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.
He follows after Vasquez at an unhurried pace, noting the dark quality to his expression with a bit of approval, though he makes no sign of it.
Faraday has a bad habit of only living moment to moment, of focusing on now, and at best, maybe a few minutes into the future. He has a mind for what ifs, of course, but planning has never exactly been his purview, content as he is to flit from place to place. Thoughts of what will come after the worst of the winter days has passed seem distant and shapeless – but for once, he's looking forward to what the future might hold.
When Vasquez kept talking up his bed, Faraday had expected it to be a joke, or more likely, a way to coax Faraday into his bedroom for all the obvious reasons. He hadn't expected it to be actually impressive – which is why he lets out a startled bark of a laugh. He moves toward it, running his palm along one of the bed's posters.
"The hell were you plannin' with this thing, Vas?" It hardly seems practical for a man who intended to live out the rest of his days as a modest farmer. (Though he has the briefest inklings of Vasquez moving on, finding new companionship.
He quickly stamps down on the thought before it can fully form.)
Vasquez leans against the wall by the door and sure, he's smug about what he's created. It had taken a lot of work and he doesn't think he needs to act like he isn't proud of it. Did it come from a place where he was thinking about staying within the four posters forever? No. He thinks that needs to be made very clear to Faraday.
"Every time I woke up and I felt miserable or guilty or I missed you so much I thought about getting my horse and riding to find you, I would work on this bed. It wasn't like this to start," he says, pushing himself away from the wall to grip one of the pillars, shaking it, as if to prove it won't wobble.
What it is, is a monument to how torn up he's been, how much he hasn't settled here. "It was something to take my mind off of you." It was also something to get over his more sexual frustrations, but he's not going to speak very loudly about that. At least, not yet, because he has a feeling Faraday will figure out how desperate he is in that area soon enough.
He turns to watch as Vasquez strides into the room, as he demonstrates how sturdy the bed is. Good workmanship, Faraday admits, though he can't exactly say he's an expert on the matter.
Vasquez's admission, however, earns the man a thoughtful, almost piercing stare – something watchful and considering, like he's trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. It should be flattering, he thinks; the amount of work and care that went into the bed must mean Vasquez was thinking about Faraday a great deal, but a part of him is almost frustrated by the idea.
"I would've rather you come look for me," Faraday admits, turning to look at Vasquez properly. He leans his shoulder against the post, arms crossing over his chest. He takes a breath, then, shoving down the hurt he still feels and masking it behind a small, roguish smile.
"I know." Vasquez has to take his lumps, especially now. It's his fault that all this happened and he doesn't think he can fix it. He knows he can't, because that means going back to undo the bad decision he'd made to try and give Faraday a better life.
He can only apologize and when he sees Faraday smile, he shakes his head, because he knows that can't be real, not after what he just said. Coming closer, he absently lets his fingers play with the buttons of Faraday's shirt, tugging him so lightly away from the bed.
"Are you going to let me start?" he asks, because that could mean plenty of things. "What would make you feel better? You could punch me. You could run away from me," he says, as much as that would break his heart. "Or I could show you that I miss you in other ways?"
Grudgingly, he lets Vasquez pull him forward, hands reflexively landing on Vasquez's hips.
"I'd rather punch you when you're not expectin' it," he says with false brightness – and though he delivers it as a joke, even Faraday isn't entirely sure if he means it or not. The offer to turn his back on Vasquez seems right out, too, considering Faraday is easing into the other man's space.
Which, obviously, means Faraday is almost certainly leaving himself open to option three.
This close, he has a much better look at Vasquez – the wild way his hair curls over his ears and over his brow, the length of his beard that can't quite cover the way his cheeks have thinned a bit since last they saw one another. What little liquor Vasquez has drunk tonight has made his eyes bright, but there are dark shadows beneath them, all the same. Something briefly sours in Faraday's gut with the sight, and he runs a hand down Vasquez's cheek, following the line of his beard until he can tug lightly at the tip of it beneath his chin.
"You look like shit, by the way." And this, too, he delivers as a joke, but there's a reluctant sense of concern flickering in his eyes.
Vasquez lets his head fall slightly, chasing after the warmth in Faraday's fingers as he inches closer so that he can lift his head and take his fill of looking at him. He's still not so sure that Faraday is real, even when he's completely whole and here with Vasquez, not a ghost at all.
His fingers keep sliding over the fabric of Faraday's shirt as he keeps his head low, knowing his exhaustion must be bleeding through. He knows he looks like shit, but the reason shouldn't exist. "I missed you," he admits. "I lost my appetite. I didn't sit to eat so much, I stopped bothering to care about my hair, my beard." Those things he preened about and kept tamed for Faraday no longer seemed to matter because he was alone.
More than that, he'd wanted to stay alone. He hadn't come back to Rose Creek to find new love, he'd come here to be safe and hidden while he gave Faraday a chance to go out there and enjoy his card games and be the man that he'd seen earlier at the saloon.
"Joshua, nene, I..." He thinks he should say something else, but he decides that words on a letter got him into this mess to begin with.
Instead of fumbling through another half-hearted apology or explanation, he cups Faraday's face with both hands, holding onto him like he's precious as he presses his body flush in against Faraday's, sending them stumbling until one of the bedposts stops them, gives him a place to angle up into a kiss, rough and clumsy and desperate. It's been so long since he did this and it's only in his dreams that he ever thought he'd get to have this again, but it's so good, even though it's more needy than skilled.
And once again he feels that weird mixture of frustration and worry and satisfaction, and his eyebrows knit together as he looks over Vasquez again. Faraday wants to tell him once again that Vasquez should have come looking for him, if he was this badly off, but Vasquez already looks sorry enough, in more ways than one. There’s little point in rubbing salt into still stinging wounds.
Faraday sighs, forcing away his annoyance – a surprising bout of maturity, for once. His lips part to speak, but Vasquez interrupts him – and that little endearment lances through him like a bolt of lightning. It feels like lifetimes since he last heard it, and something in him feels soothed for it. He forgets to speak for a second, and Vasquez steps into his space, brackets his face with rough, calloused hands. Vasquez’s touch is gentle, though, holding onto him like he’s some delicate, breakable thing – and Faraday isn’t entirely sure how to react to that.
(He’s not accustomed to being treated better than he feels he’s worth.)
His breath catches for a second, and he’s transfixed by the complicated mix of emotions on Vasquez’s face. Regret and relief and desperation and hunger. Faraday lets out a small, startled sound when Vasquez practically barrels forward, and his back hits the sturdy wood of the bedpost. Faraday wastes a second to catch himself, one hand curling into the material of Vasquez’s shirt, the other gripping the post behind him to make sure they don’t overbalance and topple in a heap to the floor. It’s artless, the way Vasquez kisses him, far more eagerness than skill, but it sends a shower of sparks down Faraday’s spine. He reaches up, curling a hand possessively over the line of Vasquez’s jaw, the other man’s beard tickling against his palm, and he eases Vasquez back a little, just to temper that hunger and slow him down.
“Easy, darlin’,” he murmurs against Vasquez’s mouth. He smirks a little before nipping lightly at Vasquez’s lower lip. “We got time.”
Vasquez makes a protesting noise when Faraday tells him to go easy, because that's the last thing he wants right now. He's not even sure what his end game is, but he knows that he doesn't want Faraday to leave this room before Vasquez can start managing to do some of his penance.
In this case, doing his very best to make up for his mistakes using his body, even if he's not so sure he wants to take off the layers of clothes so Faraday can see the extent of what his depression has done.
"That just means we can do it more times," he retorts, more aggressive than he needs to be and every bit as stubborn as he challenges Faraday with a lift of his chin, not sure what else they should be doing with all that time.
Faraday laughs, low and dark but genuinely amused by the vehemence in Vazquez's voice. He can hardly blame Vasquez for his lack of patience, considering his own less than stellar relationship with that particular virtue. Still, Faraday doesn't see any need to hurry.
He'd rather take his time, would rather enjoy this. The last time they had been together was a hurried thing, meant to soothe and sate than to savor. If he had known that would be the last he would see of Vasquez, Faraday would have done his best to make it worthwhile. (And maybe he should have done that anyway. Maybe Vasquez would've had second thoughts about leaving at all if they had just taken their time, that night after the run in with those bounty hunters.)
"We got time," he repeats, equally insistent. He adds with a wry smile, "This ain't a race, sweetheart."
It shouldn't be one, but Vasquez feels like he's under the gun to do something to keep Faraday. It takes everything he has to slow down and listen to Faraday, but maybe he is right. After all, it's been so long since they did this and he can't remember the last time they took it slow and did it right.
Maybe that's not such a good thing, he realizes, and he should calm his head down and do this properly.
"I missed you," he murmurs, running his hands protectively over Faraday's back as he does slow down, stepping away so he can nudge off his boots. "You can't blame me for wanting to get my hands on you again." He misses the explosive way they come together, not to mention the warmth and protection he feels when they're together at night.
Even if Faraday was the one to urge them to slow down, he still aches with loss when Vasquez steps back. He straightens a little, still propped up by the bedpost, before he pulls of his own boots, kicking them off to one side.
"'Course I don't blame you," Faraday says easily, his smile crooked and knowing, eyes glittering with good humor. "I'm the world's greatest lover."
He punctuates the statement with a wink before reaching for the other man, tugging at the hem of Vasquez's shirt to pull him in closer. He's careful to make the gesture unhurried, just to drive home the fact that they have time, that there's no need to rush. And maybe it's selfish of him, to draw this out when they've both missed one another, but part of him doesn't want a repeat of the rushed, frenzied bouts int he past. He wants to enjoy this, wants to make it last. (There's no telling what the future holds; maybe they won't stick it out together, after all. Maybe fate will separate them again. And if that's the case, Faraday wants at least one night to stand clear in his memory.)
"And now you've got me." His voice is pitched low, dark and a little rough. "Tell me what you wanna do."
Vasquez laughs at that, and it feels so good to be able to laugh at Faraday's ridiculous nature after he's been removed from it for so long. He should argue this, insist that he's not the world's greatest anything, but sex with Faraday has never been a disappointment, so he doesn't see the point in pricking that ego balloon.
Stepping in slowly, he cups Faraday's cheek and follows his pace, drifting in for an unhurried kiss that he takes his time with, breathing out slowly and thinking that all he really wants to do is this, for the next little while.
"I want to remember what it's like kissing you," he murmurs, doing just that, tangling his fingers in Faraday's hair. "Then undress you and remember how you feel on top of me, in me."
Faraday can do slow, apparently, but he can hardly do gentle. When Vasquez steps in, kisses him and holds him close, Faraday answers with heat, with sharp nips at the other man's lips and a calloused hand gripping the nape of Vasquez's neck. Vasquez's hair is longer than he remembers, and Faraday thinks he might like this particular change; he enjoys the feel of dark curls slipping past his fingers, looks forward to using Vasquez's hair as a handhold.
He hums against Vasquez's mouth, the corner of his own mouth pulling up in a smile as Vasquez speaks. "I think we can manage that," he says, voice falsely cool, like he's granting Vasquez some grand favor. The act is undone by the way his hips unconsciously rock, by the way color rises on his cheeks, and especially by the rasp in his voice.
He tugs insistently at the hem of Vasquez's shirt again, pulling upward this time to signal that he wants it gone. "Let me see you."
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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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Faraday has a bad habit of only living moment to moment, of focusing on now, and at best, maybe a few minutes into the future. He has a mind for what ifs, of course, but planning has never exactly been his purview, content as he is to flit from place to place. Thoughts of what will come after the worst of the winter days has passed seem distant and shapeless – but for once, he's looking forward to what the future might hold.
When Vasquez kept talking up his bed, Faraday had expected it to be a joke, or more likely, a way to coax Faraday into his bedroom for all the obvious reasons. He hadn't expected it to be actually impressive – which is why he lets out a startled bark of a laugh. He moves toward it, running his palm along one of the bed's posters.
"The hell were you plannin' with this thing, Vas?" It hardly seems practical for a man who intended to live out the rest of his days as a modest farmer. (Though he has the briefest inklings of Vasquez moving on, finding new companionship.
He quickly stamps down on the thought before it can fully form.)
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"Every time I woke up and I felt miserable or guilty or I missed you so much I thought about getting my horse and riding to find you, I would work on this bed. It wasn't like this to start," he says, pushing himself away from the wall to grip one of the pillars, shaking it, as if to prove it won't wobble.
What it is, is a monument to how torn up he's been, how much he hasn't settled here. "It was something to take my mind off of you." It was also something to get over his more sexual frustrations, but he's not going to speak very loudly about that. At least, not yet, because he has a feeling Faraday will figure out how desperate he is in that area soon enough.
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Vasquez's admission, however, earns the man a thoughtful, almost piercing stare – something watchful and considering, like he's trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. It should be flattering, he thinks; the amount of work and care that went into the bed must mean Vasquez was thinking about Faraday a great deal, but a part of him is almost frustrated by the idea.
"I would've rather you come look for me," Faraday admits, turning to look at Vasquez properly. He leans his shoulder against the post, arms crossing over his chest. He takes a breath, then, shoving down the hurt he still feels and masking it behind a small, roguish smile.
"You've got a lot to make up for, you know."
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He can only apologize and when he sees Faraday smile, he shakes his head, because he knows that can't be real, not after what he just said. Coming closer, he absently lets his fingers play with the buttons of Faraday's shirt, tugging him so lightly away from the bed.
"Are you going to let me start?" he asks, because that could mean plenty of things. "What would make you feel better? You could punch me. You could run away from me," he says, as much as that would break his heart. "Or I could show you that I miss you in other ways?"
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"I'd rather punch you when you're not expectin' it," he says with false brightness – and though he delivers it as a joke, even Faraday isn't entirely sure if he means it or not. The offer to turn his back on Vasquez seems right out, too, considering Faraday is easing into the other man's space.
Which, obviously, means Faraday is almost certainly leaving himself open to option three.
This close, he has a much better look at Vasquez – the wild way his hair curls over his ears and over his brow, the length of his beard that can't quite cover the way his cheeks have thinned a bit since last they saw one another. What little liquor Vasquez has drunk tonight has made his eyes bright, but there are dark shadows beneath them, all the same. Something briefly sours in Faraday's gut with the sight, and he runs a hand down Vasquez's cheek, following the line of his beard until he can tug lightly at the tip of it beneath his chin.
"You look like shit, by the way." And this, too, he delivers as a joke, but there's a reluctant sense of concern flickering in his eyes.
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His fingers keep sliding over the fabric of Faraday's shirt as he keeps his head low, knowing his exhaustion must be bleeding through. He knows he looks like shit, but the reason shouldn't exist. "I missed you," he admits. "I lost my appetite. I didn't sit to eat so much, I stopped bothering to care about my hair, my beard." Those things he preened about and kept tamed for Faraday no longer seemed to matter because he was alone.
More than that, he'd wanted to stay alone. He hadn't come back to Rose Creek to find new love, he'd come here to be safe and hidden while he gave Faraday a chance to go out there and enjoy his card games and be the man that he'd seen earlier at the saloon.
"Joshua, nene, I..." He thinks he should say something else, but he decides that words on a letter got him into this mess to begin with.
Instead of fumbling through another half-hearted apology or explanation, he cups Faraday's face with both hands, holding onto him like he's precious as he presses his body flush in against Faraday's, sending them stumbling until one of the bedposts stops them, gives him a place to angle up into a kiss, rough and clumsy and desperate. It's been so long since he did this and it's only in his dreams that he ever thought he'd get to have this again, but it's so good, even though it's more needy than skilled.
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Faraday sighs, forcing away his annoyance – a surprising bout of maturity, for once. His lips part to speak, but Vasquez interrupts him – and that little endearment lances through him like a bolt of lightning. It feels like lifetimes since he last heard it, and something in him feels soothed for it. He forgets to speak for a second, and Vasquez steps into his space, brackets his face with rough, calloused hands. Vasquez’s touch is gentle, though, holding onto him like he’s some delicate, breakable thing – and Faraday isn’t entirely sure how to react to that.
(He’s not accustomed to being treated better than he feels he’s worth.)
His breath catches for a second, and he’s transfixed by the complicated mix of emotions on Vasquez’s face. Regret and relief and desperation and hunger. Faraday lets out a small, startled sound when Vasquez practically barrels forward, and his back hits the sturdy wood of the bedpost. Faraday wastes a second to catch himself, one hand curling into the material of Vasquez’s shirt, the other gripping the post behind him to make sure they don’t overbalance and topple in a heap to the floor. It’s artless, the way Vasquez kisses him, far more eagerness than skill, but it sends a shower of sparks down Faraday’s spine. He reaches up, curling a hand possessively over the line of Vasquez’s jaw, the other man’s beard tickling against his palm, and he eases Vasquez back a little, just to temper that hunger and slow him down.
“Easy, darlin’,” he murmurs against Vasquez’s mouth. He smirks a little before nipping lightly at Vasquez’s lower lip. “We got time.”
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In this case, doing his very best to make up for his mistakes using his body, even if he's not so sure he wants to take off the layers of clothes so Faraday can see the extent of what his depression has done.
"That just means we can do it more times," he retorts, more aggressive than he needs to be and every bit as stubborn as he challenges Faraday with a lift of his chin, not sure what else they should be doing with all that time.
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He'd rather take his time, would rather enjoy this. The last time they had been together was a hurried thing, meant to soothe and sate than to savor. If he had known that would be the last he would see of Vasquez, Faraday would have done his best to make it worthwhile. (And maybe he should have done that anyway. Maybe Vasquez would've had second thoughts about leaving at all if they had just taken their time, that night after the run in with those bounty hunters.)
"We got time," he repeats, equally insistent. He adds with a wry smile, "This ain't a race, sweetheart."
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Maybe that's not such a good thing, he realizes, and he should calm his head down and do this properly.
"I missed you," he murmurs, running his hands protectively over Faraday's back as he does slow down, stepping away so he can nudge off his boots. "You can't blame me for wanting to get my hands on you again." He misses the explosive way they come together, not to mention the warmth and protection he feels when they're together at night.
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"'Course I don't blame you," Faraday says easily, his smile crooked and knowing, eyes glittering with good humor. "I'm the world's greatest lover."
He punctuates the statement with a wink before reaching for the other man, tugging at the hem of Vasquez's shirt to pull him in closer. He's careful to make the gesture unhurried, just to drive home the fact that they have time, that there's no need to rush. And maybe it's selfish of him, to draw this out when they've both missed one another, but part of him doesn't want a repeat of the rushed, frenzied bouts int he past. He wants to enjoy this, wants to make it last. (There's no telling what the future holds; maybe they won't stick it out together, after all. Maybe fate will separate them again. And if that's the case, Faraday wants at least one night to stand clear in his memory.)
"And now you've got me." His voice is pitched low, dark and a little rough. "Tell me what you wanna do."
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Stepping in slowly, he cups Faraday's cheek and follows his pace, drifting in for an unhurried kiss that he takes his time with, breathing out slowly and thinking that all he really wants to do is this, for the next little while.
"I want to remember what it's like kissing you," he murmurs, doing just that, tangling his fingers in Faraday's hair. "Then undress you and remember how you feel on top of me, in me."
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He hums against Vasquez's mouth, the corner of his own mouth pulling up in a smile as Vasquez speaks. "I think we can manage that," he says, voice falsely cool, like he's granting Vasquez some grand favor. The act is undone by the way his hips unconsciously rock, by the way color rises on his cheeks, and especially by the rasp in his voice.
He tugs insistently at the hem of Vasquez's shirt again, pulling upward this time to signal that he wants it gone. "Let me see you."
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