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?"
Vasquez keeps his gaze away as he collects the things he's brought in, but looks over at that hiss, his expression softens against his will to find Faraday staring at him, those eyes of his as unique and distracting as ever. "It's fine," he tries to dismiss, a forced smile flashing on his lips as quickly as it's there and gone. The use of it will ache and make his fingers weaker for a little, but soon, time will make it better.
That smile tightens in his jaw as he keeps a grimace back, grateful that Faraday doesn't seem to be in as much pain now.
"You want to get out of town, si? If you feel better, we can still go," he points out, not sitting down because if he does that, he's bound to stay and let himself get distracted with cards and alcohol and cigarettes and absent touches. "We could be setting up camp by nightfall," he says. "Riding..."
Frowning, he gives Faraday a newly confused look.
"Where are we planning to go?" Because he has thoughts about anywhere resembling Texas.
Faraday hardly looks convinced by Vasquez’s weak attempt at reassurance, and his lips press into a thin line as he studies the other man. Faraday’s made his life on reading other men, and he recognizes the strained quality of Vasquez’s smile, the fine tremor in Vasquez’s hands – either from pain or from exhaustion. His expression darkens into a frown, eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turning downward in disapproval.
Vasquez backs away as if to make to retreat, and Faraday continues to study him. Carefully, Faraday sits up the rest of the way, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress to sit up properly. He runs his hand over the old bullet wound on his thigh – still sore, but nowhere near the screaming, knotted mess of just moments ago. He takes a deep, steadying breath, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his other hand.
“I don’t got a destination in mind,” Faraday says. He glances up at the other man, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “Never have.”
He tended to let chance and caprice guide him, following trails and stopping whenever his coffers needed padding or if he desired company. Now, with the reward for protecting Rose Creek lining his pockets and with Vasquez riding beside him (infuriating as the man may be), Faraday wonders if he’ll have much need of stopping into towns as he used to.
Vasquez keeps staring back, determined not to be the one to falter and be weak, not when his arm is just a bit of an ache. He'll get hot water on it, maybe have someone downstairs knead his shoulders for a while, and then he'll be fine again. No need for worry, not like the shots that Faraday's taken. Still, when he manages to sit up all the way and even gets his feet to the floor, there's no mistaking the way that his face actually brightens.
It's not a smile, really, just the way his eyes light up, the way his forehead smooths so lines no longer show. "New Mexico," he suggests. "Kansas, maybe? Nowhere north," he says, with a wrinkle of his nose as he shivers instantly to think of the cold. "Nowhere near Texas," is added after, spitting bitterness into three words with talent.
"Close enough to cities to get new alcohol, cigarettes. Well," he amends, "for you to get them," he points out, trying to ignore that press of nerves against his stomach as he thinks about the fact that even though he got a quick reprieve under Sam's protection, he's still going back out there to have men on his tail.
No cities or towns for him, not with his face on posters. It's his life, the one he has to live, even with Faraday's steady gun-hand for protection. It's a weary thought, one that has him reaching for his flask to drain it back, because now he wonders again, is he just running away from what will eventually happen?
"I thought you would have had a town in mind. Alcohol, cards, women," he lists, "isn't that how Sam found you?"
Faraday can't help the snort of laughter he lets out, tired as it is.
"Jack Horne might tell you it was fate that led Sam to me," he says, weaving his usual wry humor into his voice – the voice he uses when he's spinning a yarn at a card table, "but our paths crossed entirely by chance. I could've been in any town that day, but I just so happened to be in Amador City."
He still isn't entirely sure if it was good or bad luck that brought Sam Chisolm to Faraday's proverbial door. If they hadn't met, then Faraday wouldn't have been shot full of lead, wouldn't have nearly blown himself to kingdom come. In short, it would have saved him a great deal of agony. But on the other side of that coin, if they never met, Faraday wouldn't have thrown his lot in with these mismatched men, wouldn't have folks he would trust with his life, wouldn't have found something greater than himself worth fighting for.
If he hadn't met Sam, he wouldn't have met any of the others. And a part of him thinks ending up as stitched together as an old rag doll was worth it for that alone.
He peers at Vasquez again, thinking over the other man's suggestions. Decent enough ones, he supposes; he's none too fond of the cold, either, which was only bound to get worse as the months go by. As he's thinking it over, though, he asks carefully, "What's wrong with Texas?"
Faraday's more of an idiot than Vasquez thought, if he's asking that question. Glaring at him, he shakes his head and leans down to pick up Faraday's hat, shoving it at his chest and staying there to reply. "You think I want to go back to the state that took my family's land? My home? Where they had to put an army together just to try and take back what was taken when the border crossed?" He exhales his derision and shakes his head. "You're not that stupid," he insists.
"I would shoot someone in the face and then you'd leave," he says, adding the gun belt to where he's pressing the hat, fingers still lingering as he starts to look at the room and see what's left to take so they won't come back here.
What he also doesn't say is that as much as he figures that one day, Faraday will seek out a separate path, Vasquez wants to delay that day as much as he can. Maybe his loneliness has fucked with his mind more than he knows, or maybe he's just finally letting himself acknowledge the fact he doesn't hate the man.
Faraday catches the hat on instinct, glaring up at Vasquez. Truth is, he doesn’t know too much about the war that sparked up in Mexico, considering it sparked up when he was still swaddled in blankets, and the possible animosity hadn’t occurred to him. (Maybe he is that stupid.
Not that he would ever admit as much.)
Vasquez thrusts his gun belt at him next, and Faraday dutifully catches that, as well, his glare turning into a flat, unimpressed look.
“What do I care if you shoot someone?” he asks. God knows they’ve both shot plenty of folks before, and Faraday imagines they’re about even as far as how many men they’ve gunned down. (Actually, Faraday believes he edged a bit ahead of Vasquez after the battle of Rose Creek – taking out the Gatling gun meant he took down over a half-dozen men in one go. But as much as he refuses to admit it, thinking too long or too hard about that ride out, one that he had imagined to be his last, makes something cold and writhing clench in his gut.)
After all, Faraday is hardly shy about violence.
“So long as it ain’t me,” he says. Their fingers brush as he tugs his hat from Vasquez’s hand, putting it on. “And so long as it ain’t someone who didn’t already have it comin’.”
Vasquez feels the prickle of his skin raising to goosebumps from the touch, dragging his palm down the side of his pants as he eases it back to force himself back to normal, finding his own things and buckling in the gun belt as he ties the lasso to it, handing Faraday his cards and flask, all the possessions he's been watching going back to him. The thrill of actually leaving is keeping his mood light, now, ignoring all the potentially disastrous things that could (and will) probably happen.
"You know I don't kill people who don't deserve it," he promises, crossing his heart and kissing his fingers with a smirking promise, settling his hat on his head. They still haven't picked where to go, but they're going. "If you annoy me too much, it won't be the guns," he says, patting the lasso with a serious look on his face, because it's as much of a promise as he'll give.
"Guero, you're making me waste daylight," he complains, as if they haven't had to change paths so they could get him back to standing. The spark of mischief is in his eyes and the curve of his lips as he buttons his vest up the whole way. "Come on. Go get the food and I will get the ammo. If you're late, then I get to decide where we go. Mexico," he says cheerfully.
He takes the deck of cards and the flask; the latter gets tucked away into a pocket, but the cards he treats with a little more care. He runs a thumb over the short edge, the paper riffling with a satisfying snap, and he squares up the deck before that, too, gets tucked into another pocket in his fest.
At Vasquez's promise and his gesture to the lasso, Faraday finds himself barking out a laugh, startled by the audacity of the threat. "Let me tell you now," he says, without any real intention to threaten, "if you try to tie me up like a wild bull, I might shoot you."
He straightens himself out, fastening his gun belt to his hips, straightening out his shirt and vest, adjusting the hat on his head. The time between now and the first second he stepped foot in Rose Creek has certainly changed him, and he wears the differences on his person. A new set of clothes, a mess of scars (some more pronounced than others) mottling his skin, and slightly altered temperament set him apart from the Faraday that first arrived.
Taking a breath, he pushes himself to stand, one hand resting on the nightstand to brace himself. He gives his bad leg an experimental stretch, and while it still aches, it's nowhere near the persistent keening that had redirected them earlier.
"We're not goin' to Mexico," he retorts without looking up from his stretching. "You're bad enough as it is. Lord only knows what I'd do in a place where I couldn't understand a single word folks were sayin' at me."
Vasquez tips his head casually to the side, letting it hang there as he watches Faraday stretching, his line of sight giving him a look at the line of his hip and the gun belt slung over it. It's distracting in all the worst ways and he gives himself a mental slap on the wrist for letting himself be so shallow, but can he help it? It's a pretty thing. Smirking to himself for the brazen mistake, he snorts at Faraday's reply. "Or," he says, amused, "you could do something surprising and actually learn Spanish. It would make you a far more attractive person," Vasquez deadpans.
He bends to collect the last of his things, feeling strangely sad that he's going to be seeing the last of this room, all at the same time as wishing he could burn it down with a match so they never have to see it again. It's been a home, of sorts, not because of the place, but because it's where he and Faraday have been able to build on something that just might end up being an actual genuine friendship.
"Then if you don't want to end up surrounded by Mexicans, then you shouldn't stray, guero. Don't forget to pick up some of the biscuits I like so much," he reminds him. "And the jerky. Some of the, how you say it, the taffy too. Yes?" He gives Faraday an expectant look, that the man should know how vastly his appetite stretches.
With one last squeeze to Faraday's shoulder, Vasquez is ready to let his eager heart get the best of him, thinking of the road ahead.
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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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That smile tightens in his jaw as he keeps a grimace back, grateful that Faraday doesn't seem to be in as much pain now.
"You want to get out of town, si? If you feel better, we can still go," he points out, not sitting down because if he does that, he's bound to stay and let himself get distracted with cards and alcohol and cigarettes and absent touches. "We could be setting up camp by nightfall," he says. "Riding..."
Frowning, he gives Faraday a newly confused look.
"Where are we planning to go?" Because he has thoughts about anywhere resembling Texas.
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Vasquez backs away as if to make to retreat, and Faraday continues to study him. Carefully, Faraday sits up the rest of the way, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress to sit up properly. He runs his hand over the old bullet wound on his thigh – still sore, but nowhere near the screaming, knotted mess of just moments ago. He takes a deep, steadying breath, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his other hand.
“I don’t got a destination in mind,” Faraday says. He glances up at the other man, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “Never have.”
He tended to let chance and caprice guide him, following trails and stopping whenever his coffers needed padding or if he desired company. Now, with the reward for protecting Rose Creek lining his pockets and with Vasquez riding beside him (infuriating as the man may be), Faraday wonders if he’ll have much need of stopping into towns as he used to.
“You got any ideas?”
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It's not a smile, really, just the way his eyes light up, the way his forehead smooths so lines no longer show. "New Mexico," he suggests. "Kansas, maybe? Nowhere north," he says, with a wrinkle of his nose as he shivers instantly to think of the cold. "Nowhere near Texas," is added after, spitting bitterness into three words with talent.
"Close enough to cities to get new alcohol, cigarettes. Well," he amends, "for you to get them," he points out, trying to ignore that press of nerves against his stomach as he thinks about the fact that even though he got a quick reprieve under Sam's protection, he's still going back out there to have men on his tail.
No cities or towns for him, not with his face on posters. It's his life, the one he has to live, even with Faraday's steady gun-hand for protection. It's a weary thought, one that has him reaching for his flask to drain it back, because now he wonders again, is he just running away from what will eventually happen?
"I thought you would have had a town in mind. Alcohol, cards, women," he lists, "isn't that how Sam found you?"
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"Jack Horne might tell you it was fate that led Sam to me," he says, weaving his usual wry humor into his voice – the voice he uses when he's spinning a yarn at a card table, "but our paths crossed entirely by chance. I could've been in any town that day, but I just so happened to be in Amador City."
He still isn't entirely sure if it was good or bad luck that brought Sam Chisolm to Faraday's proverbial door. If they hadn't met, then Faraday wouldn't have been shot full of lead, wouldn't have nearly blown himself to kingdom come. In short, it would have saved him a great deal of agony. But on the other side of that coin, if they never met, Faraday wouldn't have thrown his lot in with these mismatched men, wouldn't have folks he would trust with his life, wouldn't have found something greater than himself worth fighting for.
If he hadn't met Sam, he wouldn't have met any of the others. And a part of him thinks ending up as stitched together as an old rag doll was worth it for that alone.
He peers at Vasquez again, thinking over the other man's suggestions. Decent enough ones, he supposes; he's none too fond of the cold, either, which was only bound to get worse as the months go by. As he's thinking it over, though, he asks carefully, "What's wrong with Texas?"
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"I would shoot someone in the face and then you'd leave," he says, adding the gun belt to where he's pressing the hat, fingers still lingering as he starts to look at the room and see what's left to take so they won't come back here.
What he also doesn't say is that as much as he figures that one day, Faraday will seek out a separate path, Vasquez wants to delay that day as much as he can. Maybe his loneliness has fucked with his mind more than he knows, or maybe he's just finally letting himself acknowledge the fact he doesn't hate the man.
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Not that he would ever admit as much.)
Vasquez thrusts his gun belt at him next, and Faraday dutifully catches that, as well, his glare turning into a flat, unimpressed look.
“What do I care if you shoot someone?” he asks. God knows they’ve both shot plenty of folks before, and Faraday imagines they’re about even as far as how many men they’ve gunned down. (Actually, Faraday believes he edged a bit ahead of Vasquez after the battle of Rose Creek – taking out the Gatling gun meant he took down over a half-dozen men in one go. But as much as he refuses to admit it, thinking too long or too hard about that ride out, one that he had imagined to be his last, makes something cold and writhing clench in his gut.)
After all, Faraday is hardly shy about violence.
“So long as it ain’t me,” he says. Their fingers brush as he tugs his hat from Vasquez’s hand, putting it on. “And so long as it ain’t someone who didn’t already have it comin’.”
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"You know I don't kill people who don't deserve it," he promises, crossing his heart and kissing his fingers with a smirking promise, settling his hat on his head. They still haven't picked where to go, but they're going. "If you annoy me too much, it won't be the guns," he says, patting the lasso with a serious look on his face, because it's as much of a promise as he'll give.
"Guero, you're making me waste daylight," he complains, as if they haven't had to change paths so they could get him back to standing. The spark of mischief is in his eyes and the curve of his lips as he buttons his vest up the whole way. "Come on. Go get the food and I will get the ammo. If you're late, then I get to decide where we go. Mexico," he says cheerfully.
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At Vasquez's promise and his gesture to the lasso, Faraday finds himself barking out a laugh, startled by the audacity of the threat. "Let me tell you now," he says, without any real intention to threaten, "if you try to tie me up like a wild bull, I might shoot you."
He straightens himself out, fastening his gun belt to his hips, straightening out his shirt and vest, adjusting the hat on his head. The time between now and the first second he stepped foot in Rose Creek has certainly changed him, and he wears the differences on his person. A new set of clothes, a mess of scars (some more pronounced than others) mottling his skin, and slightly altered temperament set him apart from the Faraday that first arrived.
Taking a breath, he pushes himself to stand, one hand resting on the nightstand to brace himself. He gives his bad leg an experimental stretch, and while it still aches, it's nowhere near the persistent keening that had redirected them earlier.
"We're not goin' to Mexico," he retorts without looking up from his stretching. "You're bad enough as it is. Lord only knows what I'd do in a place where I couldn't understand a single word folks were sayin' at me."
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He bends to collect the last of his things, feeling strangely sad that he's going to be seeing the last of this room, all at the same time as wishing he could burn it down with a match so they never have to see it again. It's been a home, of sorts, not because of the place, but because it's where he and Faraday have been able to build on something that just might end up being an actual genuine friendship.
"Then if you don't want to end up surrounded by Mexicans, then you shouldn't stray, guero. Don't forget to pick up some of the biscuits I like so much," he reminds him. "And the jerky. Some of the, how you say it, the taffy too. Yes?" He gives Faraday an expectant look, that the man should know how vastly his appetite stretches.
With one last squeeze to Faraday's shoulder, Vasquez is ready to let his eager heart get the best of him, thinking of the road ahead.