of pushing and touching, pressing his flat palm to the bad leg and feeling the warmth, squeezing lightly and moving his thumb in a hard drag up, then down. The hard swallow sets his Adam's apple bobbing and the sound echoes in his ears. He mutters a mild curse in Spanish as he leans back and realizes that putting all that effort and force into his fingers have made his arm ache, but he can tend to that with a hot bath later, absently rubbing at it before he lets his hand drop.
"Better enough to secure food, maybe?" he suggests. "Do something so I'm not the one doing everything between us, oye," he deadpans.
Faraday grunts out a noise of frustration. He hardly knows why he asks, at this point; it's been months, and Vasquez still hasn't explained what "guero" meant. Why would he explain this brand new nickname?
His grousing is interrupted when Vasquez turns that wooden thing on his leg – something Faraday can only describe as some sort of peculiar rolling pin – and a noise of discomfort is punched out of him again. His teeth catch on his lower lip, caging in any other pained noises he might make, but as Vasquez works at it, the pain fades. It still aches, of course, but the knotted mess has eased, and moving his leg doesn't seem like such a tall order anymore.
Vasquz's swears – foreign as they are – catch Faraday's attention, and despite all his complaints about Vasquez's fussing earlier, a concern flashes in Faraday's eyes. He hisses as he sits up a little, green eyes darting to where Vasquez's hand runs over the old wound on his arm.
His own concern is enough to override the instinctive annoyance at Vasquez's verbal jab. Rather than battle back with an insult of his own, he instead asks, "You doin' alright?"
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Vasquez's breath is hot against his ear, and in another moment, he'd notice the peculiar way it calms something in him. As it is now, Faraday concerns himself with keeping himself upright, pressing his brow against Vasquez's shoulder as he tries to catch his breath.
"I'm fine," he grits out. A lie, of course – he's anything but fine, and that’s clear just from looking at him. They’re alone, thankfully, which means no one saw that frankly shameful display of his attempt at traversing stairs (stairs, of all the damn things). "Lost my footing, is all."
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"You're not fine," he replies, but it's hissed quietly, already searching the room. Squeezing at Faraday's bad side, he gives some of the light pressure the doctor said might help, not just to help, but to guide. "There," he says. "Come on, let's get you sitting and I'll buy you a round of something strong enough to give you a second wind."
Of course, that means moving from this position and Vasquez tips his head to the ceiling, as if praying somehow to God to give him guidance about why he finds that to be such a disappointing idea.
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“The hell are you—?”
The pain doesn’t fade – Faraday doubts anything but an act of God might make it disappear, with the way it’s shrieking at him – but the sharpness of it is sanded away a little, allows him to take a deep breath at last. It’s helping a little, whatever it is Vasquez is doing, and Faraday’s grip on the other man’s vest eases. He pushes away, giving them both a little more room to breathe.
When Vasquez mentions buying him a round, Faraday huffs out an embittered sort of laugh.
“Better make that a promise,” he grits out – because alcohol will always be a strong motivator for a man who prefers to spend his days half-corned. He finally lifts his head, taking stock of their surroundings. A chair nearby seems his best bet, and Faraday clenches his jaw as he points himself toward it. It’s a testament to how badly he feels that he doesn’t try to make it on his own, or that he doesn’t grouse about needing the help. Instead, Faraday wordlessly maneuvers himself so that Vasquez supports his bad side, an arm thrown around Vasquez’s shoulders to keep himself upright.
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"Lo prometo," he vows, of the promise to get him alcohol. He drags the chair closer by hooking his ankle around one of the legs, bending to pull it over and maneuver Faraday's body carefully.
Settling him in, Vasquez leans over him as he has to push his weight forward with Faraday's to get him into the chair, taking a bit longer to step away than he should, because the worry is eating at him like a worry he hasn't felt in years. Eventually, he convinces himself that Faraday isn't going anywhere, that he won't be stupid enough to try.
"I'll be right back," Vasquez promises, digging through his pockets to find a cigarette and his matchbox, setting it down for Faraday to smoke while he's gone.
With no one around, he has to go to one of the townspeople who's awake, in this case, the master of the whorehouse and uses the man's own gold coins to sweet-talk him into a bottle of something strong. The proprietor looks him over, glances at the coin, then back as he slides a bottle of whiskey over. "For that, you can have an hour or so upstairs, if you like."
Vasquez raises his brow, briefly considering it, mainly because it has been a very long time and while he's lonely and starving for touch, you don't sleep with strange women because you could wake up with a gun to your forehead, being as most women would relish the chance for $500 and a new start. Lonely and cold, it is.
"I'll stick with the booze," Vasquez says, heading back to where he'd left Faraday, his pace quicker than he wants to think about. The relief is in his breath when he sees Faraday hasn't moved, lifting up the bottle with victory. "See? My word is good."
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Vasquez isn’t gone as long as Faraday might have figured, and not nearly long enough for Faraday to entertain the idea of standing, of stretching out the knotted, strained muscle of his bad leg. Instead, he kneads at his hip with the heel of his palm, cigarette held between the fingers of his other hand, and glances up when he hears the familiar tread of Vasquez’s step.
He’s come to recognize the weight of Vasquez’s footfalls on the wooden floors, the particular measure and weight of them. An odd thing, surely, and odder still to find comfort in the sound. Faraday doesn’t relax by any means, but when he spots Vasquez, he lets out a slow breath, smoke curling upward with the exhale. His expression doesn’t soften, but some of the hardness in his gaze fades away.
Faraday holds Vasquez’s matchbox out on the palm of his hand. “Here I thought you were all hot air,” he says, and he tries for something teasing, something to get Vasquez’s dander up. Instead, his voice comes out strained and exhausted.
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The snort on his lips is sincere as he takes the matches and tucks the into his vest pocket, but his brow is furrowed. "Only in the mornings," is his absent reply, his energy level about as low as Faraday's.
"Que esta mal?" he asks, hearing that weariness in his voice. "Is it your leg?" he asks, eyes slowly following the path of Faraday's hand, settling on where he has his fingers kneading against his hip. If they were upstairs, he could force Faraday to lie down and let Vasquez help, but this isn't as convenient.
"Do you want to go back up?" he suggests, probably hovering closer to fussing than Faraday likes, but he doesn't care.
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His gaze flits over to Vasquez at the unfamiliar words, and Faraday frowns on reflex. It’s just as well that Vasquez follows up in plain English, cutting off any possible complaints Faraday might have offered. As it is, Faraday considers denying it, just out of sheer, stubborn spite, but the both of them know the answer to Vasquez’s question. Lying about it won’t change the reality of it.
Faraday scowls down at his glass for a second before huffing out a frustrated sound. “Seized up on me,” he grits out. “That’s all.” And that’s putting it mildly, admittedly, but it’s as much of a concession as Faraday is likely to give.
He downs another mouthful, waiting for that warmth to pool in him. Drinking as often as he does means it will take some time yet before the liquor settles, before it starts loosening him up and taking away the worst of the pain. But sure enough, Vasquez starts fussing, and Faraday hasn’t had nearly enough whiskey yet to make the attention endearing rather than irritating.
“Stop that,” he snaps. “It’s a cramp, Vasquez. You’re actin’ like I’m some sickly granny stumblin’ out in the cold.”
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The problem is, Faraday's leg is seizing up after one flight of stairs. How are they supposed to ride out on it? It's not like Vasquez can go into towns for supplies or even be around Faraday too much when there are people, because a man with a distinctive limp will be easy to spot.
"Sorry that I'm worried it hurts you," he snaps, taken aback for a moment. He'd meant to cut sharper, say that he's sorry that he's worried about his own ass on the line with Faraday being so poorly, but in the heat of his anger, something else had come out. He's too tired and half-drunk, he decides, irritated with himself. "Maybe it's too soon to go," he says, deciding a fifth cigarette is exactly what he needs, bowing forward to light it and sucks it back until it calms him enough that he can take another drink.
"I don't know how I can help," he confesses bluntly.
For all that he might fuss or worry, the doctor has given him one thing to try helping, but he thinks only time and maybe alcohol will truly help. Shame that Vasquez's patience is starting to run low when it comes to seeing Faraday hurt.
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And Faraday, a man who talked in half-truths, smirking all the while, has no idea how to respond.
For a long while, he’s silent, staring at Vasquez blankly. The man might as well have spoken in his mother tongue, for all Faraday appears to comprehend him, but slowly, Faraday comes out of his daze, shaking himself.
“I don’t recall askin’ for help,” he croaks out. Moments ago, the words would have been cast out angrily, snapping like a chained dog. Now, however, his voice is uncertain, the words slow, like he’s testing each step and hoping for stable ground. He falls quiet again, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass, before gulps down another mouthful.
“Listen, Vasquez,” Faraday says, still slow, still uncertain. He pauses to wipe at the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. The admission he has to make is a bitter thing to say aloud, and for a second, he grimaces with it. He pushes himself onward, though. “Maybe I ain’t ready, after all. So if you’d rather move on...”
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How can he fight off Bogue and all his men, help steal Faraday from the clutches of death, and not be able to help the man? What good is he?
"Don't have to ask, that's the point," Vasquez rumbles, his voice low and sincere. He pinches at the thick paper of the cigarette as he holds it aloft, staring at the stream of smoke before he sticks it back into the corner of his lips to look to Faraday, watching him drink and consider, not sure he wants to know what's coming next.
Turns out, he's not surprised when Faraday launches into a stupid idea, though it's not like Vasquez knows what to do with it. So instead, he shrugs. "Move on where?" he retorts. "If you're trying to get rid of me and don't want me around, say so, guero. I'm not the one in a rush to leave town. No bounty hunters here today for my hairs," he points out. "Even if they are the handsomest ones in town," he can't help tease, trying desperately to get a rise out of Faraday or a laugh or something.
He reaches out and catches Faraday's wrist when he lifts his glass to drink, brushing his thumb against the pulse point before he lowers that hand, wanting Faraday to not be drinking when he speaks.
"They would give you a place to stay, I think," he says, heart beating higher and higher. "Maybe, I don't know, maybe I could stay too until you feel right."
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He lifts his glass, looking to finish the whiskey off, but Vasquez captures his wrist. Faraday blinks at him, startled and puzzled by the contact all over again. Weeks ago, a move like that would have had Faraday drawing his guns on the other man, shooting first before bothering to ask any questions. Now, though, he feels his heart lurch in his chest, feels a strange spark kick up in his stomach, but Vasquez’s calloused hand pulls away before Faraday can properly examine that peculiar sensation.
“I stay another minute in this town,” he grumbles, setting the glass back on the table, “I’m gonna go mad.”
Domesticity and Faraday mix about as well as oil and water, after all. He made a habit of staying in towns until the well had run dry – which typically meant a handful of days. He’s been in Rose Creek for months, now, with hardly anything to keep him occupied.
“You can’t honestly tell me you’re not itchin’ to get out just as much as I am.”
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"You said it before. I stay, someone finds me, they shoot me and then I'm dead," he says, even saying the words makes him edgy and sharp. "I can get supplies, I can make sure we're ready to go, but guerito," he exhales, shaking his head. "If you're not ready, then what are we supposed to do?"
He says we through this all, because the truth is, he's not going back out there on his own. He's not sure he could bear the loneliness again, especially not after he's met men like the others. Especially not after he's met Faraday and learned how good it feels to bicker and push and prod, have someone who's willing to match and meet you at every step. There are other reasons he wants to keep Faraday close, but seeing as they are impossible dreams that will get him shot, Vasquez keeps those to himself.
"I could try and help," he offers, a last resort, "with the pain. I could use my hands, try and work some of the aches the drinking doesn't take away. If not that, then what? I'm bad at stitching," he warns. "You don't want to open up on my watch."
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He follows suit in finishing off his glass of whiskey, and he deposits the empty tumbler back on the table. Vasquez's offer earns a slightly uncertain look.
"Most of me's healed up," Faraday reminds the other man. A few parts of him are still sewn shut, but even those bits are more healed than not; the wounds were unlikely to open up again, unless Faraday really set his mind to it (which he absolutely could, given it's Faraday.) It's the lingering aches and pains that are proving difficult to handle, even if Faraday refuses to admit as much aloud. It's the weakness that's settled into his bones that's holding him back.
He peers at Vasquez for a second, studying him. Then cautiously, he asks, "What is it the doctor showed you how to do, exactly?"
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Faraday is right that he's healed up, so maybe it's not about expecting to see Faraday split open again on the road. Maybe it's worse? Maybe some part of Vasquez can't bear to think of Faraday in pain, whereas when he'd met the man for the first time, all that he'd wanted to do was put a bullet through him.
Funny how much weeks can change your opinion. Sobriety, weeks, and the realization that Faraday is no worse than Vasquez himself and maybe that's what he's been missing out on. "The muscles, doctor says they must heal, but you have scars," he explains. "He says many don't agree, but that if you work at the muscle enough with your hands or un instrumento redondo, then maybe it will make the pain stop?"
"Worth a try," Vasquez gives his opinion with a shrug of his shoulders. "Could find a prettier face than mine to help you with it," he can't help adding at least one jibe, "but we both know there are no prettier."
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"Sounds like it'd just make things worse," he says slowly. If the muscle already aches, Faraday's not entirely certain if poking at it will make things much better. Then again, Faraday's not qualified to offer his thoughts on most things, aside from shooting or gambling, so what does he know?
He rolls his eyes at Vasquez's joke. "I can think of at least a dozen mugs a far sight easier on the eyes than yours, amigo," Faraday says, giving a vague wave of his hand toward the front door of the establishment. (Granted, he can think of them – a number of them were saloon girls whose name he's half-forgotten with time – but it doesn't necessarily mean he'd prefer their company to Vasquez's. But hell if he'll let the bastard know that.)
Faraday lets out a sigh, scrubbing at his face.
"So?" and the word comes out on an exhale. "We givin' this a shot?"
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"Maybe a spare room here or at the brothel?" He wishes he hadn't made that offer, belatedly, but it's already out. His skin prickles with the heat of embarrassment and he's on his feet, glancing up the stairs and wondering if he should bother to suggest they go back up again. "Or you can try the stairs the other way. I could help, if you want it," he offers.
Faraday looks beyond tired, a feeling Vasquez understands intimately. He hadn't been lying when he said he wants to get out of town, but not until he's sure there's a safe path. The last thing he needs is someone getting word that Vasquez is travelling with a limping Irishman, ready to shoot on sight as soon as they hit the town borders.
It's probably not going to be a very different life for him, still needing to hide and being far from safe, but he's deluding himself into thinking it will all be better because of Faraday. Maybe he's drunken than he'd thought. "You choose, guero," he offers. "Where do we go?"
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When Vasquez stands with obvious agitation, with his skin coloring with a sudden blush, Faraday can't help but stare at him, equal parts curious and startled. He's not sure if he's ever seen Vasquez quite like this, caught somewhere between wanting to bolt and staying put out of stubbornness. And Faraday, meanwhile, is caught between wanting to tease the other man relentlessly and keeping his gob shut.
And that's an effort for Faraday, keeping his mouth shut so he doesn't stick a foot in it, but somehow, he manages it. Still, he tucks the thoughts away for later, and carefully gets to his feet. He keeps his weight leaned to one side, his injured leg still smarting something awful if he stops favoring it, and keeps a hand on the edge of the table to help balance himself.
"Might as well head back up," he says slowly, casting the stairs a baleful glare before returning his attention to the other man. He observes Vasquez with his usual sharpshooter's stare. "Seems you don't wanna risk us runnin' into anyone, and the room upstair's about as private as we're gonna get."
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He can do this. There's no reason for him to turn tail and run, even though he would manage to get to his horse without Faraday being able to catch up to him. His arm may be bloody and hurt, but his legs are just fine. Breathing in deeply, he reprimands himself and moves towards the stairs to stand behind Faraday, glad he's not going to have to say too loudly that he's also scared of being marked as an easy target. He needs Faraday moving normally.
Then again, 'loud, drunken, cheat Irishman' isn't going to go unnoticed, but then, they can threaten and shoot their way through that problem. "Last thing we need is people talking what they don't know about," he says, accent rough and his English faltering a little in the mess of his thoughts. He reaches a hand out, beckoning him with a low whistle as he gestures for him to come. "Andale, guero," he says, focusing on the task at hand and not the one that comes after.
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Faraday’s frown deepens as he watches the other man. The man is acting as though Faraday’s discovered some old, embarrassing, childhood secret, with the way he’s posturing and steeling himself. If this is how Vasquez is going to react whenever Faraday takes a chance on being reasonable, Faraday’s not quite sure if he ought to agree with him more or less often. Admittedly, there is something a little funny about the way Vasquez falters, and even as Faraday watches Vasquez with narrowed eyes, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
And apparently the amusement is enough to smooth away the barbed mess of his pride, and he accepts Vasquez’s help up the stairs with little complaint, one arm slung over Vasquez’s shoulders. It’s just as well, considering the trek down had done few favors for his energy; by the time they reach the upper floor, Faraday is exhausted all over again, teeth clenched against the ache of his bad leg.
When they make it back to the privacy of Faraday’s room, Faraday collapses onto his bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He wipes at his brow with the back of his wrist, the knuckles of his other hand digging into the knotted muscle of his thigh.
As with most things, the pain just makes Faraday angry, and he grits out, “Damned leg.”
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He fetches the small wooden object the doctor had given, but as he sets a knee on the bed beside Faraday, he thinks maybe he'll try the hand first, what Faraday is doing with little effect. "Lay down," he coaxes, one hand on Faraday's shoulder as he slowly bears in to forcibly do it, staring at the small distance between them as he presses the other hand to Faraday's hip on the bad side, ready to play dirty if Faraday fights him on this.
"Let me help you," scratches out past the rawness of his throat, feeling exposed to the heart of it as he slides back towards the leg in question, settling on his behind rather than a knee and putting the cylindrical roll on the covers as he twists up his lips in concentration, forehead furrowed, before putting hands to the place to the side of where the worst of the scarring would be. The palpitations of his hand are slow, steady, but deep. "Say if it's too much," he insists.
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At Vasquez’s prompting, as Vasquez’s hand rests against his shoulder and hip, Faraday resists for a few seconds – mostly out of stubbornness – but he lays himself down on the bed, eyes narrowed as he watches Vasquez’s every move. Faraday feels exposed in a way he doesn’t quite appreciate. He trusts the other man with his life – that much was certain – but their current positions are precarious. It’s like wandering out onto the frozen surface of a lake, wondering if the ice will bear their weight, each step tentative and wary.
But soon enough, Vasquez sets in, fingers digging into the knotted muscle, and a pained grunt punches itself out through gritted teeth. It hurts, it aches, and even if Faraday knows it’s for the best, his initial instinct is to lash out, to curl up an protect himself like a wounded animal. He doesn’t, though, instead forcing his hands to twist into the covers on the bed, knuckles turning white and bloodless with the strength of his grip.
“I ain’t that delicate,” Faraday bites out. “It’s fine.”
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"You're in pain," he snaps right back at him, as irritable as Faraday but probably not for the same reasons. Somehow in all this mess, Vasquez went and did the thing he swore he'd never do -- take responsibility for someone.
He has to bear in a little if Faraday wants him to go harder, not straddling him exactly, but looming above him as he moves his other hand there as well, massaging in slow, prodding movements, brushing his thumb in a slow gentle sweep right after when he's done before repeating the same, starting to move down the line of his outside thigh. "Okay, guapo?" he checks.
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As it is, it’s Faraday clenches his jaw, fingers twisted so tightly into the sheets that his hand shake. He holds his breath in his lungs as the pain sharpens and fades with each pass of Vasquez’s ministrations. It’s better, he thinks, though it feels as though it’s ages before it reaches that point, and he slowly lets the breath out through his lips.
“It’s fine,” he repeats, though his voice isn’t quite as strained as it had been the last time he said those words. Exhausted, sure, but not nearly as pained. He licks his lips, props himself up on an elbow. “The hell’s that mean? ‘Guapo.’” And he repeats back the word with his usual clumsy accent. Naturally, he assumes it’s a brand new insult, and Faraday bristles at it.
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He can tell that it's starting to help because some of the pain has melted away from Faraday's voice. Glancing up, he can also tell that he's in a more relaxed position, which means that it's time to bring the wooden cylinder into it, digging it and rolling it over the strong muscle of his thigh, his breaths deepening and evening out as he keeps his mind on the task at hand and not the fact his hands are all over Faraday.
Talk about getting what he wants, only not at all.
"I think, maybe, that's better," he says after a long while of pushing and touching, pressing his flat palm to the bad leg and feeling the warmth, squeezing lightly and moving his thumb in a hard drag up, then down. The hard swallow sets his Adam's apple bobbing and the sound echoes in his ears. He mutters a mild curse in Spanish as he leans back and realizes that putting all that effort and force into his fingers have made his arm ache, but he can tend to that with a hot bath later, absently rubbing at it before he lets his hand drop.
"Better enough to secure food, maybe?" he suggests. "Do something so I'm not the one doing everything between us, oye," he deadpans.
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His grousing is interrupted when Vasquez turns that wooden thing on his leg – something Faraday can only describe as some sort of peculiar rolling pin – and a noise of discomfort is punched out of him again. His teeth catch on his lower lip, caging in any other pained noises he might make, but as Vasquez works at it, the pain fades. It still aches, of course, but the knotted mess has eased, and moving his leg doesn't seem like such a tall order anymore.
Vasquz's swears – foreign as they are – catch Faraday's attention, and despite all his complaints about Vasquez's fussing earlier, a concern flashes in Faraday's eyes. He hisses as he sits up a little, green eyes darting to where Vasquez's hand runs over the old wound on his arm.
His own concern is enough to override the instinctive annoyance at Vasquez's verbal jab. Rather than battle back with an insult of his own, he instead asks, "You doin' alright?"
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