Vasquez is careful and cautious with both Maria and Ethel. Even though Faraday knows when and how to push every single irritating button, a man's guns are to be treated respectfully, no matter what's said, which is why he's always reverent with the touch. Maybe it should say something that Vasquez would never touch another man's guns except this man, but there may be a deliberate wall up blocking him from that fact.
His movements are slow, steady, fingers sliding along the barrel with the cloth and rubbing absently, maybe a little suggestive, but unfortunately, Vasquez can't claim that he's doing it on purpose.
He makes a thoughtful noise, though, like Faraday's had a good idea. "Teddy," he echoes, making it seem like he's actually, truly considering this as a clever idea. "I mean, he's young, but he can learn. He's been tried by as much fire as you and me, guero." He can't help the smirk on his face as another prodding, teasing thought comes to him. "No need for discussion, he's pretty enough to let your mind wander while you stare. Might come in handy, sending him into town when I need things," he says.
He nods, like he's genuinely considering it, where in reality he'd probably end up shooting Teddy out of irritation two miles in.
"Here I thought you had pickled your brain, it's good to see one or two good ideas still there," he quips, eyes sparkling with mischief.
That irritation prickles in him again, makes Faraday’s eyes narrow and the corners of his mouth turn downward. He draws another card from the deck, the pads of his fingers rubbing against the paper as he seems to consider the merits of throwing the card at Vasquez’s infuriating smirk. He seems to decide against it – the King of Spades still stares up at him from the floorboards, waiting to be scooped up from his earlier act of petulance – and he tucks the card currently in hand back into the deck.
“I’m sharp enough still to see straight through your bullshit,” Faraday quips, his bright tone at odds with the roughness of his words.
He straightens out the deck in his hands, depositing the cards carefully on the nightstand beside him and swinging his legs out of bed. He holds in a breath as he gets to his feet, and when the mostly-healed wound in his left leg only twitches a little in protest, he lets the breath out between his lips. Even with the doc offering him a clean bill of health, Faraday knows the old injuries are liable to slow him down on the road, will make traveling a chore.
He moves past Vasquez, scooping up the fallen card, and when he turns back around, he runs his thumb along its edge, matching Vasquez’s smirk with one of his own.
“I’m sure you and Theodore will be thick as thieves, once you set out. You two can yap all day about farmin’.” And Faraday says it dryly, like the topic might possibly be the most boring thing in the world. “Not sure if the man has quite your constitution for shackin’ with the dearly departed, though.”
The instant Faraday starts levering himself out of bed, every teasing word dies on Vasquez's lips and the gun is on the table, he's out of his chair, and he's like a shadow to Faraday, pressed up behind him, barely touching, as he worries that he's going to end up falling. He swallows back that fear when Faraday settles back down and goes back to teasing him, but it's there in his eyes.
It's that shaken, deep worry, the one that he's been wearing on his face while Faraday's been unconscious. It's how he looks when his fingers rest inches from Faraday's, while he'd prayed and prayed to a God he's not sure he believes in.
"What," he manages to find his voice, unearthing it from the pile of fears and worries, "I've changed. Now I just shack up with the nearly departed," he replies, trying to steady his breathing. Faraday is fine. He's not going to collapse, he won't be shot again, but that does beg the worry that if Vasquez lets him wander on his own, he could be. He does have a very bad habit of being extremely stupid when he gets drunk (not that Vasquez can talk).
"If you were me, what would you do?" he asks, while his riotous heart stops beating with panic.
His eyes narrow at the sudden change in Vasquez's demeanor, at the worry that stands naked on his face, plain as his nose. That fussing had been maddening during Faraday's recovery; Faraday's reasonably sure his own mother had never clucked after him nearly so much during his childhood as Vasquez had during those bedridden weeks.
(Granted, Faraday had staged a number of escape attempts during those weeks, had landed himself flat on his face when his weakened body betrayed him, but details.)
Faraday had assumed that with the doctor's permission to finally clear out, Vasquez would have left the mother henning behind them. Apparently he was wrong.
"First," Faraday says slowly, the edge of irritation sharpening his words, "I'd stop treatin' certain handsome devils like they were made of glass."
He sits back on the edge of the bed, replacing the King of Spades on the top of his deck. "I'm fine,amigo." His vowels are round and drawling on the borrowed word – the imprecision played up specifically to annoy Vasquez. He spreads his hands as if to prove his point, annoyance standing out in the tick of his jaw. "You were here when the doc said I was good as new, 'cept you're still actin' like I'm liable to break apart if I so much as breathe wrong."
"I don't see any handsome devils, but it's good advice to keep in mind," he replies evenly, stripping his tone of anything so it's flat, but he slides his hat off his head to settle on the table beside Faraday's gun, pushing his hair through his hair a few times before he settles, but what it really takes is another cigar (his fourth) to get his nerves to calm.
At this rate, he's going to be out and need to roll new ones before he even thinks of leaving town. He twitches sharply when Faraday inserts the awful Spanish into his speech, a gut reaction to his mother language being butchered so.
"Maybe you're fine now, si, but now you're slower," he says, and for once isn't saying it just to be cruel. "Not the way you used to be, which means easier to hurt you again." Strange how Vasquez would have been first in line to do that hurting a few weeks ago, but now he would kill anyone who did with a full round of bullets.
He already has, what with McCann's conveniently slain body already in a coffin. "You say that I should have a plan, but you, you're the one who needs to have someone at your back," he says, working himself around to volunteering for that job.
Vasquez might not mean it as an insult, but Faraday takes it as one all the same, eyes hardening and hands clenching into fists. Faraday takes a great deal of pride in his skills, and he doubts there will ever come a day where having them called into question won't make him lash out. The reminder of the injuries he collected the day of the battle and the lingering effects they would have (likely for the rest of his life) stings greater than any other physical blow Vasquez could have thrown his way.
It took him quite some time to regain as much of his physicality and dexterity as he has; it was one hell of an uphill climb, painfully slow and just plain painful. Faraday knows there's still more to go before he's anywhere near how he was before the fight.
"I'm fully capable of watching my own back," he snaps – the instinctual snarl of a cornered animal. "As I seem to recall, only one of us in this room's got his face plastered up on posters, and as much as my likeness deserves to be preserved, it ain't me."
For all that Vasquez thinks they've come a long way since that first meeting, there are times like this when it feels like Faraday is the living, breathing nails on chalkboard that can drive him crazy. Deliberately, meanly, he drinks all the rest of what's left in Faraday's flask before he throws it to the bed, thinking it's dirty play, bringing up the warrant.
"Then I guess you don't want a man who got his face on a warrant watching your back," he spits out, as if the words have been steeped in bitterness and anger, not sure if he's genuinely angry or just hurt at the implication that killing the ranger had been stupid of him in that way. He doesn't regret it, he never will. "For the best," he says, glaring at Faraday. "You'd probably just end up on a wanted poster beside mine, si Because I cannot take care of myself, because I killed a man who deserved it."
Vasquez's own anger startles him, and it stands out on Faraday's face for a moment – in the widening of his eyes, in the way his lips part, in the way he sits straighter. Vasquez snarls right back, and Faraday feels himself bristling, feels his own defensiveness feeding into the anger already writhing in his gut.
"That's not what I meant," Faraday bites back. "I don't give a damn who or what you killed or why you did it." God knows Faraday's left a trail of bodies behind him, same as anyone in Sam's assemblage of misfits. He's put down men like rabid dogs when they didn't know when to leave well enough alone, and some of those men probably didn't deserve the bullet between the eyes that Faraday gave them.
"What I'm sayin' is—" what the hell was Faraday trying to say? He lets out a frustrated noise, scrubbing at his face. "What I'm sayin' is, you need an extra set of eyes for the stupid sons of bitches who wanna try their luck, gettin' that money."
He makes that same aggravated noise again, shaking his head sharply. "But apparently, I'm too goddamn slow for you to offer up my services. Who the hell am I, but some washed-up gunslinger, huh? Some stupid half-corned bastard that you'd need to watch after like some mother after a newborn child. That's how you see me, ain't it?"
Vasquez opens his mouth to argue again, but stops and frowns. English isn't his first language, but it's good enough, though there are times like this when he has to pause and think about what's been said to make sure that it's right. It sounds almost like they're saying the same thing.
At least, he thinks they are, they just keep hiding it with insults and lashing out.
"Guerito," Vasquez finally says, breathing out slowly, "you're not too slow to watch my back, you're still faster on a gun than anyone here, except maybe Billy and a knife. I mean, you are stupid," he allows, seeing as that part of Faraday's self-insult is true, because men get stupid when they get drunk. "Drunk, stupid, a bastard cabron," he lists, but the anger is starting to melt away and in its place is an understanding hint of a smile.
"No one else I'd want watching my back," is how he finishes. "Unless you have better offers?"
Maybe next time he wants something, he won't make them go through so much suffering to get it, but Vasquez never did like things easy.
The abrupt way Vasquez's anger ebbs away leaves Faraday startled, confused. It doesn't completely douse Faraday's anger – because Faraday latches onto that particular emotion with all the tenacity a drowning man would cling to driftwood – but it calms him down, makes him focus, makes him listen.
The snide little remark about his intelligence earns Vasquez a flat, unimpressed look, and when he continues to pile on the insults, Faraday bristles all the more, jaw ticking with annoyance. But the insults stand at odds with the way Vasquez's voice calms, the way he smiles, and Faraday frowns with confusion.
It's only when Vasquez finishes speaking that Faraday is left completely reeling, and he blinks at the other man, almost dazed. It's a few moments for him to process the words, for their meaning to finally take root, and when they do, Faraday exhales sharply through his nose.
"You're a confusing son of a bitch," he grumbles, arms crossing over his chest. Even so, a quiet note of relief creeps into his voice. "Is this the kinda nonsense I'd get if I set out with you?"
"Probablemente, si," is his honest reply, knowing himself well enough to know that if they do end up setting out together, they might end up attracting trouble just from the way they scrap and hiss and fight like cats in the rain. "Maybe I think you don't want this," he points out, making light of what's the case, because it's hard to admit.
"You know I have a bounty, five hundred dollars," he says, not boasting like he normally would, "It's not for everyone, but," he says, drawing out that word as he drags his feet off the bed, leaning his elbows on his chest to stare just to the right of Faraday, not able to look at him.
There are other reasons he wants him at his side, ones he doesn't know how to process past the crystallized, broken-apart thoughts and ideas and dreams, but he doesn't dare confront those head on.
"No one I trust more than you," he says, finally. "I know if you do not kill me, you'll keep me alive. So?" he challenges with a nod. "Are you going to come with me?"
Faraday falls quiet at that, chewing over the words – and he feels a quiet curl of warmth, of pleasure, at Vasquez openly admitting that he trusts Faraday. Faraday’s actually startled at just how pleased he is hearing those words. So many folks Faraday ran with never had much faith in him, and admittedly, for good reason. Faraday was the type to make friends quickly, though he had a much more difficult time every keeping them. Many of those idiots Faraday was more than happy to leave in the dust, to abandon to their fates if their idiocy or their hotheadedness got them in deeper waters than they could handle.
It wasn’t until Sam found Faraday in Amador City that things changed, that he met men and women for whom Faraday found himself willing to stick out his neck. People he’d bleed for, people he’d die for, all because they treated him as an equal and had the same penchant for daredevilry as he did.
(And a small part of him, a part Faraday doesn’t bother to examine too closely, admits that after all this time with Vasquez at his side, he’s not entirely sure if he’ ready to let Vasquez go off on his own. Selfish of Faraday, maybe, but it seems his wishes align neatly with Vasquez’s.)
He knows his answer to Vasquez’s question, even before the outlaw finally asks it aloud. Still, natural showman that Faraday is, he hesitates, seems to turn the decision over in his head.
“Depends,” he says at length, contemplative and solemn. “How often can I expect to find you hoverin’ over me like a shadow? ‘Cause you cluckin’ over me like an anxious mama hen every hour of the day is gonna get real old, real fast.”
He doesn't know if that's a promise he can actually make, because the truth is that every time Faraday winces or grimaces or does anything that makes him pull at the wounds he's been healing from. "Depends," he echoes. "I watch you, here, you have too many holes in you, you're nearly blown up, and you expect me not to fuss?" he scoffs dubiously. "I'll make you a deal. Instead of me clucking like a pollo, then instead, I will only do that one, two hours a day. When you are needing it," he negotiates.
"When you are tired and need the extra attention. Think," he prods, trying to prey on Faraday's more selfish nature. "You can boss me around, make me do what you want. That's worth some henning, yes?" Besides, Vasquez needs to be able to fret, because if he doesn't, the worry about how close Faraday had come to actually dying will eat away at him.
Grimacing, he adjusts his arm, ghost pains still making him flinch, and he tries not to let buoyant delight overwhelm him. Faraday is saying yes, and try as he might to act collected and calm, he's already smiling like an idiot. "We're going to be such trouble," he says, already laughing wickedly at the thought of what they might get up to. "Best not tell Sam our plans, he will only frown."
It’s not as much of a consolation, really, considering Faraday’s more independent nature. He’s used to fending for himself, and all the fussing, all the worried glances from Vasquez and the others and the remaining townsfolk alike were smothering, rankled him like a burr caught in his boot. It was well-meaning, sure, and a small part of him was warmed by the consideration, but the rest of him just found it vexing.
One to two hours a day still sounds like too much, by Faraday’s standards, and his irritated frown is evidence enough of that; he’s also smart enough to realize that’s likely as much of a concession as Vasquez is willing to give, and he heaves out a sharp sigh.
“Worrywart,” he accuses, but the insult holds no heat or sharpness; his tone is an exasperated one, but it’s nearly fond, too.
Granted, it’s also a case of the kettle calling the pot black, because when Vasquez winces as he moves his arm, Faraday’s gaze snaps to him, to the line of scar tissue hidden by Vasquez’s sleeve. Vasquez may be smiling now, but Faraday saw the way he grimaced just a second ago, and it makes something that shares a few blood relatives with concern kick up in his gut.
The mention of Sam makes Faraday breathe out a laugh, though, and he shrugs in an easy, carefree way. “Suppose he oughta have thought of that ‘fore he decided to introduce us.” So, really, if one thinks about it, this partnership and all of the chaos it would surely yield was Sam Chisolm’s fault.
Faraday unfolds his arms, leans forward a little to rest his elbows on his knees. He nods to Vasquez’s arm, and in as mild a tone as he can manage, “Your arm givin’ you trouble?”
He's glad that Faraday had been nowhere near the church when Vasquez had wound up spilling his guts to the teacher's son, letting slip how scared and cowardly he is when it comes to responsibility. For him to want to take any now, on someone like Faraday, it's telling -- too telling -- and he doesn't know that he's any less scared of that weight on his chest, but the alternative is worse.
Losing Faraday, like he thought he had when McCann had shot him, then the rest of the pinche cabron puta de madre bastards, finding him in the field with barely any life in him, it made him want something to be responsible for, ached for it, maybe not so generally.
"Don't give me reason to worry, I won't," he says plainly; means it, too, but right now, Faraday needs a little extra help that he's willing to give.
The question about his arm makes him grimace and he wishes he could ignore it, but he shrugs with his good side. "Always been able to use both," he points out. "Now, it's just..." He frowns and thinks it's better to show than say, taking two of his guns from his holster to spin them the way he knows how, but they're no longer in sync, the left lagging. His shooting is the same, he fears.
"Sam asked me not to kill you, you know," Vasquez informs him. "You were too drunk to remember, I think, but right after we met, he asked very politely not to shoot the idiot drunk." He might be exaggerating a little (a lot), because Sam easing him away from the situation isn't the same, but to Vasquez, it's as good as a request.
Faraday frowns all the more as Vasquez offers his little demonstration. The way the other man spun his guns tended to be hypnotic, smooth in a way that Faraday sometimes envied (though never aloud), but watching him now shows the lasting effects of Vasquez’s wound from the battle. On reflex, Faraday smooths his hand over his right bicep, feeling for the knotted scar tissue where a bullet had torn through during his charge toward the Gatling gun, leaving his right arm weaker than his left.
The realization hits him, then, that if the two of them truly set out together, they’ll be shoring up the weaknesses of the other. Faraday huffs out a laugh. “We’re gonna make one hell of a pair,” he murmurs.
Truth to tell, Faraday barely remembers the afternoon that he and Vasquez met, caught in a whiskey haze as he was. The story may be a bit exaggerated on Vasquez’s part, but considering the sort of trouble Faraday tends to get into when he’s been at the bottles, he fully believes every word. It earns another laugh, and he tilts his head to one side as he puts on his trademark roguish, crooked grin.
“And aren’t you glad you listened to him?” he teases. “Imagine how less full your life would’ve felt without my sparkling wit. You owe the man a gift for the word of warnin’.”
Vasquez's eyes are caught on Faraday's hand, watching the movement of it up his arm attentively, maybe a little hungrier than he wants to let slip by. He thinks about touching that space with his fingers and in brief, high-speed, panicked flash, imagines his lips drifting over that rough skin. He clears his throat and looks down quickly, picking up his cigar again and using that to keep his mouth occupied with too many puffs, glad the heat is a good excuse for the flush of his skin.
"Back to back, ay? Worked well the first time," Vasquez points out, reclining back in the chair and patting the lasso at his side. "This is still good, doesn't need much strength, just precision."
His shoulders shake with fond mirth for Faraday's talk of his sparkling wit, but the sad thing is? He's right. God, Vasquez wishes he weren't, wishes he hadn't thrown his lot in with this drunken Irish insulting gambler, but what can he say? He never has known what was good for him.
"My life would be less of something, that's true," he says, his glittering eyes locked on Faraday. "So? When do we leave? I'll need to make sure I secure our shares, see that we aren't cheated by Goody's eager fingers."
The question kicks up a spark in Faraday’s chest, ignites a sort of excitement he hasn’t felt for a long while. Rose Creek is nice enough, to be sure, and the folks are fine people, battered as they are by the indignities of the late Bogue’s abuse and by the single day of battle. Not a man came out of that fight unscathed, even if they might have come out of it unwounded. But they’re simple farmers, as Emma Cullen once claimed them to be; they lacked that dangerous streak that ran through every man in Chisolm’s mercenary army. It didn’t make them boring, exactly, in Faraday’s eyes, but it certainly put a wall between him and anyone else here.
But the thought of finally leaving, of finally hitting the road and stirring up trouble, makes him grin. Faraday is excited in a way he hasn’t been in a long while. And more than that, the idea of setting out with Vasquez, infuriating and obnoxious as he surely is, feels like a luxury he hasn’t enjoyed in a ages.
(In the words of one Goodnight Robicheaux, “This is not going to end well.”)
“Tomorrow?” he suggests – though that’s far too soon, in all likelihood. They need to prepare for the road, buy up supplies, replenish their ammo. Maybe other men might take the time to say their goodbyes, but the idea hardly occurs to Faraday; before this, he’s never had anyone to leave behind. “And don’t you try to swipe from me, either. I remember how much I’m owed.”
Though there’s no real heat behind the words. He trusts Vasquez.
Vasquez lets out a snort that edges close to ridicule, seeing as he doesn't know where any of the sense in what Faraday is saying. "What happens if I steal too much of your money, hmm? You steal it back in the middle of the night, I steal, then you steal, but we all get it," he points out. "So long as you don't gamble it away."
It's like he doesn't intend to end up gambling, too. While he might not be as quick to the cards, things happen when he drinks and his resistance starts to fold under him rapidly. He has a bad feeling that his better sense is going to fold in other ways, but his denial is helping shroud that awareness.
He puffs on the cigar a few times, exhaling perfect smoke rings, before he puts it out on the chair and stands to his feet, gesturing for Faraday with a 'come here' gesture of his fingers. "Let's see you stand," he coaxes. "If you are well, then I will send you to buy ammo and food. If not, maybe two, three days for me to do it." He looms over Faraday, one hand on the wall behind the bed. "You can still charm alcohol from people, si? We will need plenty to drink."
It feels like a challenge, for all that it isn’t. It’s a simple enough request – standing, walking, like he’s some sort of newborn babe. Maybe a few weeks ago a request like this would’ve been a much taller order to fulfill, but Faraday has been healing, and if he couldn’t manage something as basic as this, then the doctor surely wouldn’t have given him leave to pack up his things, would he?
He looks up at Vasquez standing over him, defiance in his eyes as the outlaw practically leers down at him. (And maybe a small part of him admits it’s an interesting sight, a warm curl of something licking up the back of his breastbone. Faraday hardly knows what that is, and like a good deal of things he doesn’t understand, he ignores it.)
“You act like I don’t got two perfectly functional legs of my own,” Faraday grumbles, absently running a hand down over the bullet scar in his left thigh. He gets to his feet – admittedly, a little slower than he would have managed before the fight – and once he’s there, he spreads his hands in a muted sort of flourish.
Vasquez pushes himself away from the wall when Faraday makes to get up, careful not to crowd and fuss too much, now that the other man's made such a big deal about that being unhelpful, but every part of him is still screaming to make sure he's there in case something goes wrong, cautious and careful. When he manages to stand on his own two feet, the smile on his face is totally sincere and brimming with warmth, backing away and setting his hands at his sides from where they'd been poised, ready to catch him.
"Guero," he drawls, not even flinching at Faraday's disgusting accent with the Spanish. "Look at that, two feet and all," he says, but his heart beating faster is a combination of relief and adrenaline, he thinks, because it means that Faraday really is okay. He has to ignore the way Faraday had touched his thigh, knowing the wound is there, but he can pretend it isn't, as good as ever at lying to himself.
Strange, how this celebration feels strangely missing something. Alcohol, maybe? After all the weeks spent so close, side-by-side, he throws away the idea that there's too much space between them and that's the problem. It's definitely the alcohol that they need.
"Now comes the stairs," he warns. "Should I wait for you to fall down them? Or on your ass behind you?" he deadpans.
The teasing earns Vasquez a scowl, and Faraday swipes at him halfheartedly. He has no real intention of hitting him, which means the swing is easily dodged.
“Only one fallin’ down those stairs,” Faraday grouses, “is gonna be you in about half a minute if you keep that nonsense up.”
When he walks forward, there’s a hitch in his gait as he heads for the door, and he clearly favors his left leg, never quite putting his full weight on it. The ache will dull with time, the doctor had told him, but it might never quite go away. Faraday tries to tell himself he’s grateful that it’s even still attached, and more than that, that he’s even still alive to feel it, but some days, the soreness races up his hip, leaves him snapping like a cornered animal. Today, though, it’s a mild enough feeling that he’s more than happy to ignore it.
He pauses in the doorway, turning back to Vasquez with that bit of defiance, as if daring the other man to say another word about his condition.
He'd probably just fall down the stairs very elegantly, thinks Vasquez, but he's stubborn enough that he'd willingly yank Faraday with him and make sure that he doesn't suffer alone. It's a lie, of course, for two reasons. The first being that he doesn't want Faraday to be any more injured and the second is that who knows how they'd end up, sprawled together, like that.
Clearing his throat, he lifts his head when Faraday asks after him, unable to help his small, satisfied smile when he's not left behind. He yanks his vest on, only buttoning up the first three before he's following after. They need to load up on supplies and he'll move a lot faster if he leaves Faraday's side for it, but it's the first time that the other man's up and about.
There's a sentimental and stupid part of him that doesn't want to miss this. "If that gets too bad," he says, of the leg and the hip, "doctor told me some ways that I could help." It had been while Faraday had been sleeping, but he's not sure that he's ready to get into them here and now. Some seem very strange, and some he's not even sure that Faraday will allow.
He sidesteps Faraday, putting both hands on his person to forcibly make room for Vasquez to step in front and stand a few steps below, leaning one foot on the step above the other as he nods at Faraday, eyes roaming him as he waits for him to start moving down.
"I'm not helping," he warns. He'll catch him, sure, but this is Faraday's to do and on his own.
Faraday waits for Vasquez to join him in the hall, a tad impatient to make his way downstairs. He's made this trek before, of course, though usually with someone to lean against – most often Vasquez, but occasionally one of the womenfolk who tutted after the wounded men like worried mothers. In his more over-dramatic moments, Faraday would grouse about hardly knowing what the outside world looked like anymore, cooped up as he was in his room at the boarding house.
Vasquez's offer to help him with the pain of his leg earns him a startled look. Faraday had figured he'd be on his own with that, that he'd have to learn to grin and bear it. That Vasquez offers to assist, in whatever capacity that may be, gives him pause. He ought to bristle at that, too, he thinks, ought to puff up like a spitting cat, but mostly, he's oddly touched by the gesture.
Not that he ever means to say that aloud.
And it's just as well that Vasquez shoves past him (the rude bastard), because it gives Faraday time to regain his bearings. He scowls at Vasquez's warning, trying to subtly steel himself for the walk down.
"I don't recall askin' for your help, anyhow," he retorts.
They're just stairs, for crying out loud, he tells himself. His hand wraps around the handrail as he makes those first few steps down with little trouble. The wood creaks quietly beneath his weight. The strain on his mostly-healed leg isn't so bad, he insists, gritting his teeth. He can take it, and he'll have to learn to live with it, if he means to leave this one-horse town. It's when he's three-fourths of the way down that he pauses for a moment, catching his breath, leaning his weight on his good leg.
You're almost there, dammit, he snaps at himself, taking a deep breath and venturing down another step or two. What kinda weakling can't make it down a single flight of stairs?
Naturally, though, his stubborn spirit isn't enough to overrule the protests of his battered body. Just a few steps away from the bottom, his injured leg hitches, sending him stumbling straight into Vasquez.
Vasquez very nearly walks away, lets himself believe that Faraday has healed enough that he's back to normal. He could pretend that, but he would be living in denial. There's a pain flickering over Faraday's face that doesn't let him get away with these stories, unfortunately, listening warily to the way the wood creaks, but it's not until later that Vasquez realizes that he should have been worried to begin with.
Letting out a mild sound of alarm when Faraday stumbles, his instincts kick in. He's grateful that he'd made it to the flat floor of the bottom, but he's still not expecting a man as wide and big as Faraday to come tripping into him. The force of it nearly sends him to the ground, hissing and cursing in Spanish, but there's something more worrisome to be said for their current position.
In his desperation to stop the fall, Vasquez has needed to use both hands, their bodies flush together to prevent him from getting knocked to the floor. The thumb of one hand is pressed to the small of Faraday's back, the other higher up on his back. With alarm, he thinks about how no one has been this close, not even Faraday himself when he's at his side. It's not that he minds it (and he should ask himself why, why he doesn't mind it, why he likes it, why that rush of adrenaline pulses through him and that heat rises in his belly), but they're in public.
"Can you stand?" Vasquez asks, not daring to let go of Faraday just yet, but the words are pitched so low that they're private. His breath is heavy, like he's the one doing the labouring, and he's so close.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
His movements are slow, steady, fingers sliding along the barrel with the cloth and rubbing absently, maybe a little suggestive, but unfortunately, Vasquez can't claim that he's doing it on purpose.
He makes a thoughtful noise, though, like Faraday's had a good idea. "Teddy," he echoes, making it seem like he's actually, truly considering this as a clever idea. "I mean, he's young, but he can learn. He's been tried by as much fire as you and me, guero." He can't help the smirk on his face as another prodding, teasing thought comes to him. "No need for discussion, he's pretty enough to let your mind wander while you stare. Might come in handy, sending him into town when I need things," he says.
He nods, like he's genuinely considering it, where in reality he'd probably end up shooting Teddy out of irritation two miles in.
"Here I thought you had pickled your brain, it's good to see one or two good ideas still there," he quips, eyes sparkling with mischief.
no subject
“I’m sharp enough still to see straight through your bullshit,” Faraday quips, his bright tone at odds with the roughness of his words.
He straightens out the deck in his hands, depositing the cards carefully on the nightstand beside him and swinging his legs out of bed. He holds in a breath as he gets to his feet, and when the mostly-healed wound in his left leg only twitches a little in protest, he lets the breath out between his lips. Even with the doc offering him a clean bill of health, Faraday knows the old injuries are liable to slow him down on the road, will make traveling a chore.
He moves past Vasquez, scooping up the fallen card, and when he turns back around, he runs his thumb along its edge, matching Vasquez’s smirk with one of his own.
“I’m sure you and Theodore will be thick as thieves, once you set out. You two can yap all day about farmin’.” And Faraday says it dryly, like the topic might possibly be the most boring thing in the world. “Not sure if the man has quite your constitution for shackin’ with the dearly departed, though.”
no subject
It's that shaken, deep worry, the one that he's been wearing on his face while Faraday's been unconscious. It's how he looks when his fingers rest inches from Faraday's, while he'd prayed and prayed to a God he's not sure he believes in.
"What," he manages to find his voice, unearthing it from the pile of fears and worries, "I've changed. Now I just shack up with the nearly departed," he replies, trying to steady his breathing. Faraday is fine. He's not going to collapse, he won't be shot again, but that does beg the worry that if Vasquez lets him wander on his own, he could be. He does have a very bad habit of being extremely stupid when he gets drunk (not that Vasquez can talk).
"If you were me, what would you do?" he asks, while his riotous heart stops beating with panic.
no subject
(Granted, Faraday had staged a number of escape attempts during those weeks, had landed himself flat on his face when his weakened body betrayed him, but details.)
Faraday had assumed that with the doctor's permission to finally clear out, Vasquez would have left the mother henning behind them. Apparently he was wrong.
"First," Faraday says slowly, the edge of irritation sharpening his words, "I'd stop treatin' certain handsome devils like they were made of glass."
He sits back on the edge of the bed, replacing the King of Spades on the top of his deck. "I'm fine, amigo." His vowels are round and drawling on the borrowed word – the imprecision played up specifically to annoy Vasquez. He spreads his hands as if to prove his point, annoyance standing out in the tick of his jaw. "You were here when the doc said I was good as new, 'cept you're still actin' like I'm liable to break apart if I so much as breathe wrong."
no subject
At this rate, he's going to be out and need to roll new ones before he even thinks of leaving town. He twitches sharply when Faraday inserts the awful Spanish into his speech, a gut reaction to his mother language being butchered so.
"Maybe you're fine now, si, but now you're slower," he says, and for once isn't saying it just to be cruel. "Not the way you used to be, which means easier to hurt you again." Strange how Vasquez would have been first in line to do that hurting a few weeks ago, but now he would kill anyone who did with a full round of bullets.
He already has, what with McCann's conveniently slain body already in a coffin. "You say that I should have a plan, but you, you're the one who needs to have someone at your back," he says, working himself around to volunteering for that job.
no subject
It took him quite some time to regain as much of his physicality and dexterity as he has; it was one hell of an uphill climb, painfully slow and just plain painful. Faraday knows there's still more to go before he's anywhere near how he was before the fight.
"I'm fully capable of watching my own back," he snaps – the instinctual snarl of a cornered animal. "As I seem to recall, only one of us in this room's got his face plastered up on posters, and as much as my likeness deserves to be preserved, it ain't me."
no subject
"Then I guess you don't want a man who got his face on a warrant watching your back," he spits out, as if the words have been steeped in bitterness and anger, not sure if he's genuinely angry or just hurt at the implication that killing the ranger had been stupid of him in that way. He doesn't regret it, he never will. "For the best," he says, glaring at Faraday. "You'd probably just end up on a wanted poster beside mine, si Because I cannot take care of myself, because I killed a man who deserved it."
no subject
"That's not what I meant," Faraday bites back. "I don't give a damn who or what you killed or why you did it." God knows Faraday's left a trail of bodies behind him, same as anyone in Sam's assemblage of misfits. He's put down men like rabid dogs when they didn't know when to leave well enough alone, and some of those men probably didn't deserve the bullet between the eyes that Faraday gave them.
"What I'm sayin' is—" what the hell was Faraday trying to say? He lets out a frustrated noise, scrubbing at his face. "What I'm sayin' is, you need an extra set of eyes for the stupid sons of bitches who wanna try their luck, gettin' that money."
He makes that same aggravated noise again, shaking his head sharply. "But apparently, I'm too goddamn slow for you to offer up my services. Who the hell am I, but some washed-up gunslinger, huh? Some stupid half-corned bastard that you'd need to watch after like some mother after a newborn child. That's how you see me, ain't it?"
no subject
At least, he thinks they are, they just keep hiding it with insults and lashing out.
"Guerito," Vasquez finally says, breathing out slowly, "you're not too slow to watch my back, you're still faster on a gun than anyone here, except maybe Billy and a knife. I mean, you are stupid," he allows, seeing as that part of Faraday's self-insult is true, because men get stupid when they get drunk. "Drunk, stupid, a bastard cabron," he lists, but the anger is starting to melt away and in its place is an understanding hint of a smile.
"No one else I'd want watching my back," is how he finishes. "Unless you have better offers?"
Maybe next time he wants something, he won't make them go through so much suffering to get it, but Vasquez never did like things easy.
no subject
The snide little remark about his intelligence earns Vasquez a flat, unimpressed look, and when he continues to pile on the insults, Faraday bristles all the more, jaw ticking with annoyance. But the insults stand at odds with the way Vasquez's voice calms, the way he smiles, and Faraday frowns with confusion.
It's only when Vasquez finishes speaking that Faraday is left completely reeling, and he blinks at the other man, almost dazed. It's a few moments for him to process the words, for their meaning to finally take root, and when they do, Faraday exhales sharply through his nose.
"You're a confusing son of a bitch," he grumbles, arms crossing over his chest. Even so, a quiet note of relief creeps into his voice. "Is this the kinda nonsense I'd get if I set out with you?"
no subject
"You know I have a bounty, five hundred dollars," he says, not boasting like he normally would, "It's not for everyone, but," he says, drawing out that word as he drags his feet off the bed, leaning his elbows on his chest to stare just to the right of Faraday, not able to look at him.
There are other reasons he wants him at his side, ones he doesn't know how to process past the crystallized, broken-apart thoughts and ideas and dreams, but he doesn't dare confront those head on.
"No one I trust more than you," he says, finally. "I know if you do not kill me, you'll keep me alive. So?" he challenges with a nod. "Are you going to come with me?"
no subject
It wasn’t until Sam found Faraday in Amador City that things changed, that he met men and women for whom Faraday found himself willing to stick out his neck. People he’d bleed for, people he’d die for, all because they treated him as an equal and had the same penchant for daredevilry as he did.
(And a small part of him, a part Faraday doesn’t bother to examine too closely, admits that after all this time with Vasquez at his side, he’s not entirely sure if he’ ready to let Vasquez go off on his own. Selfish of Faraday, maybe, but it seems his wishes align neatly with Vasquez’s.)
He knows his answer to Vasquez’s question, even before the outlaw finally asks it aloud. Still, natural showman that Faraday is, he hesitates, seems to turn the decision over in his head.
“Depends,” he says at length, contemplative and solemn. “How often can I expect to find you hoverin’ over me like a shadow? ‘Cause you cluckin’ over me like an anxious mama hen every hour of the day is gonna get real old, real fast.”
no subject
"When you are tired and need the extra attention. Think," he prods, trying to prey on Faraday's more selfish nature. "You can boss me around, make me do what you want. That's worth some henning, yes?" Besides, Vasquez needs to be able to fret, because if he doesn't, the worry about how close Faraday had come to actually dying will eat away at him.
Grimacing, he adjusts his arm, ghost pains still making him flinch, and he tries not to let buoyant delight overwhelm him. Faraday is saying yes, and try as he might to act collected and calm, he's already smiling like an idiot. "We're going to be such trouble," he says, already laughing wickedly at the thought of what they might get up to. "Best not tell Sam our plans, he will only frown."
no subject
One to two hours a day still sounds like too much, by Faraday’s standards, and his irritated frown is evidence enough of that; he’s also smart enough to realize that’s likely as much of a concession as Vasquez is willing to give, and he heaves out a sharp sigh.
“Worrywart,” he accuses, but the insult holds no heat or sharpness; his tone is an exasperated one, but it’s nearly fond, too.
Granted, it’s also a case of the kettle calling the pot black, because when Vasquez winces as he moves his arm, Faraday’s gaze snaps to him, to the line of scar tissue hidden by Vasquez’s sleeve. Vasquez may be smiling now, but Faraday saw the way he grimaced just a second ago, and it makes something that shares a few blood relatives with concern kick up in his gut.
The mention of Sam makes Faraday breathe out a laugh, though, and he shrugs in an easy, carefree way. “Suppose he oughta have thought of that ‘fore he decided to introduce us.” So, really, if one thinks about it, this partnership and all of the chaos it would surely yield was Sam Chisolm’s fault.
Faraday unfolds his arms, leans forward a little to rest his elbows on his knees. He nods to Vasquez’s arm, and in as mild a tone as he can manage, “Your arm givin’ you trouble?”
no subject
Losing Faraday, like he thought he had when McCann had shot him, then the rest of the pinche cabron puta de madre bastards, finding him in the field with barely any life in him, it made him want something to be responsible for, ached for it, maybe not so generally.
"Don't give me reason to worry, I won't," he says plainly; means it, too, but right now, Faraday needs a little extra help that he's willing to give.
The question about his arm makes him grimace and he wishes he could ignore it, but he shrugs with his good side. "Always been able to use both," he points out. "Now, it's just..." He frowns and thinks it's better to show than say, taking two of his guns from his holster to spin them the way he knows how, but they're no longer in sync, the left lagging. His shooting is the same, he fears.
"Sam asked me not to kill you, you know," Vasquez informs him. "You were too drunk to remember, I think, but right after we met, he asked very politely not to shoot the idiot drunk." He might be exaggerating a little (a lot), because Sam easing him away from the situation isn't the same, but to Vasquez, it's as good as a request.
no subject
The realization hits him, then, that if the two of them truly set out together, they’ll be shoring up the weaknesses of the other. Faraday huffs out a laugh. “We’re gonna make one hell of a pair,” he murmurs.
Truth to tell, Faraday barely remembers the afternoon that he and Vasquez met, caught in a whiskey haze as he was. The story may be a bit exaggerated on Vasquez’s part, but considering the sort of trouble Faraday tends to get into when he’s been at the bottles, he fully believes every word. It earns another laugh, and he tilts his head to one side as he puts on his trademark roguish, crooked grin.
“And aren’t you glad you listened to him?” he teases. “Imagine how less full your life would’ve felt without my sparkling wit. You owe the man a gift for the word of warnin’.”
no subject
"Back to back, ay? Worked well the first time," Vasquez points out, reclining back in the chair and patting the lasso at his side. "This is still good, doesn't need much strength, just precision."
His shoulders shake with fond mirth for Faraday's talk of his sparkling wit, but the sad thing is? He's right. God, Vasquez wishes he weren't, wishes he hadn't thrown his lot in with this drunken Irish insulting gambler, but what can he say? He never has known what was good for him.
"My life would be less of something, that's true," he says, his glittering eyes locked on Faraday. "So? When do we leave? I'll need to make sure I secure our shares, see that we aren't cheated by Goody's eager fingers."
no subject
But the thought of finally leaving, of finally hitting the road and stirring up trouble, makes him grin. Faraday is excited in a way he hasn’t been in a long while. And more than that, the idea of setting out with Vasquez, infuriating and obnoxious as he surely is, feels like a luxury he hasn’t enjoyed in a ages.
(In the words of one Goodnight Robicheaux, “This is not going to end well.”)
“Tomorrow?” he suggests – though that’s far too soon, in all likelihood. They need to prepare for the road, buy up supplies, replenish their ammo. Maybe other men might take the time to say their goodbyes, but the idea hardly occurs to Faraday; before this, he’s never had anyone to leave behind. “And don’t you try to swipe from me, either. I remember how much I’m owed.”
Though there’s no real heat behind the words. He trusts Vasquez.
no subject
It's like he doesn't intend to end up gambling, too. While he might not be as quick to the cards, things happen when he drinks and his resistance starts to fold under him rapidly. He has a bad feeling that his better sense is going to fold in other ways, but his denial is helping shroud that awareness.
He puffs on the cigar a few times, exhaling perfect smoke rings, before he puts it out on the chair and stands to his feet, gesturing for Faraday with a 'come here' gesture of his fingers. "Let's see you stand," he coaxes. "If you are well, then I will send you to buy ammo and food. If not, maybe two, three days for me to do it." He looms over Faraday, one hand on the wall behind the bed. "You can still charm alcohol from people, si? We will need plenty to drink."
no subject
He looks up at Vasquez standing over him, defiance in his eyes as the outlaw practically leers down at him. (And maybe a small part of him admits it’s an interesting sight, a warm curl of something licking up the back of his breastbone. Faraday hardly knows what that is, and like a good deal of things he doesn’t understand, he ignores it.)
“You act like I don’t got two perfectly functional legs of my own,” Faraday grumbles, absently running a hand down over the bullet scar in his left thigh. He gets to his feet – admittedly, a little slower than he would have managed before the fight – and once he’s there, he spreads his hands in a muted sort of flourish.
“Satisfied, hombre?”
no subject
"Guero," he drawls, not even flinching at Faraday's disgusting accent with the Spanish. "Look at that, two feet and all," he says, but his heart beating faster is a combination of relief and adrenaline, he thinks, because it means that Faraday really is okay. He has to ignore the way Faraday had touched his thigh, knowing the wound is there, but he can pretend it isn't, as good as ever at lying to himself.
Strange, how this celebration feels strangely missing something. Alcohol, maybe? After all the weeks spent so close, side-by-side, he throws away the idea that there's too much space between them and that's the problem. It's definitely the alcohol that they need.
"Now comes the stairs," he warns. "Should I wait for you to fall down them? Or on your ass behind you?" he deadpans.
no subject
“Only one fallin’ down those stairs,” Faraday grouses, “is gonna be you in about half a minute if you keep that nonsense up.”
When he walks forward, there’s a hitch in his gait as he heads for the door, and he clearly favors his left leg, never quite putting his full weight on it. The ache will dull with time, the doctor had told him, but it might never quite go away. Faraday tries to tell himself he’s grateful that it’s even still attached, and more than that, that he’s even still alive to feel it, but some days, the soreness races up his hip, leaves him snapping like a cornered animal. Today, though, it’s a mild enough feeling that he’s more than happy to ignore it.
He pauses in the doorway, turning back to Vasquez with that bit of defiance, as if daring the other man to say another word about his condition.
“You comin’?”
no subject
Clearing his throat, he lifts his head when Faraday asks after him, unable to help his small, satisfied smile when he's not left behind. He yanks his vest on, only buttoning up the first three before he's following after. They need to load up on supplies and he'll move a lot faster if he leaves Faraday's side for it, but it's the first time that the other man's up and about.
There's a sentimental and stupid part of him that doesn't want to miss this. "If that gets too bad," he says, of the leg and the hip, "doctor told me some ways that I could help." It had been while Faraday had been sleeping, but he's not sure that he's ready to get into them here and now. Some seem very strange, and some he's not even sure that Faraday will allow.
He sidesteps Faraday, putting both hands on his person to forcibly make room for Vasquez to step in front and stand a few steps below, leaning one foot on the step above the other as he nods at Faraday, eyes roaming him as he waits for him to start moving down.
"I'm not helping," he warns. He'll catch him, sure, but this is Faraday's to do and on his own.
no subject
Vasquez's offer to help him with the pain of his leg earns him a startled look. Faraday had figured he'd be on his own with that, that he'd have to learn to grin and bear it. That Vasquez offers to assist, in whatever capacity that may be, gives him pause. He ought to bristle at that, too, he thinks, ought to puff up like a spitting cat, but mostly, he's oddly touched by the gesture.
Not that he ever means to say that aloud.
And it's just as well that Vasquez shoves past him (the rude bastard), because it gives Faraday time to regain his bearings. He scowls at Vasquez's warning, trying to subtly steel himself for the walk down.
"I don't recall askin' for your help, anyhow," he retorts.
They're just stairs, for crying out loud, he tells himself. His hand wraps around the handrail as he makes those first few steps down with little trouble. The wood creaks quietly beneath his weight. The strain on his mostly-healed leg isn't so bad, he insists, gritting his teeth. He can take it, and he'll have to learn to live with it, if he means to leave this one-horse town. It's when he's three-fourths of the way down that he pauses for a moment, catching his breath, leaning his weight on his good leg.
You're almost there, dammit, he snaps at himself, taking a deep breath and venturing down another step or two. What kinda weakling can't make it down a single flight of stairs?
Naturally, though, his stubborn spirit isn't enough to overrule the protests of his battered body. Just a few steps away from the bottom, his injured leg hitches, sending him stumbling straight into Vasquez.
no subject
Letting out a mild sound of alarm when Faraday stumbles, his instincts kick in. He's grateful that he'd made it to the flat floor of the bottom, but he's still not expecting a man as wide and big as Faraday to come tripping into him. The force of it nearly sends him to the ground, hissing and cursing in Spanish, but there's something more worrisome to be said for their current position.
In his desperation to stop the fall, Vasquez has needed to use both hands, their bodies flush together to prevent him from getting knocked to the floor. The thumb of one hand is pressed to the small of Faraday's back, the other higher up on his back. With alarm, he thinks about how no one has been this close, not even Faraday himself when he's at his side. It's not that he minds it (and he should ask himself why, why he doesn't mind it, why he likes it, why that rush of adrenaline pulses through him and that heat rises in his belly), but they're in public.
"Can you stand?" Vasquez asks, not daring to let go of Faraday just yet, but the words are pitched so low that they're private. His breath is heavy, like he's the one doing the labouring, and he's so close.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)