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."
It's good that Faraday gives him that in return, because it unlocks that worry in Vasquez's mind that he'd broken something. He knows that there's a bridge between them and one good fuck isn't going to change it, but getting that intimacy back feels critical to getting to that next step.
He rocks his hips forward against Faraday, determined to get more of him as he moves, gripping Faraday's hips to haul him against his body to coax more friction. When he starts tugging at his shirt, he makes a noise for Faraday to be patient.
It does mean he has to step back, fingers sliding up to unbutton his shirt. He knows that he could just strip it off, but this feels more like them. Even now, teasing when he could just be easy, because making things difficult is part of their foreplay.
When he gets to the second to last button, he gives Faraday a heated look. "Seen enough yet?"
Turnabout is fair play, Faraday would say in any other instance – unless, of course, the play is turned around on him. "Easy," he had kept telling Vasquez, but when Vasquez spins that same command back at Faraday, Faraday answers with an annoyed grunt and another bite at Vasquez's lips.
But thankfully for both of them, Vasquez does as he's bid, and Faraday waits, watches, follows Vasquez's deft hands as he slips each button from its hole, one by one. Taking his sweet time, he knows, and Faraday clenches his jaw, swallowing down the impulse to urge Vasquez to move faster. But the outlaw bares himself, bit by bit, the material of his shirt parting and loosening and slipping, though not falling away entirely. Faraday makes a show of studying the other man, gaze greedy and lascivious, but he frowns a little. Even the peek is enough to reveal that Vasquez is thinner than he remembers, and that worry rears its head again.
"Vas," he murmurs, without the heat from moments ago; this time, his voice is tinged by something almost a little sad. Faraday reaches across the space, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of Vasquez's shirt as his shoulders, moving to push the shirt down and away.
He doesn't want to see that look of sympathy and it makes him bristle. He'd push Faraday away if it weren't for the fact that he wants this so badly. Still, the irritation flashes in his eyes and it half looks as if he's spoiling for a fight, even though that's the very last thing he wants right now.
"Don't," is his terse reply, shoving his shirt off completely and pushing forward to yank at Faraday's neck, hauling him back for a kiss that demands he shut up, warns him not to say a word, because he doesn't think he'll like it if he keeps going with that sympathy.
While he pushes forward, he works to unbutton his trousers, wriggling a little out of them. There's one thing that privacy means and he's been eager for it since Faraday yielded to this. "We can be as loud as we want," he mumbles into the kiss, a promise he intends to keep.
Faraday is more startled than he cares to admit when Vasquez yanks him forward, when he kisses him like he means to devour every word that might fall from his lips. In a different moment, he might have shoved right back, would have turned it into a fight, if only because Faraday isn't in the habit of being ordered around.
This time around, he doesn't. He reluctantly goes where Vasquez demands, moves with the other man like he's trapped in a fierce current. If Faraday were in the habit of being honest, he would admit that this feels too complicated, and he has absolutely no idea where to start with picking it apart. A subject for later, he decides, if, indeed, it ever comes.
But Vasquez moves to strip himself, and Faraday works to do the same, just shy of yanking at his own vest to undo the buttons to shove it off his shoulders. While Vasquez fumbles at the fastenings of his own trousers, Faraday moves to help, slipping his hands into the bare space between them to undo the fastenings. He slips his hand into Vasquez's pants, once there's room enough, and curls his fingers around Vasquez's cock. He strokes lazily, like he's reacquainting himself with the soft, sensitive skin, the familiar pulse of want that makes Vasquez's cock twitch.
"By all means, then," he says, his smile crooked and almost feral. "Let me hear you, darlin'."
He stifles his moan when Faraday reaches into his trousers to help, and when he wraps his hand around him, he stops everything he's doing as his whole body rocks forward into the touch. It's like he's gone completely useless at the touch of those warm, calloused hands. Vasquez really did think he'd lost them forever, and it's not long before his arousal makes his cock almost painful, it's so bad.
The desperation travels to his face and he lets out a pained sob, grateful and needy all at the same time. "Faraday," he lets out a cry. He's been this loud before when they're on the side of the road, but never when they're together in private like this, not in a room. They haven't done this in so many rooms with so many beds, never a place where he didn't fear being caught.
He doesn't want to step away, but his trousers are still around his ankles and he shoves at them, pushing them off to leave him in absolutely nothing. He grabs at Faraday's hips when he's free, bearing in to press flush against him, even if it makes the angle strange for Faraday's hand, trying to walk them towards the bed.
"I want you to fuck me," he murmurs, nuzzling and nosing at Faraday's neck. He thinks maybe he has just enough oil left for this, from when he'd unpacked his bag and shoved it away in a hurry, not strong enough to see it and be reminded of Faraday.
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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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He rocks his hips forward against Faraday, determined to get more of him as he moves, gripping Faraday's hips to haul him against his body to coax more friction. When he starts tugging at his shirt, he makes a noise for Faraday to be patient.
It does mean he has to step back, fingers sliding up to unbutton his shirt. He knows that he could just strip it off, but this feels more like them. Even now, teasing when he could just be easy, because making things difficult is part of their foreplay.
When he gets to the second to last button, he gives Faraday a heated look. "Seen enough yet?"
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But thankfully for both of them, Vasquez does as he's bid, and Faraday waits, watches, follows Vasquez's deft hands as he slips each button from its hole, one by one. Taking his sweet time, he knows, and Faraday clenches his jaw, swallowing down the impulse to urge Vasquez to move faster. But the outlaw bares himself, bit by bit, the material of his shirt parting and loosening and slipping, though not falling away entirely. Faraday makes a show of studying the other man, gaze greedy and lascivious, but he frowns a little. Even the peek is enough to reveal that Vasquez is thinner than he remembers, and that worry rears its head again.
"Vas," he murmurs, without the heat from moments ago; this time, his voice is tinged by something almost a little sad. Faraday reaches across the space, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of Vasquez's shirt as his shoulders, moving to push the shirt down and away.
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"Don't," is his terse reply, shoving his shirt off completely and pushing forward to yank at Faraday's neck, hauling him back for a kiss that demands he shut up, warns him not to say a word, because he doesn't think he'll like it if he keeps going with that sympathy.
While he pushes forward, he works to unbutton his trousers, wriggling a little out of them. There's one thing that privacy means and he's been eager for it since Faraday yielded to this. "We can be as loud as we want," he mumbles into the kiss, a promise he intends to keep.
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This time around, he doesn't. He reluctantly goes where Vasquez demands, moves with the other man like he's trapped in a fierce current. If Faraday were in the habit of being honest, he would admit that this feels too complicated, and he has absolutely no idea where to start with picking it apart. A subject for later, he decides, if, indeed, it ever comes.
But Vasquez moves to strip himself, and Faraday works to do the same, just shy of yanking at his own vest to undo the buttons to shove it off his shoulders. While Vasquez fumbles at the fastenings of his own trousers, Faraday moves to help, slipping his hands into the bare space between them to undo the fastenings. He slips his hand into Vasquez's pants, once there's room enough, and curls his fingers around Vasquez's cock. He strokes lazily, like he's reacquainting himself with the soft, sensitive skin, the familiar pulse of want that makes Vasquez's cock twitch.
"By all means, then," he says, his smile crooked and almost feral. "Let me hear you, darlin'."
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The desperation travels to his face and he lets out a pained sob, grateful and needy all at the same time. "Faraday," he lets out a cry. He's been this loud before when they're on the side of the road, but never when they're together in private like this, not in a room. They haven't done this in so many rooms with so many beds, never a place where he didn't fear being caught.
He doesn't want to step away, but his trousers are still around his ankles and he shoves at them, pushing them off to leave him in absolutely nothing. He grabs at Faraday's hips when he's free, bearing in to press flush against him, even if it makes the angle strange for Faraday's hand, trying to walk them towards the bed.
"I want you to fuck me," he murmurs, nuzzling and nosing at Faraday's neck. He thinks maybe he has just enough oil left for this, from when he'd unpacked his bag and shoved it away in a hurry, not strong enough to see it and be reminded of Faraday.
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