He's started to measure time in how long it takes to heal wounds. His arm? Not at all long, it's a blink of an eye. The Gatling gun tore strips through muscle and flesh, but quick enough, it was back to normal. In the time it takes to do that, Faraday doesn't really do much healing at all, but it's a miracle that he's still alive. For all the prayers Vasquez gives, he doesn't know why God decided to listen to this one, saving Billy and Jack, Goodnight and Faraday.
He knows he doesn't have to sit around and fuss, but the town's people have better things to do and he doesn't want to subject anyone to Faraday's healing if they don't need to be. At first, he does it out of obligation. Truthfully, the man might be an annoying cabron, but Vasquez also likes to give as much as he gets and Faraday never flinched on that. It had been good, nice, having a guerito to tease and push at. Over the time while he healed, Vasquez started to realize that maybe, just maybe, the ill will didn't run so deep.
Maybe there was something else he's been ignoring, too, something too difficult to explain. It's the something that flickers poorly when he thinks of Faraday being dead. It's the something that twitches when he thinks of Faraday leaving town without him.
Today, though, is a day for only good things. The local doctor has said that after a long period of rest and recuperation, they're willing to allow Faraday to go his own way. Vasquez should be happy, yes? Instead, he's smoking his third cigar of the day compulsively as he sits in the chair of Faraday's healing room, not sure what he's going to do next, but also not sure that he wants to look so desperate that he's willing to throw his hat into whatever direction Faraday chooses to ride in.
"Sam, I think he says he'll take you," Vasquez comments, staring down at the burning tip of the cigar, letting his hat keep his eyes from giving too much away, "if you wanted to go with him." Vasquez had been thinking of it, but no. Sam deals with too many bounty hunters, that's a path he can't cross, not if he wants to keep his head. "Careful, though, he might blackmail you with another horse. Look how that wound up," he jokes darkly.
Obviously he didn't want to die – what man does? – but he'd be a terrible gambler if he didn't recognize they were playing against the house with a deck stacked in Bogue's favor. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Faraday is a practical man. While he expected Rose Creek might live to see another day, with Sam Chisolm acting as the beleaguered army's general, Faraday hardly expected that he would see the small town rise from the ashes. That first gut shot cemented his fate, he thought, and he knew how slowly a shot like that killed. He'd have days at most of agonizing pain and delirium until his body finally gave out. Better to go out with a bang.
And apparently, he meant that literally.
Boom.
He doesn't expect to wake, doesn't expect to blink blearily up at a drab ceiling in a quiet, sun-filled room, to turn his head and see Vasquez sitting beside him in a rickety chair. His entire body feels stiff and heavy, pain racing along his nerves like a barely contained fire. Death is supposed to be quieter than this, he thinks, more peaceful – so he figures he can rule this being hell or heaven right out. The first question out of his mouth is, "Did we win?" And when he gets his answer, he lets out a laugh that's little more than a breath and says, "Good."
And he's lost to unconsciousness again.
While recovering is nowhere near as easy as Faraday would have liked (and indeed, he was a surly bastard for a great deal of it), these days, he's feeling better. His left leg likes to protest, most days, reminding him of the bullet that tore through his thigh, but otherwise, he's regained a great deal of his strength and dexterity. "A miracle," the townsfolk like to tell him. "Foolhardy stubbornness and an inability to know when to quit" is the most likely culprit, however.
The doctor arrives, tells Faraday he's cleared to go, and Faraday feels relief at last. Rose Creek is a nice enough town, but Faraday has never stayed so long in one place – not since he was a child, clinging to his mother's skirts. He's been itching to leave for weeks now, eager to leave for more exciting pastures. It's only when he sees something cross Vasquez's face that he frowns, that he realizes the bit of news hasn't struck the same happy chord as it has with Faraday for some strange reason.
The day stretches on, and Faraday sits in bed, a new deck of cards rasping in his hands as he shuffles them, wearing in the paper. Vasquez breaks the tense silence, the smoke of his third cigar curling up toward the ceiling, and Faraday breathes out a laugh at the joke.
"I'd like to see him try," he says, the cards snapping together as he bridges them. "Already said Jack was as good as mine. He's got another thing comin' if he thinks I'm lettin' him go back on his word."
Faraday straightens out the cards with practiced ease, gaze focused on his work. Vasquez has stayed in that same chair for weeks and weeks by now, sat beside him through the worst of the fevers and the pain, waited patiently (or impatiently, depending on the instance) as Faraday chucked insult after insult at him when his mood darkened. Once Faraday's path to recovery became more steady, he realized how much he appreciated Vasquez's presence, his needling and his ribbing – though Faraday could have done without the constant fussing. It's a wonder that Vasquez had stayed even a few days after the battle, wanted man that he is. Faraday hardly understands why he would stay all this time when he could have ridden out of town the instant the dust settled.
As he mixes the cards in an easy overhand shuffle, Faraday puts on his poker face – not blank and impassive, as one might expect, but blandly pleasant, tinged with amusement at the edges.
"What about you?" he asks lightly, like the answer hardly concerns him. It only now occurs to Faraday that neither of them have asked after the other's plans, once their business with Rose Creek ended. "You gonna join up with Sam?"
Vasquez snorts, a huff of derisive breath at the comment about the horse, because Faraday got into this whole mess because he'd been too drunk to notice that a tiny man had bought his horse from him. "He won't have to try very hard if you keep drinking," he says, but then, against his actions, he makes a noise like he's just remembered something, lifting himself to one side as he pries out the flask that he's been smuggling into the room. With one check over his shoulder, he makes sure that no doctor or disapproving parties are lingering (Jack), before tossing it at Faraday, conveniently missing his head with an easy toss that lands the flask at his hip.
He keeps working his cigar, sliding the chair forward enough that he's close. If Faraday wants to deal the cards, he'll be there, but right now, his attention is fixed on the movement and steadiness of those fingers. He's dreamed a lot about them, which Vasquez has been interpreting as some misguided relief that Faraday is all right, because dreaming them for others reasons...
Well, it wouldn't be the first time, but it would be the most lethal for him.
"Sam is a bounty hunter," Vasquez replies, finally, to Faraday's direct question, because he's not sure what he wants to do. Going back to living with corpses, alone and tense, wary about everyone he meets, that's no life. Still, he also doesn't know what he'd do if he actually had to bear responsibility for someone else. What happens if he lets someone in and they get hurt, killed, because of the bounty on his head. He moves forward to reach for the cards, resting a hand over the top of them to still Faraday's movement.
(If his fingers just so happen to brush steadily and firmly against Faraday's, that's his own business)
"You, though," he says, trying to get his attention. "You're the one hurt, injured, weak," he can't help the smug little addition, like he's trying to get a rise out of Faraday. "Sam could be good protection, especially if you keep cheating people out of money," he says, adding a wink to that because the implication that Faraday could win on his own merits is a true one, but one Vasquez chooses to conveniently ignore right now.
Faraday meets Vasquez’s criticism with a flat look. Lord knows Vasquez kept up with his every shot in the nights leading up to the battle, the two of them redder in the face than ripe apples, even without the long days spent in the sundrenched streets. Sure, Faraday wasn’t exactly known for his restraint, but by now his constitution is the stuff of legends.
“Believe it or not,” he grumbles, riffling the edge of his deck, “I’ve been taking care of myself a whole lot longer than I’ve known any of you.”
Granted, he wasn’t taking care of himself well, but considering he’s still alive, Faraday figures it’s still a point in his favor. Any further arguments are silenced once the flask lands at his hip, and the irritated look on his face is replaced with a sort of conspiratorial smirk as he plucks it up. He takes a swig, the liquor burning a path down his throat, and he sighs with it, placing it on the bed within easy reach of Vasquez.
He keeps working the cards – as much to wear the new deck in, to make the paper pliable and easier to manipulate, as it is to ensure that he’s still capable of his old tricks – as Vasquez offers his answer. He understands what Vasquez means, of course. A man wanted for murder and a duly sworn warrant officer mix about as well as oil and water, but Faraday snorts derisively all the same.
Bullshit, he says, though not aloud.
Vasquez’s calloused hand rests atop the deck, though, fingers brushing against his own, and Faraday startles to a stop, glancing up at the other man. Odd, the way he feels color rush up his neck, but he attributes that to the lingering heat of the day. It’s soon forgotten with Vasquez’s teasing, though, and Faraday frees his hands to flick a card at Vasquez’s smug face.
“Weak, my ass,” Faraday grumbles. “And I assure you, I’ve no need to cheat.”
Most of the time, Faraday is content to get by on his own luck, on his ability to read his opponents. Other times, though, he keeps a few tricks up his sleeve – for insurance’s sake, of course.
He looks up pointedly, eyes narrowed at the other man. “If anyone needs protectin’ here, Vasquez, it sure as hell ain’t me.”
The man with the $500 bounty on his head, though? That man might need someone to watch his back.
Vasquez returns that comment with a look of derision, seeing as he doesn't actually think that what Faraday did really constitutes taking care of yourself by any stretch of the imagination and the flat look he gives in return (mimicking Faraday's, to the point of annoyance, he hopes), should say as much. For just a second, before he goes to reach for the flask, the rough touch of hands makes it seem like time freezes and stretches out around him.
Someone could shoot a bullet at him and he wouldn't do anything but stand there and take it, frozen in place by something as sticky as molasses and twice as tempting. He laughs, enough that his shoulders shake, for the thrown card, ducking out of the way, but that laugh is gone soon enough when Faraday says what he does.
He sniffs heavily and shrugs, trying to pass it off like it doesn't worry him. As if he doesn't keep looking over his shoulder, twitching at every cocked gun, worrying that someone is going to see that poor likeness and put two and two together to get their money. "Who's going to protect me, guero, hmm?" he retorts. "Someone who would sooner have their pockets lined with cash. Everyone can be bought, they just need to be desperate enough," he adds darkly.
That, and there are others he wouldn't want to burden with his bounty, because it puts them in the line of danger. It would be too much, too much for anyone to be asked, no matter what he wants. He'll just keep living in denial, telling himself it won't ache when he parts ways with all of them (and some specific people, in particular).
Faraday’s made a living off of reading people, and while Vasquez’s act is convincing enough for a layman, he sees through it quickly enough. It’s worrying Vasquez more than he lets on, clearly enough, and maybe that’s why he’s stayed in Rose Creek as long as he has? For the safety, for the security, for knowing that these folks, grateful as they are, weren’t likely to feed him to the wolves.
It makes sense, he thinks, and that bit of clarity makes something click into place. (Surely Vasquez has no other reason to stay, after all.)
“You know Sam ain’t like that,” and he says it levelly, calmly, with all the certainty he can muster. Faraday has met a great deal of unsavory types, men who called themselves honorable and wore shiny little badges, but were just as liable to spit on your corpse as any other lowlife. Sam – and indeed, most of the others their ragtag group – was a different sort altogether. The type you could trust, and with the lives they lead, that was a rarity.
Faraday peers at Vasquez, eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned downward as he studies him.
“So you’re not stayin’ here,” he says slowly, “and you’re not goin’ with Sam. What do you plan on doin’?”
Even if Sam's not like that, Vasquez can't even picture how that would work and he makes it clear from the look on his face and the derisive tone when he looks at Faraday. He might be injured, but Vasquez didn't think that handsome head of his got hit so badly, but maybe not. "What, then he'll tell everyone in town that I just look like Vasquez, the outlaw, when he brings in someone else? Or I get to sit outside, like a child in trouble," he huffs, shaking his head.
"You're loco if you think that's any kind of life," says a man who had been hiding out in a corpse-filled hovel before Rose Creek in order to make sure he kept his head. He doesn't mind robbing what he needs to get by, but now that he's got some Rose Creek money in his pockets, now he could get by. With someone's help, unfortunately, because showing his face in town, well, same problem.
"I don't know," he finally says. "I can't go back to my old hiding place. Too much activity, it will be lost." He stares at Faraday, trying to decide how best to say the next words without ruining his chances. "It was nice, though," he admits, the strain of the words from his worry and not from having to get them out, "knowing I could sleep easy. Knowing that someone was watching." He takes a long drag of the flask and hands it out to Faraday again, not taking his eyes off him, not for a second, not when he wants to gauge his reaction to that, because someone isn't a general someone to him, not right now. It's a very specific one, which is why he's sitting in this room and not in Goodnight's.
Vasquez's arguments (even his little insult) sloughs off Faraday easily enough, and he keeps his gaze steady, continues to study the other man for tells, for tics, for the little gestures that betray his true meaning. Faraday heard the story of how Sam and Emma found Vasquez, tracking him down to a little cabin in the mountains, a corpse festering against a wall.
And what sort of life is that? Faraday wants to ask, but something in the set of Vasquez's shoulders tells him the thought has already crossed the other man's mind.
When Vasquez lifts his head, when he looks at Faraday like that, Faraday is almost a little startled, and he pays a little more attention – to the pointed way the man meets his eyes, to the tenseness in his voice. Something hidden in the words, and Faraday almost wishes the son of a bitch would come out and say what he means to say, if only to take the guesswork out of things.
He takes the flask, still holding Vasquez's gaze, eyebrows knitting together a little as he takes a pull. When the burn of the alcohol passes, Faraday licks his lips, looking Vasquez over from head to toe, sizing him up.
Slowly, carefully, like he's testing the waters, "Who says that's gotta change?"
His jaw ticks once as he picks over his words, and at length, he holds the flask out to the other man.
"Seems to me you've got plenty of folks around here willin' to keep an eye on you."
The slow-building smirk on his lips is teeming with caution, like he's wandering into the desert plains, but they're filled with more traps than he can count. He takes the flask back and sets it on the table, his smile wide and disbelieving, not just for Faraday's words but for what's been circling in the back of his mind.
He'd been on the road since he could remember, travelling away from lands the US stole from his family. He's farmed, ranched, lived a nomad's life, took comfort where he could. Other men? Si, yes, he's taken their trust and their comfort.
This man? Vasquez had never expected to find himself struggling with wanting this man around, with all his insults and blustering, puffing and insistences. Still, when he stares at him and makes him fight not to let the flush in his cheeks (and up to the tips of his ears) show, he thinks he's done this to himself. "You're right," he agrees, but rather than be easy, let Faraday have what he wants, Vasquez smiles serenely, settling his feet on Faraday's bed.
He leans back to pick up one of Faraday's peacemakers and the well-kept rag of his, beginning to slowly take apart the gun with the care it deserves, absently cleaning it to give his fingers and attention something to do. "What do you think? Hmm? Think the schoolteacher will do it? He ran easily enough. Emma, then," he challenges. "She probably still wants my head for what I did when I met her. No," he says decisively. "Goody and Billy, I always did love being a third wheel," is said in Spanish, the sarcasm sharp in his words, but he knows he's teasing around the question he's going to ask.
Maybe not a question. Maybe just a demand.
Come with me. Stay with me. Maybe he will even think to say please.
Sometimes, Faraday forgets what an infuriating son of a bitch Vasquez can be. He hardly knows how he forgets, considering he’s been victim to it nearly every day since they had met, but every now and again, it slips his mind until Vasquez practically slaps Faraday in the face with it.
As he does now, and Faraday wants to reach over punch the smugness right out of him.
The instant Vasquez picks up his gun, an old instinct kicks in, a sour note of jealousy that runs through him. Faraday loathes when other people touch his guns, and indeed, the first time he had seen his peacemakers in Vasquez’s hands, something cold had washed over him. It’s only with time and necessity that he’s learned to trust the other man with his Colts – early in his recovery, he hardly had enough energy to stay awake, much less clean and maintain his guns with the respect they were due – but he still finds himself watching Vasquez like a hawk.
He snorts derisively as Vasquez lists out his options, the cards snapping a little more loudly, a little more sharply as he riffles two packets together. The brief burst of Spanish earns Vasquez a flat, uncomprehending look, and serves only to kick up another notch of annoyance in his chest.
Still, Faraday plays along, because he’s honed the fine art of bullshitting over decades at card tables.
“You try askin’ Jack yet?” he asks, keeping his tone light and conversational. “You’d never have need of another Bible again. Or Teddy Q. Wager he’d be pleasant enough company, till you ran outta things to talk about, ten minutes in.”
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.
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He knows he doesn't have to sit around and fuss, but the town's people have better things to do and he doesn't want to subject anyone to Faraday's healing if they don't need to be. At first, he does it out of obligation. Truthfully, the man might be an annoying cabron, but Vasquez also likes to give as much as he gets and Faraday never flinched on that. It had been good, nice, having a guerito to tease and push at. Over the time while he healed, Vasquez started to realize that maybe, just maybe, the ill will didn't run so deep.
Maybe there was something else he's been ignoring, too, something too difficult to explain. It's the something that flickers poorly when he thinks of Faraday being dead. It's the something that twitches when he thinks of Faraday leaving town without him.
Today, though, is a day for only good things. The local doctor has said that after a long period of rest and recuperation, they're willing to allow Faraday to go his own way. Vasquez should be happy, yes? Instead, he's smoking his third cigar of the day compulsively as he sits in the chair of Faraday's healing room, not sure what he's going to do next, but also not sure that he wants to look so desperate that he's willing to throw his hat into whatever direction Faraday chooses to ride in.
"Sam, I think he says he'll take you," Vasquez comments, staring down at the burning tip of the cigar, letting his hat keep his eyes from giving too much away, "if you wanted to go with him." Vasquez had been thinking of it, but no. Sam deals with too many bounty hunters, that's a path he can't cross, not if he wants to keep his head. "Careful, though, he might blackmail you with another horse. Look how that wound up," he jokes darkly.
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Obviously he didn't want to die – what man does? – but he'd be a terrible gambler if he didn't recognize they were playing against the house with a deck stacked in Bogue's favor. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Faraday is a practical man. While he expected Rose Creek might live to see another day, with Sam Chisolm acting as the beleaguered army's general, Faraday hardly expected that he would see the small town rise from the ashes. That first gut shot cemented his fate, he thought, and he knew how slowly a shot like that killed. He'd have days at most of agonizing pain and delirium until his body finally gave out. Better to go out with a bang.
And apparently, he meant that literally.
Boom.
He doesn't expect to wake, doesn't expect to blink blearily up at a drab ceiling in a quiet, sun-filled room, to turn his head and see Vasquez sitting beside him in a rickety chair. His entire body feels stiff and heavy, pain racing along his nerves like a barely contained fire. Death is supposed to be quieter than this, he thinks, more peaceful – so he figures he can rule this being hell or heaven right out. The first question out of his mouth is, "Did we win?" And when he gets his answer, he lets out a laugh that's little more than a breath and says, "Good."
And he's lost to unconsciousness again.
While recovering is nowhere near as easy as Faraday would have liked (and indeed, he was a surly bastard for a great deal of it), these days, he's feeling better. His left leg likes to protest, most days, reminding him of the bullet that tore through his thigh, but otherwise, he's regained a great deal of his strength and dexterity. "A miracle," the townsfolk like to tell him. "Foolhardy stubbornness and an inability to know when to quit" is the most likely culprit, however.
The doctor arrives, tells Faraday he's cleared to go, and Faraday feels relief at last. Rose Creek is a nice enough town, but Faraday has never stayed so long in one place – not since he was a child, clinging to his mother's skirts. He's been itching to leave for weeks now, eager to leave for more exciting pastures. It's only when he sees something cross Vasquez's face that he frowns, that he realizes the bit of news hasn't struck the same happy chord as it has with Faraday for some strange reason.
The day stretches on, and Faraday sits in bed, a new deck of cards rasping in his hands as he shuffles them, wearing in the paper. Vasquez breaks the tense silence, the smoke of his third cigar curling up toward the ceiling, and Faraday breathes out a laugh at the joke.
"I'd like to see him try," he says, the cards snapping together as he bridges them. "Already said Jack was as good as mine. He's got another thing comin' if he thinks I'm lettin' him go back on his word."
Faraday straightens out the cards with practiced ease, gaze focused on his work. Vasquez has stayed in that same chair for weeks and weeks by now, sat beside him through the worst of the fevers and the pain, waited patiently (or impatiently, depending on the instance) as Faraday chucked insult after insult at him when his mood darkened. Once Faraday's path to recovery became more steady, he realized how much he appreciated Vasquez's presence, his needling and his ribbing – though Faraday could have done without the constant fussing. It's a wonder that Vasquez had stayed even a few days after the battle, wanted man that he is. Faraday hardly understands why he would stay all this time when he could have ridden out of town the instant the dust settled.
As he mixes the cards in an easy overhand shuffle, Faraday puts on his poker face – not blank and impassive, as one might expect, but blandly pleasant, tinged with amusement at the edges.
"What about you?" he asks lightly, like the answer hardly concerns him. It only now occurs to Faraday that neither of them have asked after the other's plans, once their business with Rose Creek ended. "You gonna join up with Sam?"
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He keeps working his cigar, sliding the chair forward enough that he's close. If Faraday wants to deal the cards, he'll be there, but right now, his attention is fixed on the movement and steadiness of those fingers. He's dreamed a lot about them, which Vasquez has been interpreting as some misguided relief that Faraday is all right, because dreaming them for others reasons...
Well, it wouldn't be the first time, but it would be the most lethal for him.
"Sam is a bounty hunter," Vasquez replies, finally, to Faraday's direct question, because he's not sure what he wants to do. Going back to living with corpses, alone and tense, wary about everyone he meets, that's no life. Still, he also doesn't know what he'd do if he actually had to bear responsibility for someone else. What happens if he lets someone in and they get hurt, killed, because of the bounty on his head. He moves forward to reach for the cards, resting a hand over the top of them to still Faraday's movement.
(If his fingers just so happen to brush steadily and firmly against Faraday's, that's his own business)
"You, though," he says, trying to get his attention. "You're the one hurt, injured, weak," he can't help the smug little addition, like he's trying to get a rise out of Faraday. "Sam could be good protection, especially if you keep cheating people out of money," he says, adding a wink to that because the implication that Faraday could win on his own merits is a true one, but one Vasquez chooses to conveniently ignore right now.
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“Believe it or not,” he grumbles, riffling the edge of his deck, “I’ve been taking care of myself a whole lot longer than I’ve known any of you.”
Granted, he wasn’t taking care of himself well, but considering he’s still alive, Faraday figures it’s still a point in his favor. Any further arguments are silenced once the flask lands at his hip, and the irritated look on his face is replaced with a sort of conspiratorial smirk as he plucks it up. He takes a swig, the liquor burning a path down his throat, and he sighs with it, placing it on the bed within easy reach of Vasquez.
He keeps working the cards – as much to wear the new deck in, to make the paper pliable and easier to manipulate, as it is to ensure that he’s still capable of his old tricks – as Vasquez offers his answer. He understands what Vasquez means, of course. A man wanted for murder and a duly sworn warrant officer mix about as well as oil and water, but Faraday snorts derisively all the same.
Bullshit, he says, though not aloud.
Vasquez’s calloused hand rests atop the deck, though, fingers brushing against his own, and Faraday startles to a stop, glancing up at the other man. Odd, the way he feels color rush up his neck, but he attributes that to the lingering heat of the day. It’s soon forgotten with Vasquez’s teasing, though, and Faraday frees his hands to flick a card at Vasquez’s smug face.
“Weak, my ass,” Faraday grumbles. “And I assure you, I’ve no need to cheat.”
Most of the time, Faraday is content to get by on his own luck, on his ability to read his opponents. Other times, though, he keeps a few tricks up his sleeve – for insurance’s sake, of course.
He looks up pointedly, eyes narrowed at the other man. “If anyone needs protectin’ here, Vasquez, it sure as hell ain’t me.”
The man with the $500 bounty on his head, though? That man might need someone to watch his back.
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Someone could shoot a bullet at him and he wouldn't do anything but stand there and take it, frozen in place by something as sticky as molasses and twice as tempting. He laughs, enough that his shoulders shake, for the thrown card, ducking out of the way, but that laugh is gone soon enough when Faraday says what he does.
He sniffs heavily and shrugs, trying to pass it off like it doesn't worry him. As if he doesn't keep looking over his shoulder, twitching at every cocked gun, worrying that someone is going to see that poor likeness and put two and two together to get their money. "Who's going to protect me, guero, hmm?" he retorts. "Someone who would sooner have their pockets lined with cash. Everyone can be bought, they just need to be desperate enough," he adds darkly.
That, and there are others he wouldn't want to burden with his bounty, because it puts them in the line of danger. It would be too much, too much for anyone to be asked, no matter what he wants. He'll just keep living in denial, telling himself it won't ache when he parts ways with all of them (and some specific people, in particular).
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It makes sense, he thinks, and that bit of clarity makes something click into place. (Surely Vasquez has no other reason to stay, after all.)
“You know Sam ain’t like that,” and he says it levelly, calmly, with all the certainty he can muster. Faraday has met a great deal of unsavory types, men who called themselves honorable and wore shiny little badges, but were just as liable to spit on your corpse as any other lowlife. Sam – and indeed, most of the others their ragtag group – was a different sort altogether. The type you could trust, and with the lives they lead, that was a rarity.
Faraday peers at Vasquez, eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned downward as he studies him.
“So you’re not stayin’ here,” he says slowly, “and you’re not goin’ with Sam. What do you plan on doin’?”
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"You're loco if you think that's any kind of life," says a man who had been hiding out in a corpse-filled hovel before Rose Creek in order to make sure he kept his head. He doesn't mind robbing what he needs to get by, but now that he's got some Rose Creek money in his pockets, now he could get by. With someone's help, unfortunately, because showing his face in town, well, same problem.
"I don't know," he finally says. "I can't go back to my old hiding place. Too much activity, it will be lost." He stares at Faraday, trying to decide how best to say the next words without ruining his chances. "It was nice, though," he admits, the strain of the words from his worry and not from having to get them out, "knowing I could sleep easy. Knowing that someone was watching." He takes a long drag of the flask and hands it out to Faraday again, not taking his eyes off him, not for a second, not when he wants to gauge his reaction to that, because someone isn't a general someone to him, not right now. It's a very specific one, which is why he's sitting in this room and not in Goodnight's.
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And what sort of life is that? Faraday wants to ask, but something in the set of Vasquez's shoulders tells him the thought has already crossed the other man's mind.
When Vasquez lifts his head, when he looks at Faraday like that, Faraday is almost a little startled, and he pays a little more attention – to the pointed way the man meets his eyes, to the tenseness in his voice. Something hidden in the words, and Faraday almost wishes the son of a bitch would come out and say what he means to say, if only to take the guesswork out of things.
He takes the flask, still holding Vasquez's gaze, eyebrows knitting together a little as he takes a pull. When the burn of the alcohol passes, Faraday licks his lips, looking Vasquez over from head to toe, sizing him up.
Slowly, carefully, like he's testing the waters, "Who says that's gotta change?"
His jaw ticks once as he picks over his words, and at length, he holds the flask out to the other man.
"Seems to me you've got plenty of folks around here willin' to keep an eye on you."
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He'd been on the road since he could remember, travelling away from lands the US stole from his family. He's farmed, ranched, lived a nomad's life, took comfort where he could. Other men? Si, yes, he's taken their trust and their comfort.
This man? Vasquez had never expected to find himself struggling with wanting this man around, with all his insults and blustering, puffing and insistences. Still, when he stares at him and makes him fight not to let the flush in his cheeks (and up to the tips of his ears) show, he thinks he's done this to himself. "You're right," he agrees, but rather than be easy, let Faraday have what he wants, Vasquez smiles serenely, settling his feet on Faraday's bed.
He leans back to pick up one of Faraday's peacemakers and the well-kept rag of his, beginning to slowly take apart the gun with the care it deserves, absently cleaning it to give his fingers and attention something to do. "What do you think? Hmm? Think the schoolteacher will do it? He ran easily enough. Emma, then," he challenges. "She probably still wants my head for what I did when I met her. No," he says decisively. "Goody and Billy, I always did love being a third wheel," is said in Spanish, the sarcasm sharp in his words, but he knows he's teasing around the question he's going to ask.
Maybe not a question. Maybe just a demand.
Come with me. Stay with me. Maybe he will even think to say please.
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As he does now, and Faraday wants to reach over punch the smugness right out of him.
The instant Vasquez picks up his gun, an old instinct kicks in, a sour note of jealousy that runs through him. Faraday loathes when other people touch his guns, and indeed, the first time he had seen his peacemakers in Vasquez’s hands, something cold had washed over him. It’s only with time and necessity that he’s learned to trust the other man with his Colts – early in his recovery, he hardly had enough energy to stay awake, much less clean and maintain his guns with the respect they were due – but he still finds himself watching Vasquez like a hawk.
He snorts derisively as Vasquez lists out his options, the cards snapping a little more loudly, a little more sharply as he riffles two packets together. The brief burst of Spanish earns Vasquez a flat, uncomprehending look, and serves only to kick up another notch of annoyance in his chest.
Still, Faraday plays along, because he’s honed the fine art of bullshitting over decades at card tables.
“You try askin’ Jack yet?” he asks, keeping his tone light and conversational. “You’d never have need of another Bible again. Or Teddy Q. Wager he’d be pleasant enough company, till you ran outta things to talk about, ten minutes in.”
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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.
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“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.”
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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.
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(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."
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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.
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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."
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"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."
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"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?"
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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.
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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?"
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"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?"
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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.”
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"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."
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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?”
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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.
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