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.
Faraday's hands clutch at the fabric of Vasquez/s vest, knuckles turning white and hands shaking. He grits his teeth against the sharp ache running up his leg, echoing along his hip and side, eyes screwed shut as he sucks in breath after labored breath. Most of his weight is pressed against Vasquez, and he balances on his good leg to give his injured leg a rest, however momentary.
Vasquez's breath is hot against his ear, and in another moment, he'd notice the peculiar way it calms something in him. As it is now, Faraday concerns himself with keeping himself upright, pressing his brow against Vasquez's shoulder as he tries to catch his breath.
"I'm fine," he grits out. A lie, of course – he's anything but fine, and that’s clear just from looking at him. They’re alone, thankfully, which means no one saw that frankly shameful display of his attempt at traversing stairs (stairs, of all the damn things). "Lost my footing, is all."
Vasquez inhales sharply when Faraday lies like that, mainly because it brings into stark relief how close they're pressed together. If sanity and logic was in his head, he would shove Faraday off of him, but it's not. The pain in both his breathing and his voice makes Vasquez stupid for a minute (though it could probably be argued that he gets stupid around Faraday in general) and that hand on Faraday's upper back drifts, for a brief moment touching at his neck before his thumb drags a hard line up the nape, ruffling against fair hair where his blunt nail catches it.
"You're not fine," he replies, but it's hissed quietly, already searching the room. Squeezing at Faraday's bad side, he gives some of the light pressure the doctor said might help, not just to help, but to guide. "There," he says. "Come on, let's get you sitting and I'll buy you a round of something strong enough to give you a second wind."
Of course, that means moving from this position and Vasquez tips his head to the ceiling, as if praying somehow to God to give him guidance about why he finds that to be such a disappointing idea.
Moments ago, Faraday might have bristled at being guided, at being coaxed along like some frightened calf, but in the here and now, he merely nods against Vasquez. Vasquez squeezes at Faraday’s injured side, and he gasps, startled, wincing at the added pressure.
“The hell are you—?”
The pain doesn’t fade – Faraday doubts anything but an act of God might make it disappear, with the way it’s shrieking at him – but the sharpness of it is sanded away a little, allows him to take a deep breath at last. It’s helping a little, whatever it is Vasquez is doing, and Faraday’s grip on the other man’s vest eases. He pushes away, giving them both a little more room to breathe.
When Vasquez mentions buying him a round, Faraday huffs out an embittered sort of laugh.
“Better make that a promise,” he grits out – because alcohol will always be a strong motivator for a man who prefers to spend his days half-corned. He finally lifts his head, taking stock of their surroundings. A chair nearby seems his best bet, and Faraday clenches his jaw as he points himself toward it. It’s a testament to how badly he feels that he doesn’t try to make it on his own, or that he doesn’t grouse about needing the help. Instead, Faraday wordlessly maneuvers himself so that Vasquez supports his bad side, an arm thrown around Vasquez’s shoulders to keep himself upright.
Vasquez moves swiftly with the adjustment, angling his body so that he's pressed hip to hip with Faraday, slouching a little in order to give him more to hold onto, if he wants it. He should feel relieved for the space between them now that Faraday has eased away, but his brow is pinched and his lips curve downwards, like he isn't sure exactly why he's so upset. He settles on thinking that he's just upset that Bogue's idiots got so close to blowing them all up, seeing as it's a convenient place to put his anger.
"Lo prometo," he vows, of the promise to get him alcohol. He drags the chair closer by hooking his ankle around one of the legs, bending to pull it over and maneuver Faraday's body carefully.
Settling him in, Vasquez leans over him as he has to push his weight forward with Faraday's to get him into the chair, taking a bit longer to step away than he should, because the worry is eating at him like a worry he hasn't felt in years. Eventually, he convinces himself that Faraday isn't going anywhere, that he won't be stupid enough to try.
"I'll be right back," Vasquez promises, digging through his pockets to find a cigarette and his matchbox, setting it down for Faraday to smoke while he's gone.
With no one around, he has to go to one of the townspeople who's awake, in this case, the master of the whorehouse and uses the man's own gold coins to sweet-talk him into a bottle of something strong. The proprietor looks him over, glances at the coin, then back as he slides a bottle of whiskey over. "For that, you can have an hour or so upstairs, if you like."
Vasquez raises his brow, briefly considering it, mainly because it has been a very long time and while he's lonely and starving for touch, you don't sleep with strange women because you could wake up with a gun to your forehead, being as most women would relish the chance for $500 and a new start. Lonely and cold, it is.
"I'll stick with the booze," Vasquez says, heading back to where he'd left Faraday, his pace quicker than he wants to think about. The relief is in his breath when he sees Faraday hasn't moved, lifting up the bottle with victory. "See? My word is good."
Faraday grunts out some noise of gratitude when Vasquez leaves behind the matchbox and the cigarette, and Faraday avails himself of Vasquez’s generosity. With the cigarette perched between his lips, Faraday tries not to think too hard on the clumsy way he strikes the match against the striking surface of the box, or how disgustingly familiar it is to have that fix match snap in his shaking fingers. (He remembers blood and pain and cold, mounting dread that blackness might overtake him before he could perform his trick.) He lets the two pieces fall to the floor, and he kicks them away with his good leg and tries again. The second attempt, at least, is far more successful than the first, and he brings the lit match up to the cigarette, breathes in a mouthful of smoke and exhales it up to the ceiling.
Vasquez isn’t gone as long as Faraday might have figured, and not nearly long enough for Faraday to entertain the idea of standing, of stretching out the knotted, strained muscle of his bad leg. Instead, he kneads at his hip with the heel of his palm, cigarette held between the fingers of his other hand, and glances up when he hears the familiar tread of Vasquez’s step.
He’s come to recognize the weight of Vasquez’s footfalls on the wooden floors, the particular measure and weight of them. An odd thing, surely, and odder still to find comfort in the sound. Faraday doesn’t relax by any means, but when he spots Vasquez, he lets out a slow breath, smoke curling upward with the exhale. His expression doesn’t soften, but some of the hardness in his gaze fades away.
Faraday holds Vasquez’s matchbox out on the palm of his hand. “Here I thought you were all hot air,” he says, and he tries for something teasing, something to get Vasquez’s dander up. Instead, his voice comes out strained and exhausted.
Vasquez slumps into the chair next to Faraday after he fetches two mostly-clean glasses from the sideboard, letting them knock into each other as he settles down beside Faraday at the table, digging out his own cigar before he thinks that maybe five in one day is a few too many and he's not so stressed now that he needs it. He can see Faraday is fine, they're still planning to set out together (or he hopes they are), and while he might be in pain, he's still alive.
The snort on his lips is sincere as he takes the matches and tucks the into his vest pocket, but his brow is furrowed. "Only in the mornings," is his absent reply, his energy level about as low as Faraday's.
"Que esta mal?" he asks, hearing that weariness in his voice. "Is it your leg?" he asks, eyes slowly following the path of Faraday's hand, settling on where he has his fingers kneading against his hip. If they were upstairs, he could force Faraday to lie down and let Vasquez help, but this isn't as convenient.
"Do you want to go back up?" he suggests, probably hovering closer to fussing than Faraday likes, but he doesn't care.
Considering Vasquez does the both of them the favor of retrieving glasses, the least Faraday can do is pour them their drinks. He grabs up the bottle, and with one hand still occupied in applying pressure to his aching leg, he uncorks the whiskey with his teeth, spitting the stopper onto the table, where it bounces and rolls to a stop at the edge. Faraday’s always head a heavy hand when it comes to pouring, and it shows in the healthy shares he doles out to the both of them. Setting the bottle aside in favor of the glass, Faraday knocks back a mouthful, sighing as the familiar burn works its way down his throat.
His gaze flits over to Vasquez at the unfamiliar words, and Faraday frowns on reflex. It’s just as well that Vasquez follows up in plain English, cutting off any possible complaints Faraday might have offered. As it is, Faraday considers denying it, just out of sheer, stubborn spite, but the both of them know the answer to Vasquez’s question. Lying about it won’t change the reality of it.
Faraday scowls down at his glass for a second before huffing out a frustrated sound. “Seized up on me,” he grits out. “That’s all.” And that’s putting it mildly, admittedly, but it’s as much of a concession as Faraday is likely to give.
He downs another mouthful, waiting for that warmth to pool in him. Drinking as often as he does means it will take some time yet before the liquor settles, before it starts loosening him up and taking away the worst of the pain. But sure enough, Vasquez starts fussing, and Faraday hasn’t had nearly enough whiskey yet to make the attention endearing rather than irritating.
“Stop that,” he snaps. “It’s a cramp, Vasquez. You’re actin’ like I’m some sickly granny stumblin’ out in the cold.”
Vasquez can drink just as fast, as hard, as much as Faraday (the nights before Rose Creek have proven that), but he'd been stupidly tipsy then, so eager to laugh that he'd fallen off his chair at least twice that night, all eyes on Faraday for his stupid jokes and idiot talk of his guns. He's not sure he's in any mood for that, now, but a few drinks can't hurt him. He finished the first glass of whiskey fast so he can draw the second out. Lucky for him, Faraday's heavy hand means the first is enough to take the edge of his worry and make Vasquez just that much more pleasant to be around.
The problem is, Faraday's leg is seizing up after one flight of stairs. How are they supposed to ride out on it? It's not like Vasquez can go into towns for supplies or even be around Faraday too much when there are people, because a man with a distinctive limp will be easy to spot.
"Sorry that I'm worried it hurts you," he snaps, taken aback for a moment. He'd meant to cut sharper, say that he's sorry that he's worried about his own ass on the line with Faraday being so poorly, but in the heat of his anger, something else had come out. He's too tired and half-drunk, he decides, irritated with himself. "Maybe it's too soon to go," he says, deciding a fifth cigarette is exactly what he needs, bowing forward to light it and sucks it back until it calms him enough that he can take another drink.
"I don't know how I can help," he confesses bluntly.
For all that he might fuss or worry, the doctor has given him one thing to try helping, but he thinks only time and maybe alcohol will truly help. Shame that Vasquez's patience is starting to run low when it comes to seeing Faraday hurt.
Faraday blinks at Vasquez, startled by the words, by the heat in them. He had expected some lecture on his stupidity, on his stubbornness – old, familiar censures from his childhood, shouted at him by his mother, rest her soul. Their conversations were usually filled with barbs, with cheap potshots, with hardly any sincerity between them. But everything Vasquez just spouted off wasn’t on the script, was far too honest.
And Faraday, a man who talked in half-truths, smirking all the while, has no idea how to respond.
For a long while, he’s silent, staring at Vasquez blankly. The man might as well have spoken in his mother tongue, for all Faraday appears to comprehend him, but slowly, Faraday comes out of his daze, shaking himself.
“I don’t recall askin’ for help,” he croaks out. Moments ago, the words would have been cast out angrily, snapping like a chained dog. Now, however, his voice is uncertain, the words slow, like he’s testing each step and hoping for stable ground. He falls quiet again, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass, before gulps down another mouthful.
“Listen, Vasquez,” Faraday says, still slow, still uncertain. He pauses to wipe at the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. The admission he has to make is a bitter thing to say aloud, and for a second, he grimaces with it. He pushes himself onward, though. “Maybe I ain’t ready, after all. So if you’d rather move on...”
Vasquez closes his eyes as he smokes, letting the tobacco curl over his lips as he exhales and then inhales the last breath of it, knowing that the weariness in his bones isn't all because of Faraday, but the worry there is. His shoulders are sagging forward, not just because of the pain drawing one down, but because he hates feeling defeated like this and he does.
How can he fight off Bogue and all his men, help steal Faraday from the clutches of death, and not be able to help the man? What good is he?
"Don't have to ask, that's the point," Vasquez rumbles, his voice low and sincere. He pinches at the thick paper of the cigarette as he holds it aloft, staring at the stream of smoke before he sticks it back into the corner of his lips to look to Faraday, watching him drink and consider, not sure he wants to know what's coming next.
Turns out, he's not surprised when Faraday launches into a stupid idea, though it's not like Vasquez knows what to do with it. So instead, he shrugs. "Move on where?" he retorts. "If you're trying to get rid of me and don't want me around, say so, guero. I'm not the one in a rush to leave town. No bounty hunters here today for my hairs," he points out. "Even if they are the handsomest ones in town," he can't help tease, trying desperately to get a rise out of Faraday or a laugh or something.
He reaches out and catches Faraday's wrist when he lifts his glass to drink, brushing his thumb against the pulse point before he lowers that hand, wanting Faraday to not be drinking when he speaks.
"They would give you a place to stay, I think," he says, heart beating higher and higher. "Maybe, I don't know, maybe I could stay too until you feel right."
Faraday snorts out a laugh at Vasquez’s obvious attempt at lightening the mood. He should probably remind the man that staying in one place this long likely wouldn’t do Vasquez any favors – especially considering eventually, someone with a folded slip of paper bearing a poor likeness was liable to come looking for him. But Vasquez had snapped at him earlier when Faraday had pointed that out, and while Faraday went looking for fights more often than not, this particularly fight doesn’t feel like one either of them would win.
He lifts his glass, looking to finish the whiskey off, but Vasquez captures his wrist. Faraday blinks at him, startled and puzzled by the contact all over again. Weeks ago, a move like that would have had Faraday drawing his guns on the other man, shooting first before bothering to ask any questions. Now, though, he feels his heart lurch in his chest, feels a strange spark kick up in his stomach, but Vasquez’s calloused hand pulls away before Faraday can properly examine that peculiar sensation.
“I stay another minute in this town,” he grumbles, setting the glass back on the table, “I’m gonna go mad.”
Domesticity and Faraday mix about as well as oil and water, after all. He made a habit of staying in towns until the well had run dry – which typically meant a handful of days. He’s been in Rose Creek for months, now, with hardly anything to keep him occupied.
“You can’t honestly tell me you’re not itchin’ to get out just as much as I am.”
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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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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’.”
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"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."
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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.
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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."
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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?”
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"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.
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“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’?”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Vasquez's breath is hot against his ear, and in another moment, he'd notice the peculiar way it calms something in him. As it is now, Faraday concerns himself with keeping himself upright, pressing his brow against Vasquez's shoulder as he tries to catch his breath.
"I'm fine," he grits out. A lie, of course – he's anything but fine, and that’s clear just from looking at him. They’re alone, thankfully, which means no one saw that frankly shameful display of his attempt at traversing stairs (stairs, of all the damn things). "Lost my footing, is all."
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"You're not fine," he replies, but it's hissed quietly, already searching the room. Squeezing at Faraday's bad side, he gives some of the light pressure the doctor said might help, not just to help, but to guide. "There," he says. "Come on, let's get you sitting and I'll buy you a round of something strong enough to give you a second wind."
Of course, that means moving from this position and Vasquez tips his head to the ceiling, as if praying somehow to God to give him guidance about why he finds that to be such a disappointing idea.
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“The hell are you—?”
The pain doesn’t fade – Faraday doubts anything but an act of God might make it disappear, with the way it’s shrieking at him – but the sharpness of it is sanded away a little, allows him to take a deep breath at last. It’s helping a little, whatever it is Vasquez is doing, and Faraday’s grip on the other man’s vest eases. He pushes away, giving them both a little more room to breathe.
When Vasquez mentions buying him a round, Faraday huffs out an embittered sort of laugh.
“Better make that a promise,” he grits out – because alcohol will always be a strong motivator for a man who prefers to spend his days half-corned. He finally lifts his head, taking stock of their surroundings. A chair nearby seems his best bet, and Faraday clenches his jaw as he points himself toward it. It’s a testament to how badly he feels that he doesn’t try to make it on his own, or that he doesn’t grouse about needing the help. Instead, Faraday wordlessly maneuvers himself so that Vasquez supports his bad side, an arm thrown around Vasquez’s shoulders to keep himself upright.
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"Lo prometo," he vows, of the promise to get him alcohol. He drags the chair closer by hooking his ankle around one of the legs, bending to pull it over and maneuver Faraday's body carefully.
Settling him in, Vasquez leans over him as he has to push his weight forward with Faraday's to get him into the chair, taking a bit longer to step away than he should, because the worry is eating at him like a worry he hasn't felt in years. Eventually, he convinces himself that Faraday isn't going anywhere, that he won't be stupid enough to try.
"I'll be right back," Vasquez promises, digging through his pockets to find a cigarette and his matchbox, setting it down for Faraday to smoke while he's gone.
With no one around, he has to go to one of the townspeople who's awake, in this case, the master of the whorehouse and uses the man's own gold coins to sweet-talk him into a bottle of something strong. The proprietor looks him over, glances at the coin, then back as he slides a bottle of whiskey over. "For that, you can have an hour or so upstairs, if you like."
Vasquez raises his brow, briefly considering it, mainly because it has been a very long time and while he's lonely and starving for touch, you don't sleep with strange women because you could wake up with a gun to your forehead, being as most women would relish the chance for $500 and a new start. Lonely and cold, it is.
"I'll stick with the booze," Vasquez says, heading back to where he'd left Faraday, his pace quicker than he wants to think about. The relief is in his breath when he sees Faraday hasn't moved, lifting up the bottle with victory. "See? My word is good."
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Vasquez isn’t gone as long as Faraday might have figured, and not nearly long enough for Faraday to entertain the idea of standing, of stretching out the knotted, strained muscle of his bad leg. Instead, he kneads at his hip with the heel of his palm, cigarette held between the fingers of his other hand, and glances up when he hears the familiar tread of Vasquez’s step.
He’s come to recognize the weight of Vasquez’s footfalls on the wooden floors, the particular measure and weight of them. An odd thing, surely, and odder still to find comfort in the sound. Faraday doesn’t relax by any means, but when he spots Vasquez, he lets out a slow breath, smoke curling upward with the exhale. His expression doesn’t soften, but some of the hardness in his gaze fades away.
Faraday holds Vasquez’s matchbox out on the palm of his hand. “Here I thought you were all hot air,” he says, and he tries for something teasing, something to get Vasquez’s dander up. Instead, his voice comes out strained and exhausted.
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The snort on his lips is sincere as he takes the matches and tucks the into his vest pocket, but his brow is furrowed. "Only in the mornings," is his absent reply, his energy level about as low as Faraday's.
"Que esta mal?" he asks, hearing that weariness in his voice. "Is it your leg?" he asks, eyes slowly following the path of Faraday's hand, settling on where he has his fingers kneading against his hip. If they were upstairs, he could force Faraday to lie down and let Vasquez help, but this isn't as convenient.
"Do you want to go back up?" he suggests, probably hovering closer to fussing than Faraday likes, but he doesn't care.
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His gaze flits over to Vasquez at the unfamiliar words, and Faraday frowns on reflex. It’s just as well that Vasquez follows up in plain English, cutting off any possible complaints Faraday might have offered. As it is, Faraday considers denying it, just out of sheer, stubborn spite, but the both of them know the answer to Vasquez’s question. Lying about it won’t change the reality of it.
Faraday scowls down at his glass for a second before huffing out a frustrated sound. “Seized up on me,” he grits out. “That’s all.” And that’s putting it mildly, admittedly, but it’s as much of a concession as Faraday is likely to give.
He downs another mouthful, waiting for that warmth to pool in him. Drinking as often as he does means it will take some time yet before the liquor settles, before it starts loosening him up and taking away the worst of the pain. But sure enough, Vasquez starts fussing, and Faraday hasn’t had nearly enough whiskey yet to make the attention endearing rather than irritating.
“Stop that,” he snaps. “It’s a cramp, Vasquez. You’re actin’ like I’m some sickly granny stumblin’ out in the cold.”
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The problem is, Faraday's leg is seizing up after one flight of stairs. How are they supposed to ride out on it? It's not like Vasquez can go into towns for supplies or even be around Faraday too much when there are people, because a man with a distinctive limp will be easy to spot.
"Sorry that I'm worried it hurts you," he snaps, taken aback for a moment. He'd meant to cut sharper, say that he's sorry that he's worried about his own ass on the line with Faraday being so poorly, but in the heat of his anger, something else had come out. He's too tired and half-drunk, he decides, irritated with himself. "Maybe it's too soon to go," he says, deciding a fifth cigarette is exactly what he needs, bowing forward to light it and sucks it back until it calms him enough that he can take another drink.
"I don't know how I can help," he confesses bluntly.
For all that he might fuss or worry, the doctor has given him one thing to try helping, but he thinks only time and maybe alcohol will truly help. Shame that Vasquez's patience is starting to run low when it comes to seeing Faraday hurt.
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And Faraday, a man who talked in half-truths, smirking all the while, has no idea how to respond.
For a long while, he’s silent, staring at Vasquez blankly. The man might as well have spoken in his mother tongue, for all Faraday appears to comprehend him, but slowly, Faraday comes out of his daze, shaking himself.
“I don’t recall askin’ for help,” he croaks out. Moments ago, the words would have been cast out angrily, snapping like a chained dog. Now, however, his voice is uncertain, the words slow, like he’s testing each step and hoping for stable ground. He falls quiet again, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass, before gulps down another mouthful.
“Listen, Vasquez,” Faraday says, still slow, still uncertain. He pauses to wipe at the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. The admission he has to make is a bitter thing to say aloud, and for a second, he grimaces with it. He pushes himself onward, though. “Maybe I ain’t ready, after all. So if you’d rather move on...”
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How can he fight off Bogue and all his men, help steal Faraday from the clutches of death, and not be able to help the man? What good is he?
"Don't have to ask, that's the point," Vasquez rumbles, his voice low and sincere. He pinches at the thick paper of the cigarette as he holds it aloft, staring at the stream of smoke before he sticks it back into the corner of his lips to look to Faraday, watching him drink and consider, not sure he wants to know what's coming next.
Turns out, he's not surprised when Faraday launches into a stupid idea, though it's not like Vasquez knows what to do with it. So instead, he shrugs. "Move on where?" he retorts. "If you're trying to get rid of me and don't want me around, say so, guero. I'm not the one in a rush to leave town. No bounty hunters here today for my hairs," he points out. "Even if they are the handsomest ones in town," he can't help tease, trying desperately to get a rise out of Faraday or a laugh or something.
He reaches out and catches Faraday's wrist when he lifts his glass to drink, brushing his thumb against the pulse point before he lowers that hand, wanting Faraday to not be drinking when he speaks.
"They would give you a place to stay, I think," he says, heart beating higher and higher. "Maybe, I don't know, maybe I could stay too until you feel right."
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He lifts his glass, looking to finish the whiskey off, but Vasquez captures his wrist. Faraday blinks at him, startled and puzzled by the contact all over again. Weeks ago, a move like that would have had Faraday drawing his guns on the other man, shooting first before bothering to ask any questions. Now, though, he feels his heart lurch in his chest, feels a strange spark kick up in his stomach, but Vasquez’s calloused hand pulls away before Faraday can properly examine that peculiar sensation.
“I stay another minute in this town,” he grumbles, setting the glass back on the table, “I’m gonna go mad.”
Domesticity and Faraday mix about as well as oil and water, after all. He made a habit of staying in towns until the well had run dry – which typically meant a handful of days. He’s been in Rose Creek for months, now, with hardly anything to keep him occupied.
“You can’t honestly tell me you’re not itchin’ to get out just as much as I am.”
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