He takes off his hat to run his fingers through his hair, not so sure what to think or feel because he thought Faraday would come back swinging (maybe even literally). Instead, he looks like Vasquez has taken a knife to him and prodded at old wounds.
Faraday is also so wrong that it's almost comical. "My warrant trapped me," he wants to make that so very clear. "Being with you was what made all the danger and the trapping worth it." He needs Faraday to stop being so thickheaded and stupid about this, even if his feelings on this matter are so complicated.
It's true that what they were doing was trapping him, though. "I didn't like sitting by myself at a campsite while you fetched supplies, enjoyed the town. Joshua, you're no idiot, not really," he points out. "One day, those visits are going to get longer, longer, and then what?"
"I want a bed, I want meals, I want to not think that every time I go into a saloon, I could end up in a jail cell and you need to rescue me again," he says, sinking onto the milking stool when he feels so fucking tired, running both hands over his face as he hunches over.
I love you, he doesn't say, because it will hurt too much to admit. "Eres todo para mí," is said out loud, and it hurts just as much, but at least it's something Faraday won't understand how much it cuts him to be here, be safe and have all these things he wants, but lose out on the rest.
Faraday nearly snarls on instinct – he and insults never have met eye to eye, especially not when they came from Vasquez. But for once, he forces the distaste down, trying to keep a level head while everything seems to fall apart.
Stupid, really. Idiotic. He had told himself it was fine that Vasquez had left him behind like deadweight, that if the bastard didn't want to be found, he'd leave him to it. But now that Vasquez is here, looking like absolute shit, it's so much harder to just leave it be.
He forces himself to listen – to really listen – as Vasquez speaks. He visibly bristles at the implication that he would leave Vasquez behind as Vasquez had done to him, but he lets the man say his piece.
When Vasquez switches to his mother tongue, though, Faraday can't help it – he throws up his hands and lets out an aggravated grunt.
"You know that damn well ain't fair," he snaps, angrier and sharper than he intends. He winces at himself but after a pause, he presses on instead of apologizing. "You can't just keep sayin' shit in Spanish at me when you know I don't know what the hell you mean. Either talk to me or don't, Vasquez. This ain't gonna work otherwise."
At this point, what else is there left to lose? He's tired and he doesn't think that there's anything that he should withhold. He's said his piece about what he thinks and why he's here, so why not let Faraday know how well and truly it wrecked him to make this decision.
"Fine," he gets out, gesturing absently to him. "You get so mad at me, but you never learn it," he mutters to himself, because even if he's about to fully bare his heart, he can't help a small jibe. He wouldn't be himself and Faraday wouldn't be Faraday if not for it. Rising to his feet to hang up the milking bucket, he grabs his hat and settles it back on his head.
"I said that you are everything to me," he says flatly, keeping his voice steady, but not without emotion. "And I don't say it out loud, but I think it. Te amo, that I love you, you stubborn mule," he sighs, and shakes his head. "Which is why I want you to enjoy your life and not be stuck in Rose Creek with me, that I can't bear to think of you getting tired of me because of my warrant, that I don't want to run it to ruin on a dusty trail."
He's so tired. He's been up since dawn working and this has exhausted him. He's had a smoke, but he needs a drink. "I'm going to the saloon," he informs Faraday. "I'll buy a bottle, if you're planning to join and shout at me more."
Of all the answers Faraday expects to get, that certainly wasn't it.
And it shows, in the way his anger drains away to outright shock, shoulders dropping and eyes widening. The hands he had balled into fists go slack, and his mouth nearly drops open. He rocks back to make space as Vasquez moves, replacing his milk bucket, retrieving his hat.
For once, Faraday doesn't seem to know what to say.
He stands there, transfixed for a moment, letting Vasquez put more space between them as he makes his hasty retreat. Eventually, though, Faraday shakes himself out of his stunned silence as he hurries after the other man, limping slightly. (The turn in weather affects his wounds, and in particular it makes the scar in his thigh put up one hell of a fuss.)
"We're not done yet," he grits out, gathering his jacket a little closer around him. He pays it a bit more attention than strictly necessary, since he's not entirely sure if he can look Vasquez's way, still reeling as Faraday is. "But you sure as hell owe me a drink."
Vasquez nearly points to the nearest seat to insist that Faraday sits and they work on his leg before they continue, but he steadily steels himself not to. That's not his task, it's not his job, and it's not his right to lay hands on Faraday's body like this. He tenses every muscle in his body to force himself not to touch, grabbing his jacket as he heads towards the saloon.
He's been here long enough to have familiarity with folks, tipping his hat to the ones he sees, offering polite greetings. He has no fucking idea how they can't be done (what else is there left to say?), but he's also not wanting Faraday to leave.
He buys a bottle of whiskey instead of tequila and settles in his usual spot, a table in the corner near the card game. He sits here because he can imagine that they're Faraday, hustling someone out of their money. Today, he doesn't need to imagine that, though, because he's here.
The whole process is a reminder on its own about how safe he is here. He's able to buy a drink, he can talk and sit, he doesn't have to lie. Pouring two glasses, he slides one over to Faraday, not sure what's left to talk about. "There, I'll start working down my debt," he says sarcastically.
"You should take care of your leg more," he says, because apparently, he can't let that go. "Or you'll do something stupid and lose it."
Faraday falls a pace behind as Vasquez leads the way to the saloon. He offers up smiles and a few words of greeting to the faces he recognizes, and he’s still a little taken aback by the warm welcome he still receives. In the days before leaving, he recalls being a giant ass, remembers snapping at well-meaning folks asking after his wounds, offering their assistance in navigating stairs or a shoulder to lean on as he made the trek from the boarding house to the livery stable to check on Jack.
Apparently time has soothed away those sour memories, and Faraday isn’t likely to bring them back up again.
They sit at a corner table, and in a different moment, his attention might have been drawn to the card game not too far away. Now, though, he pulls of his hat, setting it on the table as he accepts the glass of whiskey. Naturally, he downs it all in one go, letting the familiar numbing burn travel its way down his throat. He slides it back over to Vasquez for a refill.
The nagging is familiar and not entirely welcome; he grimaces at Vasquez across the table and can’t help but snap back, “What, are you sayin’ it’s gonna get up and walk off in the middle of the night and leave behind scribbled note, too?”
He thinks that he probably deserves the jibe, but it still stings. He pours Faraday's drink a little closer to the rim this time and he sets the glass just before him, his fingers not lingering because he's stung to the point that he snaps back in his chair, back hitting it hard. "You think if I waited until you woke up, I could have gotten away?" He wouldn't have been able to.
"I'm not strong enough to be responsible, that weight, someone else that you love like this..." He's a coward, he knows that, but it doesn't make it any easier to bear. Fuck, he misses Faraday though. He knows he's not allowed to, but he does.
Shrugging helplessly, he knocks back his whiskey, but doesn't refill. "What do you want me to do? I can't go back and undo it? I don't even think I should."
For a split second, when that hurt flashes across Vasquez’s face, Faraday feels like he should be sorry for the dig at Vasquez’s expense – feels like he should, but for all that he feels guilty about it, he’s not sorry in the slightest. Faraday can be petty as hell – one of the many flaws that make up his personality – and a part of him feels vindicated that the comment stung.
But any satisfaction he might have felt is swept away when Vasquez says that. “Love.” Hardly easy for the man to say, admittedly, but even less easy for Faraday to hear, and he quickly averts his gaze to the refilled glass.
He’s silent for a long while, the companionable noise of the bar filling the space for him. He can feel the weight of the townsfolks’ gazes on his shoulders, most of them curious and eager to speak with him, to goad him into spinning one of his many yarns like he used to, back when the pain of his injuries had faded to a dull ache and his mood had improved enough for it. But they’re either too polite or too aware of the tension snapping between Faraday and Vasquez to interrupt.
What do you want me to do? Vasquez asks, and Faraday’s brow furrows.
Faraday is thinking, as he sits there – an ability that many of his compatriots assumed he lacked the capacity for, despite how observant and insightful he can be. (Not that he always is.) His jaw clenches briefly before his gaze snaps up to Vasquez. He leans forward a little, elbows on the table, voice pitched low to ward off prying ears.
“I want you to leave with me,” he says, the words tumbling out a little clumsily, like he worries if he thinks about them much longer, they won’t come out at all. A muscle in his jaw tics before he forces himself to continue. “When the worst of the cold is done, leave with me. We’ll go up north, or down south, or wherever the hell you want. Anywhere they won’t recognize you.”
He's not sure how he feels when Faraday looks away from him after Vasquez goes and bears his heart like that. He buttons it up, sews it away, and tells himself that he shouldn't be surprised. Tigers don't change their stripes, Faraday isn't going to suddenly soften just because Vasquez admitted the truth of why he'd run.
That he was scared, that he's a coward, and that he doesn't know how to love anyone.
When Faraday speaks, Vasquez is counting on a curt beginning to a goodbye. He thinks maybe this will be when Faraday tries to cut his losses and go. Instead, he says that he wants Vasquez to go with him. He doesn't just want him to go, he wants to go north or south, places that he didn't think Faraday would ever entertain.
Suspicious, he's not so sure they're on the same page. "How south?" he asks, because if he doesn't want to be recognized, he has the feeling they're not just talking about Texas, seeing as where that's where the trouble had all started.
“South as you want,” Faraday says, oblivious to the suspicious look Vasquez cuts him, though there’s a slight upturn to the words, like he’s almost posing it as a question. He shrugs a little helplessly, shaking his head. “South as you need. Down into the territories, maybe. Arizona or New Mexico. Or, hell, I dunno. Farther than that, if that’s what you want.”
He loses a bit of steam, then, jaw clenching, before he looks down at the table at his still full glass. He knocks back the shot of whiskey, breathing through the familiar burn that fills his nose, travels down his throat. This, at least, has the small advantage of re-centering him, though he knows all too well that too much “re-centering” might fog up his head, make him do or say something he’ll regret once he’s sober again.
“I ain’t married to California,” he says with finality. He’s wandered all along the coast, in and out of the various territories that make the west; maybe he had a preference for the freedom this far out, but a part of him thinks he’d abandon that, if Vasquez wanted.
And that’s a part of him he doesn’t want to examine too closely right now.
He wonders if Faraday would follow him all the way down into Mexico if that's what Vasquez wanted. It's a test that seems like maybe it would go too far, but he puts that thought in the back of his mind. Vasquez is still stuck on the part where Faraday wants him to go with him, once the weather turns for the better.
Of course he wants to go. He's miserable here without Faraday, stuck in a place that he's only in because he knows he's safe.
What if they did go outside of the bounty's reach? What if he managed to escape it somehow, and be with Faraday. It's dangerous to reach out and touch him, here, but that's all he wants. He aches with the need and he stares longingly at Faraday, thinking he doesn't want to be here, not right now.
"I'll pay for the drinks, but we should go back to my farm," he insists. There are things he wants to talk about that he doesn't want to say in public, but he wants to discuss the arrangement. He wants to say yes, but he wants to touch Faraday so badly, it's nearly the most he's ever wanted to do anything.
He's sure the look on his face tells Faraday plenty about how willing he is to accept the offer.
There’s a brief, dizzying moment where a brittle sort of hope lances through the worst of his anger and frustration, and for a little while, he forgets he’s supposed to be mad as hell at Vasquez, forgets that he had privately resolved to not let the bastard forget the god awful way he handled leaving Faraday behind.
That hopeful look on Vasquez’s face is briefly mirrored in Faraday’s eyes, and a small, tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Vasquez hasn’t said yes, obviously. He hasn’t agreed to anything. But neither has he said no, and that’s the fact that Faraday can’t help but latch onto. And he wonders if maybe, for once in his giant mess of a life, things might actually work out.
But there’s a peel of laughter somewhere behind him that startles him out of his daze, and he seems to remember himself in that moment. He schools his expression back to something neutral – as if to signal to Vasquez that he’s still not entirely off the hook. As if sensing that the storm between Faraday and Vasquez has passed, a few of the men start calling out Faraday’s name, voices made loud and consonants made slightly lazy with a couple of drinks.
“Joshua Faraday,” someone else shouts companionably, “you get your ass over here!”
Faraday turns in his seat, waving a dismissive hand to silently say, Keep your shirt on.
“We’ll go after we make a few rounds,” he tells Vasquez, trying for something that sounds like reluctance – like he’s granting Vasquez a great favor by heading back with him. It doesn’t quite hit the mark, though, considering Faraday’s already tipped his hand mere seconds ago, and they both know it. His mood, at least, seems far lighter. “You and me have got an adoring public to entertain.”
Vasquez startles with the laughter as well, like the spell has been broken. He'd been too busy thinking about being in towns where he could easily converse with an innkeeper and get a room, order food without worrying about being run out of town.
He knows in all these situations that he would have Faraday at his side, both for protection and because he wants him to be there. He can't find it in him to be upset about this, though.
When they call Faraday over, he tries very hard not to get annoyed, but it's a close thing. After all, he'd been hoping that he could head back to the farm and start to make up for his mistake of abandoning Faraday on the road, but he supposes a few more rounds can't hurt. At least, not truly.
They can frustrate and they can annoy, but they can't hurt.
"I think they're more your adoring public, right now," he observes. "Mainly, they're annoyed by my bad moods while I drink." He gestures for Faraday to go join them, though. "Go, enjoy it."
Faraday gets to his feet, carefully stretching his bad leg once he’s out of his chair. He pauses, though, when Vasquez waves him on. For a brief, strained second, Faraday’s expression closes-off, lips pressing into a thin line and eyes narrowing a little. There’s a high probability, though, that with all the time the two of them have spent together – current events notwithstanding – Vasquez might recognize the flicker of uncertainty in Faraday’s eyes.
It lasts for all of a heartbeat, and Faraday smooths out his expression into his usual mask – the unconcerned look of a man who takes nothing seriously, who carries no burdens on his shoulders.
(Obviously, that’s far from the case, but Faraday has always been a convincing conman.)
“Be here when I get back,” he commands, and even if there’s a wry tilt to his words, there’s also an unspoken warning in his voice. Faraday is reasonably sure he doesn’t need to say it, and it’s almost certainly unfair to keep picking at that scab, but Vasquez has set a precedent of leaving Faraday in the dust – a precedent that Faraday isn’t soon to forget.
Reluctantly, then, he turns from the table, plastering on a bright grin – his showman’s smile – as he steps toward the men who had called him a moment ago. He’s greeted by a chorus of delighted shouts as he makes his way over, as he suffers through sociable pats on the shoulders and numerous shouts of “how the hell are you, you son of a bitch?”
True to the promises he made earlier in the day, he tells the men and women of Rose Creek how he’s fared since he left – and he feels far more in his element than he has since Vasquez left him, his mood buoyed by their earlier conversation. He doesn’t see fit to lie about the time he spent with Vasquez, though he’s wise enough to keep the private dalliances to himself. He is, however, prone to exaggeration. Towns become larger or smaller as his story needs, women become prettier, men become uglier, card games and arguments become more fraught with tension. It’s the natural tendency of a good storyteller, after all, and every laughing shout of “Bullshit!” is answered with Faraday pressing one hand to his heart, lifting the other with his palm facing his accuser, and saying solemnly, “I swear on my honor, compadre.”
Granted, Faraday has very little honor to begin with, but the other folks are wise enough to not point that out.
He weaves his tales a little longer than he expects, but not nearly so long that the night has been exhausted. He deftly avoids having to retell the circumstances of why he and Vasquez parted ways, and the others seem to know better than to try to ask a second time. By the time he’s done, he’s rosy-cheeked and warm, thanks to the drinks and food pressed upon him, but rather than waste away the rest of the night by drinking himself silly, he eventually pushes back from the table with a minimal amount of swaying and says his goodbyes. He turns down all invitations and offers of places to stay.
“A certain vaquero already beat you folks to the punch,” he tells them plainly, and he turns to look over his shoulder, back to Vasquez’s table.
(A small part of him worries he’ll see only an empty chair.)
Vasquez heads to the bar to buy himself the largest bottle of tequila that he knows he can manage to drink without getting so blackout drunk that tonight will be a shitshow. The bartender looks like he might hold it back from him, but then again, he knows the maudlin moods he gets into when he's here usually.
"It's fine," Vasquez mutters, hearing the riotous laughter behind him. As much as he knows he should remain steady and keep his face muted, he can't help the private smile on his lips as he hears Faraday spin his yarns and be the storyteller he loves.
Whatever happiness washes over him must help to convince the man to give him his liquor, because Vasquez walks back to the table successful. He picks the seat that lets him have a direct line of sight to Faraday, watching him in this role that he loves best. It fills him with the absolute certainty that his feelings for Faraday haven't changed or diminished at all.
His fear had made him run, but equally, his desire to make sure Faraday had a good life. He thought that life meant being here, in California, where he knew the land and the people. Maybe he is thicker than he thought and he just hasn't been thinking through this.
No matter how much time passes, he waits out Faraday, waits for him to finish drinking, and when he hears him use the Spanish, he ducks his head down. It's how Faraday will find him, his head lowered, a fondly amused look on his face as he catches his gaze and holds it.
I'm still here, it says. I'm not going anywhere this time.
Faraday can’t help it – his grin grows wider, far more genuine, once his gaze settles on Vasquez, on the almost shy but unmistakably affectionate look the man gives him. His chest clenches sweetly, the warm twist magnified by the liquor, for reasons he couldn’t possibly name and doesn’t much care to, and he breathes out a quiet laugh.
(Fuck, he thinks. Beneath all the anger and frustration at being abandoned, ditched like a sack of rotted wheat on the side of the road, beneath the worry and the bone-deep hurt, Faraday has missed this infuriating, gorgeous bastard.)
To his right, Teddy Q glances between the two of them, the familiarity of that look seemingly clicking in his head. He’s seen that sort of look before, of course. (Billy Rocks and Goodnight Robicheaux were subtle, but neither did they care to be subtle enough.) While the other men and women try to coax Faraday into staying for another round, another story, Teddy Q takes up the cause. He clears his throat a little awkwardly and says over the clamor, “We oughta let Mr. Faraday get his rest. I’m sure he’s had a long day.”
Faraday startles a little, casting Teddy an owlish, confused look before nodding with gratitude. He promises, “I’ll be hangin’ around a while yet. Wouldn’t want you all gettin’ your fill of me too soon.”
He retreats, then, to a minimal amount of good-natured grumbling. His steps are only a little unsteady thanks to the alcohol swimming in his system, and he returns to Vasquez. He doesn’t reclaim a seat, though, opting instead to rest his arm on the chair’s top rail and lean against it.
His smile turns a little crooked, eyebrow quirking upward. “Now, then. I believe you were shelterin’ me from the cold?”
The more Faraday stares back at him, the warmer he feels. It's like his whole body is imbued with it and he can't help the way he laughs, ducking his head down, feeling like he's some idiot kid again, because he can't help how stupidly in love with this man he is. Maybe it's going to be a problem, maybe it will even cost him his life, but he thinks it will at least be interesting up until that point.
God, he should have stayed and talked. He shouldn't have run, but he suspects he'll be paying for this mistake for some time. That's a lesson he didn't want to learn, but it's going to happen because he didn't think about it, the way he should have.
When Faraday finally comes back, the tequila in his bottle is still more than half full. It's a sign how much he's been patient and steady, not wanting to get too drunk when he wants to be clear-headed. He's sure when they talk more soon, there's going to be plenty to say, so he doesn't want to be drunk.
"I think I could spare some room at the house," he says, casually shrugging like he's going to have to think about it. Eyes locked on Faraday, he's on his feet easily so he can pay their tab and head out, careful not to walk too fast so the cold won't set in and make his leg ache.
On the trip back, he doesn't fill the air with words. The ones he wants to share are much too private and he doesn't want anyone to eavesdrop, so he waits until they're back to the house, where he can shed his coat and settle against the hutch, leaning there and waiting for Faraday to catch up.
Faraday, for his part, looks a bit like he’s been standing out in the sun, with how flushed his cheeks are; restraint has never been his strongest suit, after all. But he follows after Vasquez well enough, thanks to years and years of practice of handling his liquor, with only a couple of stumbles that set him snorting with self-deprecation.
He’s content to walk in silence, breathing in the crisp, chilled air and hoping it will sober him, at least a little. The combination of cheap booze and Vasquez’s unhurried pace keeps him from feeling the soreness of his body. In recent days, as the sun dipped beyond the horizon quicker, as the temperatures dropped, old wounds had been roused to life by the cold, like a storm revealing hidden depths in riverbeds. It’s one of the many reasons why he came back to Rose Creek: he needed a temporary haunt to weather the colder days to come, when traveling with aching ribs and an uncooperative leg was certain to spell disaster. He could have chosen any little town, but the siren call of familiar faces – and more than that, familiar faces who might actually respect him – proved too tempting.
Finding Vasquez had been an unplanned consequence.
He’s only a pace or two behind Vasquez, as the other man enters his home. Faraday pauses on the threshold before tentatively stepping in, shutting the door behind him. He shrugs out of his own coat and doffs his hat a little slower than necessary. Away from the noise and light and heat of the saloon, Faraday suddenly feels out of sorts. He licks his lips for a brief second before turning back to Vasquez.
“Not much to look at, is it?” he asks a little teasingly, with an absent flick of his hand toward the room. Given the absent delivery and the fact that Faraday has hardly looked around, there’s a high probability that he would have said the same thing, even if Vasquez had walked him into the finest palace known to man.
Vasquez doesn't do anything yet. He's still leaning against the hutch, taking his hat off without daring to take his eyes off of Faraday for a second. It's been so long that he doesn't know where to start or what to do, other than look his fill at the man in front of him.
"Maybe not the guest room, but I built a new bed last month," Vasquez says, starting to wander towards it, not taking his eyes off of Faraday. Then again, he thinks maybe he's jumping ahead, because he meant to bring them back here to talk about logistics.
He sets the bottle on the kitchen table and sits himself in one of the chairs, gesturing for Faraday to join him.
"How long after the cold do you want to wait, before we go?" He's already debating whether he wants them to go north or south, but there's no question about whether he's going with Faraday. That's absolutely going to happen, there's no question.
Faraday notices the intense way Vasquez studies him, but he makes no outward sign of it – he’s had years and years to master his poker face, after all. It’s his own little secret game, maybe, to maintain his composure to see which of them caves first, but the weight of Vasquez’s eyes on him, that bare edge of something like hunger, makes a spark reluctantly ignite in his gut.
A mulish part of him wants to keep being angry – a way to conceal how genuinely gutted he had felt when he woke alone – but that small, burgeoning sense of optimism, the numbness from the whiskey, the overwhelming relief at seeing Vasquez alive and well, slowly eats away at his resolve.
He joins Vasquez at the table, easing himself into the chair opposite the other man. Vasquez’s question puts to bed that last nagging bit of uncertainty – he had never outright agreed, back at the bar – but Faraday still finds himself straightening a little, taken aback, and reflexively asking, “You’re comin’ with me, then?”
"I made the stupidest mistake of my life leaving that note," he admits, because with this distance and having Faraday here to repair it, he can at least say that. "I got scared. After what happened, I knew I couldn't go into towns and I knew eventually I would be sick of that and you would be sick of staying out there with me."
He hadn't thought Faraday would be willing to go to different places with him and that's his own stubbornness.
He lets his foot slide just a little under the table to where it rests nudged up against Faraday's, letting it sit there, like it's only after the warmth. Vasquez isn't trying to start anything (yet), but he does want to show how much he wants this.
"Would you be willing to go to Mexico?" he asks, testing the boundaries of his offer.
The words, You sure as hell did, sit on the tip of his tongue, but for once, Faraday exhibits a rare bit of self-control and swallows them down before he can fling them. He listens as Vasquez speaks, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he digests what Vasquez says.
It’s a familiar feeling, he has to admit. That fear that one day, the other man would grow tired of him – of his aches and pains, of the way his pace lagged on bad days, of his foul tempers. Only difference is, Vasquez had fled to avoid the pain of being left behind before Faraday had even realized that was an option.
His grip on his anger loosens a little more at the bare brush of contact, evidenced by the way his shoulders drop ever so slightly from how he had them squared up, by the way his expression softens the barest fraction.
Faraday pauses to consider Vasquez’s question, tongue darting out to wet his lips, gaze growing slightly distant. That’s— much further south than he’s ever been before; he never had much of an interest, considering his tricks weren't likely to work quite so well when he couldn't use his self-proclaimed silver tongue to smooth things over. Rightfully so, he gives careful thought to his answer.
“We can try it,” he says slowly, running a hand down his beard. “Can’t say as I’ve ever had a mind to travel down that far.”
It's not that Vasquez had been testing Faraday outright, but when he hears the agreement, something shifts in him. He thinks it's the awareness of how much he means to Faraday, even if he'll never hear it outright in words, but the fact that he'd be willing to travel to a country where he doesn't understand the language, where he's never known the people, doesn't know how to settle in, that says so much to him.
He wants so fucking badly to head to the bedroom, strip Faraday of every piece of clothing, and start showering him in apologies and kisses, but he knows they still need to talk.
"Maybe once it's warm, north isn't so bad either," he admits, because he thinks they could even head east, if it comes to that. Though, he's not sure what he'd make of the people there. He likes the west, because it allows him to be who he is. Men like Goodnight come from back east, which should say a lot about the place.
"We'll be there together," he says, and nudges his foot against Faraday's again, this time a little firmer. "At least, once the cold lets up. I hate the cold and you bitched too much when the temperature dropped. Besides, I have that nice new bed, don't I?"
It's an invitation, an opening, and if Faraday wants to take it, he can.
The suggestion to head north is met with a slightly more certain nod, this time. He's been up through Oregon at least once, though he hasn't ventured into the Washington Territory just yet; he can't imagine it being all that different from California.
Faraday isn't entirely sure if that's a promise, the statement that they'll be together, but he feels that same sweet twist in his chest, the one that punches the breath from his lungs and draws an unbidden smile to his lips. The reminder of the cold earns Vasquez a dismissive snort, a quick grumbled, "I didn't bitch," though the delivery is half-hearted at best.
But Faraday takes the hint, exhaling quietly – something close to a laugh – and he straightens a little in his seat.
"I think how nice it is remains to be seen, amigo," and he purposely mangles the pronunciation, makes the vowels twang. He nods toward the room he assumes is the bedroom. "Go on, then. Show it off, if you like."
He thinks maybe Mexico is going to be the place that he saves for when they're both on more comfortable footing. Right now, it still feels like there's a bridge between them and it's going to be a while before they're actually comfortable and the way it used to be. Maybe it will never go back to the way it was, he doesn't know. All that he does know is that Faraday is here, by whatever lucky chance, and Vasquez got a second chance he didn't even know he'd been praying for.
"You bitched," he agrees, but it's fond, making it clear how very little Vasquez minded. After all, what would their relationship be if Faraday didn't complain and whine most of the time? Definitely not nearly as fun.
He's already toying with the top button of his vest as he gets to his feet, leading Faraday slowly towards the bedroom, an amused look on his face that's only barely masking the hungrier one lying beneath it. He very much wants to talk about the North some more, when they're going to leave, but he also can't lie - the thought of Faraday mostly to himself for weeks here could end up stifling, but it's mostly tempting.
It's good to make up for lost time.
He pushes the door open to reveal the bed he'd poured all his frustrations and worries and guilt into. It's a large thing, big and four posters, taking up most of the room. The wood has been worked by hand (sanded and carved down) and Emma had been good enough to lend him the beddings. Even with his desire to get out of one place, he knows he's going to end up missing this bed.
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Faraday is also so wrong that it's almost comical. "My warrant trapped me," he wants to make that so very clear. "Being with you was what made all the danger and the trapping worth it." He needs Faraday to stop being so thickheaded and stupid about this, even if his feelings on this matter are so complicated.
It's true that what they were doing was trapping him, though. "I didn't like sitting by myself at a campsite while you fetched supplies, enjoyed the town. Joshua, you're no idiot, not really," he points out. "One day, those visits are going to get longer, longer, and then what?"
"I want a bed, I want meals, I want to not think that every time I go into a saloon, I could end up in a jail cell and you need to rescue me again," he says, sinking onto the milking stool when he feels so fucking tired, running both hands over his face as he hunches over.
I love you, he doesn't say, because it will hurt too much to admit. "Eres todo para mí," is said out loud, and it hurts just as much, but at least it's something Faraday won't understand how much it cuts him to be here, be safe and have all these things he wants, but lose out on the rest.
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Stupid, really. Idiotic. He had told himself it was fine that Vasquez had left him behind like deadweight, that if the bastard didn't want to be found, he'd leave him to it. But now that Vasquez is here, looking like absolute shit, it's so much harder to just leave it be.
He forces himself to listen – to really listen – as Vasquez speaks. He visibly bristles at the implication that he would leave Vasquez behind as Vasquez had done to him, but he lets the man say his piece.
When Vasquez switches to his mother tongue, though, Faraday can't help it – he throws up his hands and lets out an aggravated grunt.
"You know that damn well ain't fair," he snaps, angrier and sharper than he intends. He winces at himself but after a pause, he presses on instead of apologizing. "You can't just keep sayin' shit in Spanish at me when you know I don't know what the hell you mean. Either talk to me or don't, Vasquez. This ain't gonna work otherwise."
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"Fine," he gets out, gesturing absently to him. "You get so mad at me, but you never learn it," he mutters to himself, because even if he's about to fully bare his heart, he can't help a small jibe. He wouldn't be himself and Faraday wouldn't be Faraday if not for it. Rising to his feet to hang up the milking bucket, he grabs his hat and settles it back on his head.
"I said that you are everything to me," he says flatly, keeping his voice steady, but not without emotion. "And I don't say it out loud, but I think it. Te amo, that I love you, you stubborn mule," he sighs, and shakes his head. "Which is why I want you to enjoy your life and not be stuck in Rose Creek with me, that I can't bear to think of you getting tired of me because of my warrant, that I don't want to run it to ruin on a dusty trail."
He's so tired. He's been up since dawn working and this has exhausted him. He's had a smoke, but he needs a drink. "I'm going to the saloon," he informs Faraday. "I'll buy a bottle, if you're planning to join and shout at me more."
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And it shows, in the way his anger drains away to outright shock, shoulders dropping and eyes widening. The hands he had balled into fists go slack, and his mouth nearly drops open. He rocks back to make space as Vasquez moves, replacing his milk bucket, retrieving his hat.
For once, Faraday doesn't seem to know what to say.
He stands there, transfixed for a moment, letting Vasquez put more space between them as he makes his hasty retreat. Eventually, though, Faraday shakes himself out of his stunned silence as he hurries after the other man, limping slightly. (The turn in weather affects his wounds, and in particular it makes the scar in his thigh put up one hell of a fuss.)
"We're not done yet," he grits out, gathering his jacket a little closer around him. He pays it a bit more attention than strictly necessary, since he's not entirely sure if he can look Vasquez's way, still reeling as Faraday is. "But you sure as hell owe me a drink."
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He's been here long enough to have familiarity with folks, tipping his hat to the ones he sees, offering polite greetings. He has no fucking idea how they can't be done (what else is there left to say?), but he's also not wanting Faraday to leave.
He buys a bottle of whiskey instead of tequila and settles in his usual spot, a table in the corner near the card game. He sits here because he can imagine that they're Faraday, hustling someone out of their money. Today, he doesn't need to imagine that, though, because he's here.
The whole process is a reminder on its own about how safe he is here. He's able to buy a drink, he can talk and sit, he doesn't have to lie. Pouring two glasses, he slides one over to Faraday, not sure what's left to talk about. "There, I'll start working down my debt," he says sarcastically.
"You should take care of your leg more," he says, because apparently, he can't let that go. "Or you'll do something stupid and lose it."
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Apparently time has soothed away those sour memories, and Faraday isn’t likely to bring them back up again.
They sit at a corner table, and in a different moment, his attention might have been drawn to the card game not too far away. Now, though, he pulls of his hat, setting it on the table as he accepts the glass of whiskey. Naturally, he downs it all in one go, letting the familiar numbing burn travel its way down his throat. He slides it back over to Vasquez for a refill.
The nagging is familiar and not entirely welcome; he grimaces at Vasquez across the table and can’t help but snap back, “What, are you sayin’ it’s gonna get up and walk off in the middle of the night and leave behind scribbled note, too?”
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"I'm not strong enough to be responsible, that weight, someone else that you love like this..." He's a coward, he knows that, but it doesn't make it any easier to bear. Fuck, he misses Faraday though. He knows he's not allowed to, but he does.
Shrugging helplessly, he knocks back his whiskey, but doesn't refill. "What do you want me to do? I can't go back and undo it? I don't even think I should."
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But any satisfaction he might have felt is swept away when Vasquez says that. “Love.” Hardly easy for the man to say, admittedly, but even less easy for Faraday to hear, and he quickly averts his gaze to the refilled glass.
He’s silent for a long while, the companionable noise of the bar filling the space for him. He can feel the weight of the townsfolks’ gazes on his shoulders, most of them curious and eager to speak with him, to goad him into spinning one of his many yarns like he used to, back when the pain of his injuries had faded to a dull ache and his mood had improved enough for it. But they’re either too polite or too aware of the tension snapping between Faraday and Vasquez to interrupt.
What do you want me to do? Vasquez asks, and Faraday’s brow furrows.
Faraday is thinking, as he sits there – an ability that many of his compatriots assumed he lacked the capacity for, despite how observant and insightful he can be. (Not that he always is.) His jaw clenches briefly before his gaze snaps up to Vasquez. He leans forward a little, elbows on the table, voice pitched low to ward off prying ears.
“I want you to leave with me,” he says, the words tumbling out a little clumsily, like he worries if he thinks about them much longer, they won’t come out at all. A muscle in his jaw tics before he forces himself to continue. “When the worst of the cold is done, leave with me. We’ll go up north, or down south, or wherever the hell you want. Anywhere they won’t recognize you.”
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That he was scared, that he's a coward, and that he doesn't know how to love anyone.
When Faraday speaks, Vasquez is counting on a curt beginning to a goodbye. He thinks maybe this will be when Faraday tries to cut his losses and go. Instead, he says that he wants Vasquez to go with him. He doesn't just want him to go, he wants to go north or south, places that he didn't think Faraday would ever entertain.
Suspicious, he's not so sure they're on the same page. "How south?" he asks, because if he doesn't want to be recognized, he has the feeling they're not just talking about Texas, seeing as where that's where the trouble had all started.
He hasn't said no.
He doesn't think he can and he doesn't want to.
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He loses a bit of steam, then, jaw clenching, before he looks down at the table at his still full glass. He knocks back the shot of whiskey, breathing through the familiar burn that fills his nose, travels down his throat. This, at least, has the small advantage of re-centering him, though he knows all too well that too much “re-centering” might fog up his head, make him do or say something he’ll regret once he’s sober again.
“I ain’t married to California,” he says with finality. He’s wandered all along the coast, in and out of the various territories that make the west; maybe he had a preference for the freedom this far out, but a part of him thinks he’d abandon that, if Vasquez wanted.
And that’s a part of him he doesn’t want to examine too closely right now.
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Of course he wants to go. He's miserable here without Faraday, stuck in a place that he's only in because he knows he's safe.
What if they did go outside of the bounty's reach? What if he managed to escape it somehow, and be with Faraday. It's dangerous to reach out and touch him, here, but that's all he wants. He aches with the need and he stares longingly at Faraday, thinking he doesn't want to be here, not right now.
"I'll pay for the drinks, but we should go back to my farm," he insists. There are things he wants to talk about that he doesn't want to say in public, but he wants to discuss the arrangement. He wants to say yes, but he wants to touch Faraday so badly, it's nearly the most he's ever wanted to do anything.
He's sure the look on his face tells Faraday plenty about how willing he is to accept the offer.
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That hopeful look on Vasquez’s face is briefly mirrored in Faraday’s eyes, and a small, tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Vasquez hasn’t said yes, obviously. He hasn’t agreed to anything. But neither has he said no, and that’s the fact that Faraday can’t help but latch onto. And he wonders if maybe, for once in his giant mess of a life, things might actually work out.
But there’s a peel of laughter somewhere behind him that startles him out of his daze, and he seems to remember himself in that moment. He schools his expression back to something neutral – as if to signal to Vasquez that he’s still not entirely off the hook. As if sensing that the storm between Faraday and Vasquez has passed, a few of the men start calling out Faraday’s name, voices made loud and consonants made slightly lazy with a couple of drinks.
“Joshua Faraday,” someone else shouts companionably, “you get your ass over here!”
Faraday turns in his seat, waving a dismissive hand to silently say, Keep your shirt on.
“We’ll go after we make a few rounds,” he tells Vasquez, trying for something that sounds like reluctance – like he’s granting Vasquez a great favor by heading back with him. It doesn’t quite hit the mark, though, considering Faraday’s already tipped his hand mere seconds ago, and they both know it. His mood, at least, seems far lighter. “You and me have got an adoring public to entertain.”
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He knows in all these situations that he would have Faraday at his side, both for protection and because he wants him to be there. He can't find it in him to be upset about this, though.
When they call Faraday over, he tries very hard not to get annoyed, but it's a close thing. After all, he'd been hoping that he could head back to the farm and start to make up for his mistake of abandoning Faraday on the road, but he supposes a few more rounds can't hurt. At least, not truly.
They can frustrate and they can annoy, but they can't hurt.
"I think they're more your adoring public, right now," he observes. "Mainly, they're annoyed by my bad moods while I drink." He gestures for Faraday to go join them, though. "Go, enjoy it."
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It lasts for all of a heartbeat, and Faraday smooths out his expression into his usual mask – the unconcerned look of a man who takes nothing seriously, who carries no burdens on his shoulders.
(Obviously, that’s far from the case, but Faraday has always been a convincing conman.)
“Be here when I get back,” he commands, and even if there’s a wry tilt to his words, there’s also an unspoken warning in his voice. Faraday is reasonably sure he doesn’t need to say it, and it’s almost certainly unfair to keep picking at that scab, but Vasquez has set a precedent of leaving Faraday in the dust – a precedent that Faraday isn’t soon to forget.
Reluctantly, then, he turns from the table, plastering on a bright grin – his showman’s smile – as he steps toward the men who had called him a moment ago. He’s greeted by a chorus of delighted shouts as he makes his way over, as he suffers through sociable pats on the shoulders and numerous shouts of “how the hell are you, you son of a bitch?”
True to the promises he made earlier in the day, he tells the men and women of Rose Creek how he’s fared since he left – and he feels far more in his element than he has since Vasquez left him, his mood buoyed by their earlier conversation. He doesn’t see fit to lie about the time he spent with Vasquez, though he’s wise enough to keep the private dalliances to himself. He is, however, prone to exaggeration. Towns become larger or smaller as his story needs, women become prettier, men become uglier, card games and arguments become more fraught with tension. It’s the natural tendency of a good storyteller, after all, and every laughing shout of “Bullshit!” is answered with Faraday pressing one hand to his heart, lifting the other with his palm facing his accuser, and saying solemnly, “I swear on my honor, compadre.”
Granted, Faraday has very little honor to begin with, but the other folks are wise enough to not point that out.
He weaves his tales a little longer than he expects, but not nearly so long that the night has been exhausted. He deftly avoids having to retell the circumstances of why he and Vasquez parted ways, and the others seem to know better than to try to ask a second time. By the time he’s done, he’s rosy-cheeked and warm, thanks to the drinks and food pressed upon him, but rather than waste away the rest of the night by drinking himself silly, he eventually pushes back from the table with a minimal amount of swaying and says his goodbyes. He turns down all invitations and offers of places to stay.
“A certain vaquero already beat you folks to the punch,” he tells them plainly, and he turns to look over his shoulder, back to Vasquez’s table.
(A small part of him worries he’ll see only an empty chair.)
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"It's fine," Vasquez mutters, hearing the riotous laughter behind him. As much as he knows he should remain steady and keep his face muted, he can't help the private smile on his lips as he hears Faraday spin his yarns and be the storyteller he loves.
Whatever happiness washes over him must help to convince the man to give him his liquor, because Vasquez walks back to the table successful. He picks the seat that lets him have a direct line of sight to Faraday, watching him in this role that he loves best. It fills him with the absolute certainty that his feelings for Faraday haven't changed or diminished at all.
His fear had made him run, but equally, his desire to make sure Faraday had a good life. He thought that life meant being here, in California, where he knew the land and the people. Maybe he is thicker than he thought and he just hasn't been thinking through this.
No matter how much time passes, he waits out Faraday, waits for him to finish drinking, and when he hears him use the Spanish, he ducks his head down. It's how Faraday will find him, his head lowered, a fondly amused look on his face as he catches his gaze and holds it.
I'm still here, it says. I'm not going anywhere this time.
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(Fuck, he thinks. Beneath all the anger and frustration at being abandoned, ditched like a sack of rotted wheat on the side of the road, beneath the worry and the bone-deep hurt, Faraday has missed this infuriating, gorgeous bastard.)
To his right, Teddy Q glances between the two of them, the familiarity of that look seemingly clicking in his head. He’s seen that sort of look before, of course. (Billy Rocks and Goodnight Robicheaux were subtle, but neither did they care to be subtle enough.) While the other men and women try to coax Faraday into staying for another round, another story, Teddy Q takes up the cause. He clears his throat a little awkwardly and says over the clamor, “We oughta let Mr. Faraday get his rest. I’m sure he’s had a long day.”
Faraday startles a little, casting Teddy an owlish, confused look before nodding with gratitude. He promises, “I’ll be hangin’ around a while yet. Wouldn’t want you all gettin’ your fill of me too soon.”
He retreats, then, to a minimal amount of good-natured grumbling. His steps are only a little unsteady thanks to the alcohol swimming in his system, and he returns to Vasquez. He doesn’t reclaim a seat, though, opting instead to rest his arm on the chair’s top rail and lean against it.
His smile turns a little crooked, eyebrow quirking upward. “Now, then. I believe you were shelterin’ me from the cold?”
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God, he should have stayed and talked. He shouldn't have run, but he suspects he'll be paying for this mistake for some time. That's a lesson he didn't want to learn, but it's going to happen because he didn't think about it, the way he should have.
When Faraday finally comes back, the tequila in his bottle is still more than half full. It's a sign how much he's been patient and steady, not wanting to get too drunk when he wants to be clear-headed. He's sure when they talk more soon, there's going to be plenty to say, so he doesn't want to be drunk.
"I think I could spare some room at the house," he says, casually shrugging like he's going to have to think about it. Eyes locked on Faraday, he's on his feet easily so he can pay their tab and head out, careful not to walk too fast so the cold won't set in and make his leg ache.
On the trip back, he doesn't fill the air with words. The ones he wants to share are much too private and he doesn't want anyone to eavesdrop, so he waits until they're back to the house, where he can shed his coat and settle against the hutch, leaning there and waiting for Faraday to catch up.
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He’s content to walk in silence, breathing in the crisp, chilled air and hoping it will sober him, at least a little. The combination of cheap booze and Vasquez’s unhurried pace keeps him from feeling the soreness of his body. In recent days, as the sun dipped beyond the horizon quicker, as the temperatures dropped, old wounds had been roused to life by the cold, like a storm revealing hidden depths in riverbeds. It’s one of the many reasons why he came back to Rose Creek: he needed a temporary haunt to weather the colder days to come, when traveling with aching ribs and an uncooperative leg was certain to spell disaster. He could have chosen any little town, but the siren call of familiar faces – and more than that, familiar faces who might actually respect him – proved too tempting.
Finding Vasquez had been an unplanned consequence.
He’s only a pace or two behind Vasquez, as the other man enters his home. Faraday pauses on the threshold before tentatively stepping in, shutting the door behind him. He shrugs out of his own coat and doffs his hat a little slower than necessary. Away from the noise and light and heat of the saloon, Faraday suddenly feels out of sorts. He licks his lips for a brief second before turning back to Vasquez.
“Not much to look at, is it?” he asks a little teasingly, with an absent flick of his hand toward the room. Given the absent delivery and the fact that Faraday has hardly looked around, there’s a high probability that he would have said the same thing, even if Vasquez had walked him into the finest palace known to man.
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"Maybe not the guest room, but I built a new bed last month," Vasquez says, starting to wander towards it, not taking his eyes off of Faraday. Then again, he thinks maybe he's jumping ahead, because he meant to bring them back here to talk about logistics.
He sets the bottle on the kitchen table and sits himself in one of the chairs, gesturing for Faraday to join him.
"How long after the cold do you want to wait, before we go?" He's already debating whether he wants them to go north or south, but there's no question about whether he's going with Faraday. That's absolutely going to happen, there's no question.
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A mulish part of him wants to keep being angry – a way to conceal how genuinely gutted he had felt when he woke alone – but that small, burgeoning sense of optimism, the numbness from the whiskey, the overwhelming relief at seeing Vasquez alive and well, slowly eats away at his resolve.
He joins Vasquez at the table, easing himself into the chair opposite the other man. Vasquez’s question puts to bed that last nagging bit of uncertainty – he had never outright agreed, back at the bar – but Faraday still finds himself straightening a little, taken aback, and reflexively asking, “You’re comin’ with me, then?”
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He hadn't thought Faraday would be willing to go to different places with him and that's his own stubbornness.
He lets his foot slide just a little under the table to where it rests nudged up against Faraday's, letting it sit there, like it's only after the warmth. Vasquez isn't trying to start anything (yet), but he does want to show how much he wants this.
"Would you be willing to go to Mexico?" he asks, testing the boundaries of his offer.
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It’s a familiar feeling, he has to admit. That fear that one day, the other man would grow tired of him – of his aches and pains, of the way his pace lagged on bad days, of his foul tempers. Only difference is, Vasquez had fled to avoid the pain of being left behind before Faraday had even realized that was an option.
His grip on his anger loosens a little more at the bare brush of contact, evidenced by the way his shoulders drop ever so slightly from how he had them squared up, by the way his expression softens the barest fraction.
Faraday pauses to consider Vasquez’s question, tongue darting out to wet his lips, gaze growing slightly distant. That’s— much further south than he’s ever been before; he never had much of an interest, considering his tricks weren't likely to work quite so well when he couldn't use his self-proclaimed silver tongue to smooth things over. Rightfully so, he gives careful thought to his answer.
“We can try it,” he says slowly, running a hand down his beard. “Can’t say as I’ve ever had a mind to travel down that far.”
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He wants so fucking badly to head to the bedroom, strip Faraday of every piece of clothing, and start showering him in apologies and kisses, but he knows they still need to talk.
"Maybe once it's warm, north isn't so bad either," he admits, because he thinks they could even head east, if it comes to that. Though, he's not sure what he'd make of the people there. He likes the west, because it allows him to be who he is. Men like Goodnight come from back east, which should say a lot about the place.
"We'll be there together," he says, and nudges his foot against Faraday's again, this time a little firmer. "At least, once the cold lets up. I hate the cold and you bitched too much when the temperature dropped. Besides, I have that nice new bed, don't I?"
It's an invitation, an opening, and if Faraday wants to take it, he can.
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Faraday isn't entirely sure if that's a promise, the statement that they'll be together, but he feels that same sweet twist in his chest, the one that punches the breath from his lungs and draws an unbidden smile to his lips. The reminder of the cold earns Vasquez a dismissive snort, a quick grumbled, "I didn't bitch," though the delivery is half-hearted at best.
But Faraday takes the hint, exhaling quietly – something close to a laugh – and he straightens a little in his seat.
"I think how nice it is remains to be seen, amigo," and he purposely mangles the pronunciation, makes the vowels twang. He nods toward the room he assumes is the bedroom. "Go on, then. Show it off, if you like."
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"You bitched," he agrees, but it's fond, making it clear how very little Vasquez minded. After all, what would their relationship be if Faraday didn't complain and whine most of the time? Definitely not nearly as fun.
He's already toying with the top button of his vest as he gets to his feet, leading Faraday slowly towards the bedroom, an amused look on his face that's only barely masking the hungrier one lying beneath it. He very much wants to talk about the North some more, when they're going to leave, but he also can't lie - the thought of Faraday mostly to himself for weeks here could end up stifling, but it's mostly tempting.
It's good to make up for lost time.
He pushes the door open to reveal the bed he'd poured all his frustrations and worries and guilt into. It's a large thing, big and four posters, taking up most of the room. The wood has been worked by hand (sanded and carved down) and Emma had been good enough to lend him the beddings. Even with his desire to get out of one place, he knows he's going to end up missing this bed.
"I think I deserve to be proud of this, no?"
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