Vasquez rolls his eyes, feeling enough to be irritated at the bullshit that Faraday is feeding him in return. He knows he did a shitty thing in leaving him by the side of the road, but he's fucking annoyed that Faraday is insisting that he's full of shit. "I knew as soon as I had that black eye that my only life out there is hiding and violence and fear. My only actual life is in a protected village. Rose Creek," he says, gesturing to the space around him that he's called his.
He's claimed this, almost like he'd claimed the other piece of land with the corpse, but this time, he doesn't think any bounty hunters will be after him.
"You wanted out of here so badly," he reminds Faraday pointedly. "You didn't want to stay, you didn't want a small town life like this. So I tell you and what, you say yes? You come back here and you learn to hate me over time instead of now." He's learned to live with that ache, as much as he hates it. "It's not so good, knowing that you feel different, but at least it happened fast and not slow. Now you can go out there, find someone like an Ethel," he manages, as he burns with jealousy to even say it.
"I know you don't want this life," he reminds Faraday pointedly.
At least, he’s right about Faraday not wanting to live some simple farming life. He’d never had the constitution to stay in one place, if he’s honest. He could only stand rooting himself in a town for a few days, a week at best, before he felt that familiar itch to wander.
He keeps his jaw clenched as Vasquez rails, eyes still blazing with unruly anger. He’s mad as hell, that much is certain. He’s mad at Vasquez for pulling this shit on him. He’s mad at their pasts for putting them in this position. He’s even a little mad at himself, for not wanting to settle, for giving so much of a shit about Vasquez that this whole thing festers like an open wound, when he never gave a shit about folks leaving him before.
Faraday’s just— mad.
Vasquez finishes, and Faraday practically snarls, now that he can get a word in edgewise.
“Stop tryin’ to tell me what I want,” he snaps. And he’s almost sure they’ve been here before, have growled and postured and circled one another like wild animals. The familiarity of it does nothing to calm him. “You ever stop to think that maybe – just maybe – I wanted a say in all this? Instead, you just run off like a goddamn coward, pattin’ yourself on the back ‘cause you thought you were doin’ some noble thing.”
Finally, Faraday storms forward, closing the space between them. He jabs a finger into Vasquez’s chest.
“You keep sayin’ you did this ‘cause of me, but I didn’t ask you to do a single thing, did I? I didn’t ask you to go, and I sure as hell didn’t ask you to hide from me. And if you’d just asked me, I would’a told you that I didn’t want some goddamn Ethel. I would’a told you I didn’t wanna be a farmer, sure, but you would’a known that I wanted you.”
"So then give me your say," Vasquez challenges, which is something that he probably shouldn't be demanding like this, especially when he doesn't want to hear Faraday's truth out loud. Hearing him talk about how he wants to leave is the last thing he wants to hear, but here he is, demanding it.
"So what do you want?" he insists, since that seems to be what Faraday wants to air out in the space between them, though Vasquez isn't so sure what needs to be said. "What did you want? Did you want me to come back to Rose Creek and you could be so miserable that you don't do anything but leave me? Do you want to tell me now, to my face?"
Because he can, as much as it's going to hurt him to hear.
Faraday can't help it – he deflates a little, rocks back to put space between them again.
God above, it's embarrassing how hurt he is by all this. It's ridiculous. He's not some lovesick puppy. He's not some child, mooning after the prettiest woman he's ever laid eyes on. He had convinced himself before now that Vasquez's leaving was the other man's own business. He clearly didn't want Faraday, after all was said and done, and Faraday had told himself he was happy to leave him to it. People come and people go, and Faraday had never been hurt by it before.
Until now.
"Is this what you want?" It's all he can think to snap back, trying to buy himself some time. "You're honestly gonna tell me you wanna stay here and— raise livestock? Milk cows and worry about unseasonable cold killin' your crops?"
Should Vasquez lie and say that this is what he'd wanted? There are layers of truth to his situation and why he's back in Rose Creek, but the truth is that he doesn't want this at all. The turmoil of the question sits poorly with him, reflected in his expression as he gapes at Faraday and wonders how he can ask that.
Then again, Vasquez is the one who left in the middle of the night, so it's no wonder that Faraday doesn't know. "I want you," he spits at him, annoyed and angry. Any romance is lost in the angry way the words come out. "But I don't want to stay outside of towns forever. I don't want to sleep on the ground for the rest of my life. I don't want to think the nice people in a town will hang me when they see the bounty on my head, and I don't want you to start fussing because it's not the kind of life that I want, so how could it be one you live without it being a kind of settling?"
Does he want this, though? "The cows, the land, all of this, it's not what I want," he says, "but it's what will protect me. Emma, the others, they'll make sure I stay alive. I sleep and I eat." And he misses Faraday with everything, because he doesn't sleep enough and he doesn't eat enough and he's cold and lonely and bitter at his past.
"What better life does an outlaw get than this? Protection, food, comfort," he lists, seeing as he'd been all but given the farm in exchange for his help. "No one gets everything they want from life. At least this way, I get to keep on living it."
It's the answer he expects, if he's in the habit of being honest, and for a brief, shining second, Faraday lets himself feel smug.
It only last for a moment, though, considering how angry Vasquez sounds, how genuinely torn he looks. Faraday has a tendency to cling to his anger like a well-worn coat on a blustery day, but even now, some of his fury crawls away. The tense set of his shoulders drops a little, and while he still certainly looks furious, some of that heat ebbs, softening his expression.
"You don't trust me to watch your back?" and usually Faraday is an expert in bluffing, can hide dismay behind a winning smile, but some of the truth still bleeds out. He's almost a little hurt, if he's honest. "What happened before – you don't that was bad business. But I got you outta there, didn't I?"
"You got me out, but look at how we were living," he protests. Every time they wanted to go into a town, they had to go through a production of changing Vasquez's appearance, hoping no one recognized him, and if they didn't, then it was the open road and this is fine for some time, but he'd squatted with a corpse because he's a man who craves comfort when you get down to it.
"I asked you what you wanted, you haven't said," he challenges, crossing his arms over his torso as he leans back against the wall, his body language screaming that he's protecting himself with both the space and the shift between them. "You want us to be out in the wilderness, always? Never seeing towns, only each other for company, not a comfortable mattress or good hot meals to speak of," he points out bluntly.
And the words are cast darkly, a little ruefully. Maybe another man could deal with that, but Faraday's always been something of a social creature. Before the business with Rose Creek, he always gravitated toward towns, moved from one place to the next, though he was always careful to never outstay his welcome.
He had adjusted with Vasquez, of course, and while he never admitted it aloud, a small part of him felt the trouble was worth it. Vasquez got on his last nerve more often than not, but there was a comfort in the companionship, along with some oddly-shaped, hazy sensation that he can't quite name.
"It was workin', wasn't it? Me, goin' into towns for supplies and you hangin' back? Why can't we go back to that?"
It's a bad thing to say. Vasquez's expression goes dark and cloudy, a reminder of why he was starting to go stir-crazy in the first place. "That was working," he echoes flatly, wondering if he would ruin all those feelings of being relieved and happy to see Faraday by spitting at his feet.
He'll consider it, but for now, he just grips the bucket of milk tightly and shoves himself out of Faraday's range, to remove the temptation. "Vete a la mierda," he says, and he does end up spitting on the ground. "What's the difference between you and the corpse I slept with? You both keep me safe, you both keep me trapped," he knows he's baiting Faraday at this point, but he's angry that his solution is being said to not work, when it's the one that keeps him alive and happier than someone trapped in the wilderness.
"And one day, you find people you like too much to play cards with, you stay late." Vasquez shakes his head, annoyed. "I'd rather be here, where I can ride out for a day to be alone and come back to safety than that." Even if that's how he would get to be with Faraday and have all the things he wants so badly.
He misses Faraday's body warm under his. He misses the press of his fingers into Faraday's body and the way he can make him open up with slow kisses. One day, in one of those towns, he knows he'll lose Faraday. Whether it's to women or drink or cards or boredom, he will, and he hates the idea that he should be a kept man in the wilderness until then.
"What do you want?" he demands again, angrily, setting the milk down at the door. He wants to her it in words, what he actually wants.
He lets Vasquez move away, and for a brief second, he wonders if he should have, wonders if he should have made a grab for the other man to keep him in place.
That inclination abruptly leaves him as Vasquez speaks, and Faraday's blood runs cold. His pulse pounds in his ears at those words, something like disgust and shock writhing in his gut, and maybe Vasquez expected the words to feel like a taunt, like a bait, like an easy jab to lure Faraday into a fight.
Instead, Faraday just feels like he's been gutshot.
It hits too close to home. It dredges up all those old fears he felt on the road – that eventually Vasquez would tire of him. That eventually he'd feel shackled by Faraday's infirmity, by the old wounds that still plagued him. That Faraday's mere presence would be like a ball and chain, slowing him down.
Vasquez poses that question to him once again, and Faraday just blinks at him, his expression a weird mixture of dismay and nausea and—
(heartbreak.)
—remorse.
For a long while, he's silent, ducking his head and scrubbing at his face, before he can finally muster his voice to speak.
"That's what this was to you?" he asks, voice little more than a bitter croak. "I trapped you?"
He takes off his hat to run his fingers through his hair, not so sure what to think or feel because he thought Faraday would come back swinging (maybe even literally). Instead, he looks like Vasquez has taken a knife to him and prodded at old wounds.
Faraday is also so wrong that it's almost comical. "My warrant trapped me," he wants to make that so very clear. "Being with you was what made all the danger and the trapping worth it." He needs Faraday to stop being so thickheaded and stupid about this, even if his feelings on this matter are so complicated.
It's true that what they were doing was trapping him, though. "I didn't like sitting by myself at a campsite while you fetched supplies, enjoyed the town. Joshua, you're no idiot, not really," he points out. "One day, those visits are going to get longer, longer, and then what?"
"I want a bed, I want meals, I want to not think that every time I go into a saloon, I could end up in a jail cell and you need to rescue me again," he says, sinking onto the milking stool when he feels so fucking tired, running both hands over his face as he hunches over.
I love you, he doesn't say, because it will hurt too much to admit. "Eres todo para mí," is said out loud, and it hurts just as much, but at least it's something Faraday won't understand how much it cuts him to be here, be safe and have all these things he wants, but lose out on the rest.
Faraday nearly snarls on instinct – he and insults never have met eye to eye, especially not when they came from Vasquez. But for once, he forces the distaste down, trying to keep a level head while everything seems to fall apart.
Stupid, really. Idiotic. He had told himself it was fine that Vasquez had left him behind like deadweight, that if the bastard didn't want to be found, he'd leave him to it. But now that Vasquez is here, looking like absolute shit, it's so much harder to just leave it be.
He forces himself to listen – to really listen – as Vasquez speaks. He visibly bristles at the implication that he would leave Vasquez behind as Vasquez had done to him, but he lets the man say his piece.
When Vasquez switches to his mother tongue, though, Faraday can't help it – he throws up his hands and lets out an aggravated grunt.
"You know that damn well ain't fair," he snaps, angrier and sharper than he intends. He winces at himself but after a pause, he presses on instead of apologizing. "You can't just keep sayin' shit in Spanish at me when you know I don't know what the hell you mean. Either talk to me or don't, Vasquez. This ain't gonna work otherwise."
At this point, what else is there left to lose? He's tired and he doesn't think that there's anything that he should withhold. He's said his piece about what he thinks and why he's here, so why not let Faraday know how well and truly it wrecked him to make this decision.
"Fine," he gets out, gesturing absently to him. "You get so mad at me, but you never learn it," he mutters to himself, because even if he's about to fully bare his heart, he can't help a small jibe. He wouldn't be himself and Faraday wouldn't be Faraday if not for it. Rising to his feet to hang up the milking bucket, he grabs his hat and settles it back on his head.
"I said that you are everything to me," he says flatly, keeping his voice steady, but not without emotion. "And I don't say it out loud, but I think it. Te amo, that I love you, you stubborn mule," he sighs, and shakes his head. "Which is why I want you to enjoy your life and not be stuck in Rose Creek with me, that I can't bear to think of you getting tired of me because of my warrant, that I don't want to run it to ruin on a dusty trail."
He's so tired. He's been up since dawn working and this has exhausted him. He's had a smoke, but he needs a drink. "I'm going to the saloon," he informs Faraday. "I'll buy a bottle, if you're planning to join and shout at me more."
Of all the answers Faraday expects to get, that certainly wasn't it.
And it shows, in the way his anger drains away to outright shock, shoulders dropping and eyes widening. The hands he had balled into fists go slack, and his mouth nearly drops open. He rocks back to make space as Vasquez moves, replacing his milk bucket, retrieving his hat.
For once, Faraday doesn't seem to know what to say.
He stands there, transfixed for a moment, letting Vasquez put more space between them as he makes his hasty retreat. Eventually, though, Faraday shakes himself out of his stunned silence as he hurries after the other man, limping slightly. (The turn in weather affects his wounds, and in particular it makes the scar in his thigh put up one hell of a fuss.)
"We're not done yet," he grits out, gathering his jacket a little closer around him. He pays it a bit more attention than strictly necessary, since he's not entirely sure if he can look Vasquez's way, still reeling as Faraday is. "But you sure as hell owe me a drink."
Vasquez nearly points to the nearest seat to insist that Faraday sits and they work on his leg before they continue, but he steadily steels himself not to. That's not his task, it's not his job, and it's not his right to lay hands on Faraday's body like this. He tenses every muscle in his body to force himself not to touch, grabbing his jacket as he heads towards the saloon.
He's been here long enough to have familiarity with folks, tipping his hat to the ones he sees, offering polite greetings. He has no fucking idea how they can't be done (what else is there left to say?), but he's also not wanting Faraday to leave.
He buys a bottle of whiskey instead of tequila and settles in his usual spot, a table in the corner near the card game. He sits here because he can imagine that they're Faraday, hustling someone out of their money. Today, he doesn't need to imagine that, though, because he's here.
The whole process is a reminder on its own about how safe he is here. He's able to buy a drink, he can talk and sit, he doesn't have to lie. Pouring two glasses, he slides one over to Faraday, not sure what's left to talk about. "There, I'll start working down my debt," he says sarcastically.
"You should take care of your leg more," he says, because apparently, he can't let that go. "Or you'll do something stupid and lose it."
Faraday falls a pace behind as Vasquez leads the way to the saloon. He offers up smiles and a few words of greeting to the faces he recognizes, and he’s still a little taken aback by the warm welcome he still receives. In the days before leaving, he recalls being a giant ass, remembers snapping at well-meaning folks asking after his wounds, offering their assistance in navigating stairs or a shoulder to lean on as he made the trek from the boarding house to the livery stable to check on Jack.
Apparently time has soothed away those sour memories, and Faraday isn’t likely to bring them back up again.
They sit at a corner table, and in a different moment, his attention might have been drawn to the card game not too far away. Now, though, he pulls of his hat, setting it on the table as he accepts the glass of whiskey. Naturally, he downs it all in one go, letting the familiar numbing burn travel its way down his throat. He slides it back over to Vasquez for a refill.
The nagging is familiar and not entirely welcome; he grimaces at Vasquez across the table and can’t help but snap back, “What, are you sayin’ it’s gonna get up and walk off in the middle of the night and leave behind scribbled note, too?”
He thinks that he probably deserves the jibe, but it still stings. He pours Faraday's drink a little closer to the rim this time and he sets the glass just before him, his fingers not lingering because he's stung to the point that he snaps back in his chair, back hitting it hard. "You think if I waited until you woke up, I could have gotten away?" He wouldn't have been able to.
"I'm not strong enough to be responsible, that weight, someone else that you love like this..." He's a coward, he knows that, but it doesn't make it any easier to bear. Fuck, he misses Faraday though. He knows he's not allowed to, but he does.
Shrugging helplessly, he knocks back his whiskey, but doesn't refill. "What do you want me to do? I can't go back and undo it? I don't even think I should."
For a split second, when that hurt flashes across Vasquez’s face, Faraday feels like he should be sorry for the dig at Vasquez’s expense – feels like he should, but for all that he feels guilty about it, he’s not sorry in the slightest. Faraday can be petty as hell – one of the many flaws that make up his personality – and a part of him feels vindicated that the comment stung.
But any satisfaction he might have felt is swept away when Vasquez says that. “Love.” Hardly easy for the man to say, admittedly, but even less easy for Faraday to hear, and he quickly averts his gaze to the refilled glass.
He’s silent for a long while, the companionable noise of the bar filling the space for him. He can feel the weight of the townsfolks’ gazes on his shoulders, most of them curious and eager to speak with him, to goad him into spinning one of his many yarns like he used to, back when the pain of his injuries had faded to a dull ache and his mood had improved enough for it. But they’re either too polite or too aware of the tension snapping between Faraday and Vasquez to interrupt.
What do you want me to do? Vasquez asks, and Faraday’s brow furrows.
Faraday is thinking, as he sits there – an ability that many of his compatriots assumed he lacked the capacity for, despite how observant and insightful he can be. (Not that he always is.) His jaw clenches briefly before his gaze snaps up to Vasquez. He leans forward a little, elbows on the table, voice pitched low to ward off prying ears.
“I want you to leave with me,” he says, the words tumbling out a little clumsily, like he worries if he thinks about them much longer, they won’t come out at all. A muscle in his jaw tics before he forces himself to continue. “When the worst of the cold is done, leave with me. We’ll go up north, or down south, or wherever the hell you want. Anywhere they won’t recognize you.”
He's not sure how he feels when Faraday looks away from him after Vasquez goes and bears his heart like that. He buttons it up, sews it away, and tells himself that he shouldn't be surprised. Tigers don't change their stripes, Faraday isn't going to suddenly soften just because Vasquez admitted the truth of why he'd run.
That he was scared, that he's a coward, and that he doesn't know how to love anyone.
When Faraday speaks, Vasquez is counting on a curt beginning to a goodbye. He thinks maybe this will be when Faraday tries to cut his losses and go. Instead, he says that he wants Vasquez to go with him. He doesn't just want him to go, he wants to go north or south, places that he didn't think Faraday would ever entertain.
Suspicious, he's not so sure they're on the same page. "How south?" he asks, because if he doesn't want to be recognized, he has the feeling they're not just talking about Texas, seeing as where that's where the trouble had all started.
“South as you want,” Faraday says, oblivious to the suspicious look Vasquez cuts him, though there’s a slight upturn to the words, like he’s almost posing it as a question. He shrugs a little helplessly, shaking his head. “South as you need. Down into the territories, maybe. Arizona or New Mexico. Or, hell, I dunno. Farther than that, if that’s what you want.”
He loses a bit of steam, then, jaw clenching, before he looks down at the table at his still full glass. He knocks back the shot of whiskey, breathing through the familiar burn that fills his nose, travels down his throat. This, at least, has the small advantage of re-centering him, though he knows all too well that too much “re-centering” might fog up his head, make him do or say something he’ll regret once he’s sober again.
“I ain’t married to California,” he says with finality. He’s wandered all along the coast, in and out of the various territories that make the west; maybe he had a preference for the freedom this far out, but a part of him thinks he’d abandon that, if Vasquez wanted.
And that’s a part of him he doesn’t want to examine too closely right now.
He wonders if Faraday would follow him all the way down into Mexico if that's what Vasquez wanted. It's a test that seems like maybe it would go too far, but he puts that thought in the back of his mind. Vasquez is still stuck on the part where Faraday wants him to go with him, once the weather turns for the better.
Of course he wants to go. He's miserable here without Faraday, stuck in a place that he's only in because he knows he's safe.
What if they did go outside of the bounty's reach? What if he managed to escape it somehow, and be with Faraday. It's dangerous to reach out and touch him, here, but that's all he wants. He aches with the need and he stares longingly at Faraday, thinking he doesn't want to be here, not right now.
"I'll pay for the drinks, but we should go back to my farm," he insists. There are things he wants to talk about that he doesn't want to say in public, but he wants to discuss the arrangement. He wants to say yes, but he wants to touch Faraday so badly, it's nearly the most he's ever wanted to do anything.
He's sure the look on his face tells Faraday plenty about how willing he is to accept the offer.
There’s a brief, dizzying moment where a brittle sort of hope lances through the worst of his anger and frustration, and for a little while, he forgets he’s supposed to be mad as hell at Vasquez, forgets that he had privately resolved to not let the bastard forget the god awful way he handled leaving Faraday behind.
That hopeful look on Vasquez’s face is briefly mirrored in Faraday’s eyes, and a small, tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Vasquez hasn’t said yes, obviously. He hasn’t agreed to anything. But neither has he said no, and that’s the fact that Faraday can’t help but latch onto. And he wonders if maybe, for once in his giant mess of a life, things might actually work out.
But there’s a peel of laughter somewhere behind him that startles him out of his daze, and he seems to remember himself in that moment. He schools his expression back to something neutral – as if to signal to Vasquez that he’s still not entirely off the hook. As if sensing that the storm between Faraday and Vasquez has passed, a few of the men start calling out Faraday’s name, voices made loud and consonants made slightly lazy with a couple of drinks.
“Joshua Faraday,” someone else shouts companionably, “you get your ass over here!”
Faraday turns in his seat, waving a dismissive hand to silently say, Keep your shirt on.
“We’ll go after we make a few rounds,” he tells Vasquez, trying for something that sounds like reluctance – like he’s granting Vasquez a great favor by heading back with him. It doesn’t quite hit the mark, though, considering Faraday’s already tipped his hand mere seconds ago, and they both know it. His mood, at least, seems far lighter. “You and me have got an adoring public to entertain.”
Vasquez startles with the laughter as well, like the spell has been broken. He'd been too busy thinking about being in towns where he could easily converse with an innkeeper and get a room, order food without worrying about being run out of town.
He knows in all these situations that he would have Faraday at his side, both for protection and because he wants him to be there. He can't find it in him to be upset about this, though.
When they call Faraday over, he tries very hard not to get annoyed, but it's a close thing. After all, he'd been hoping that he could head back to the farm and start to make up for his mistake of abandoning Faraday on the road, but he supposes a few more rounds can't hurt. At least, not truly.
They can frustrate and they can annoy, but they can't hurt.
"I think they're more your adoring public, right now," he observes. "Mainly, they're annoyed by my bad moods while I drink." He gestures for Faraday to go join them, though. "Go, enjoy it."
Faraday gets to his feet, carefully stretching his bad leg once he’s out of his chair. He pauses, though, when Vasquez waves him on. For a brief, strained second, Faraday’s expression closes-off, lips pressing into a thin line and eyes narrowing a little. There’s a high probability, though, that with all the time the two of them have spent together – current events notwithstanding – Vasquez might recognize the flicker of uncertainty in Faraday’s eyes.
It lasts for all of a heartbeat, and Faraday smooths out his expression into his usual mask – the unconcerned look of a man who takes nothing seriously, who carries no burdens on his shoulders.
(Obviously, that’s far from the case, but Faraday has always been a convincing conman.)
“Be here when I get back,” he commands, and even if there’s a wry tilt to his words, there’s also an unspoken warning in his voice. Faraday is reasonably sure he doesn’t need to say it, and it’s almost certainly unfair to keep picking at that scab, but Vasquez has set a precedent of leaving Faraday in the dust – a precedent that Faraday isn’t soon to forget.
Reluctantly, then, he turns from the table, plastering on a bright grin – his showman’s smile – as he steps toward the men who had called him a moment ago. He’s greeted by a chorus of delighted shouts as he makes his way over, as he suffers through sociable pats on the shoulders and numerous shouts of “how the hell are you, you son of a bitch?”
True to the promises he made earlier in the day, he tells the men and women of Rose Creek how he’s fared since he left – and he feels far more in his element than he has since Vasquez left him, his mood buoyed by their earlier conversation. He doesn’t see fit to lie about the time he spent with Vasquez, though he’s wise enough to keep the private dalliances to himself. He is, however, prone to exaggeration. Towns become larger or smaller as his story needs, women become prettier, men become uglier, card games and arguments become more fraught with tension. It’s the natural tendency of a good storyteller, after all, and every laughing shout of “Bullshit!” is answered with Faraday pressing one hand to his heart, lifting the other with his palm facing his accuser, and saying solemnly, “I swear on my honor, compadre.”
Granted, Faraday has very little honor to begin with, but the other folks are wise enough to not point that out.
He weaves his tales a little longer than he expects, but not nearly so long that the night has been exhausted. He deftly avoids having to retell the circumstances of why he and Vasquez parted ways, and the others seem to know better than to try to ask a second time. By the time he’s done, he’s rosy-cheeked and warm, thanks to the drinks and food pressed upon him, but rather than waste away the rest of the night by drinking himself silly, he eventually pushes back from the table with a minimal amount of swaying and says his goodbyes. He turns down all invitations and offers of places to stay.
“A certain vaquero already beat you folks to the punch,” he tells them plainly, and he turns to look over his shoulder, back to Vasquez’s table.
(A small part of him worries he’ll see only an empty chair.)
Vasquez heads to the bar to buy himself the largest bottle of tequila that he knows he can manage to drink without getting so blackout drunk that tonight will be a shitshow. The bartender looks like he might hold it back from him, but then again, he knows the maudlin moods he gets into when he's here usually.
"It's fine," Vasquez mutters, hearing the riotous laughter behind him. As much as he knows he should remain steady and keep his face muted, he can't help the private smile on his lips as he hears Faraday spin his yarns and be the storyteller he loves.
Whatever happiness washes over him must help to convince the man to give him his liquor, because Vasquez walks back to the table successful. He picks the seat that lets him have a direct line of sight to Faraday, watching him in this role that he loves best. It fills him with the absolute certainty that his feelings for Faraday haven't changed or diminished at all.
His fear had made him run, but equally, his desire to make sure Faraday had a good life. He thought that life meant being here, in California, where he knew the land and the people. Maybe he is thicker than he thought and he just hasn't been thinking through this.
No matter how much time passes, he waits out Faraday, waits for him to finish drinking, and when he hears him use the Spanish, he ducks his head down. It's how Faraday will find him, his head lowered, a fondly amused look on his face as he catches his gaze and holds it.
I'm still here, it says. I'm not going anywhere this time.
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He's claimed this, almost like he'd claimed the other piece of land with the corpse, but this time, he doesn't think any bounty hunters will be after him.
"You wanted out of here so badly," he reminds Faraday pointedly. "You didn't want to stay, you didn't want a small town life like this. So I tell you and what, you say yes? You come back here and you learn to hate me over time instead of now." He's learned to live with that ache, as much as he hates it. "It's not so good, knowing that you feel different, but at least it happened fast and not slow. Now you can go out there, find someone like an Ethel," he manages, as he burns with jealousy to even say it.
"I know you don't want this life," he reminds Faraday pointedly.
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At least, he’s right about Faraday not wanting to live some simple farming life. He’d never had the constitution to stay in one place, if he’s honest. He could only stand rooting himself in a town for a few days, a week at best, before he felt that familiar itch to wander.
He keeps his jaw clenched as Vasquez rails, eyes still blazing with unruly anger. He’s mad as hell, that much is certain. He’s mad at Vasquez for pulling this shit on him. He’s mad at their pasts for putting them in this position. He’s even a little mad at himself, for not wanting to settle, for giving so much of a shit about Vasquez that this whole thing festers like an open wound, when he never gave a shit about folks leaving him before.
Faraday’s just— mad.
Vasquez finishes, and Faraday practically snarls, now that he can get a word in edgewise.
“Stop tryin’ to tell me what I want,” he snaps. And he’s almost sure they’ve been here before, have growled and postured and circled one another like wild animals. The familiarity of it does nothing to calm him. “You ever stop to think that maybe – just maybe – I wanted a say in all this? Instead, you just run off like a goddamn coward, pattin’ yourself on the back ‘cause you thought you were doin’ some noble thing.”
Finally, Faraday storms forward, closing the space between them. He jabs a finger into Vasquez’s chest.
“You keep sayin’ you did this ‘cause of me, but I didn’t ask you to do a single thing, did I? I didn’t ask you to go, and I sure as hell didn’t ask you to hide from me. And if you’d just asked me, I would’a told you that I didn’t want some goddamn Ethel. I would’a told you I didn’t wanna be a farmer, sure, but you would’a known that I wanted you.”
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"So what do you want?" he insists, since that seems to be what Faraday wants to air out in the space between them, though Vasquez isn't so sure what needs to be said. "What did you want? Did you want me to come back to Rose Creek and you could be so miserable that you don't do anything but leave me? Do you want to tell me now, to my face?"
Because he can, as much as it's going to hurt him to hear.
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God above, it's embarrassing how hurt he is by all this. It's ridiculous. He's not some lovesick puppy. He's not some child, mooning after the prettiest woman he's ever laid eyes on. He had convinced himself before now that Vasquez's leaving was the other man's own business. He clearly didn't want Faraday, after all was said and done, and Faraday had told himself he was happy to leave him to it. People come and people go, and Faraday had never been hurt by it before.
Until now.
"Is this what you want?" It's all he can think to snap back, trying to buy himself some time. "You're honestly gonna tell me you wanna stay here and— raise livestock? Milk cows and worry about unseasonable cold killin' your crops?"
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Should Vasquez lie and say that this is what he'd wanted? There are layers of truth to his situation and why he's back in Rose Creek, but the truth is that he doesn't want this at all. The turmoil of the question sits poorly with him, reflected in his expression as he gapes at Faraday and wonders how he can ask that.
Then again, Vasquez is the one who left in the middle of the night, so it's no wonder that Faraday doesn't know. "I want you," he spits at him, annoyed and angry. Any romance is lost in the angry way the words come out. "But I don't want to stay outside of towns forever. I don't want to sleep on the ground for the rest of my life. I don't want to think the nice people in a town will hang me when they see the bounty on my head, and I don't want you to start fussing because it's not the kind of life that I want, so how could it be one you live without it being a kind of settling?"
Does he want this, though? "The cows, the land, all of this, it's not what I want," he says, "but it's what will protect me. Emma, the others, they'll make sure I stay alive. I sleep and I eat." And he misses Faraday with everything, because he doesn't sleep enough and he doesn't eat enough and he's cold and lonely and bitter at his past.
"What better life does an outlaw get than this? Protection, food, comfort," he lists, seeing as he'd been all but given the farm in exchange for his help. "No one gets everything they want from life. At least this way, I get to keep on living it."
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It only last for a moment, though, considering how angry Vasquez sounds, how genuinely torn he looks. Faraday has a tendency to cling to his anger like a well-worn coat on a blustery day, but even now, some of his fury crawls away. The tense set of his shoulders drops a little, and while he still certainly looks furious, some of that heat ebbs, softening his expression.
"You don't trust me to watch your back?" and usually Faraday is an expert in bluffing, can hide dismay behind a winning smile, but some of the truth still bleeds out. He's almost a little hurt, if he's honest. "What happened before – you don't that was bad business. But I got you outta there, didn't I?"
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"I asked you what you wanted, you haven't said," he challenges, crossing his arms over his torso as he leans back against the wall, his body language screaming that he's protecting himself with both the space and the shift between them. "You want us to be out in the wilderness, always? Never seeing towns, only each other for company, not a comfortable mattress or good hot meals to speak of," he points out bluntly.
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And the words are cast darkly, a little ruefully. Maybe another man could deal with that, but Faraday's always been something of a social creature. Before the business with Rose Creek, he always gravitated toward towns, moved from one place to the next, though he was always careful to never outstay his welcome.
He had adjusted with Vasquez, of course, and while he never admitted it aloud, a small part of him felt the trouble was worth it. Vasquez got on his last nerve more often than not, but there was a comfort in the companionship, along with some oddly-shaped, hazy sensation that he can't quite name.
"It was workin', wasn't it? Me, goin' into towns for supplies and you hangin' back? Why can't we go back to that?"
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He'll consider it, but for now, he just grips the bucket of milk tightly and shoves himself out of Faraday's range, to remove the temptation. "Vete a la mierda," he says, and he does end up spitting on the ground. "What's the difference between you and the corpse I slept with? You both keep me safe, you both keep me trapped," he knows he's baiting Faraday at this point, but he's angry that his solution is being said to not work, when it's the one that keeps him alive and happier than someone trapped in the wilderness.
"And one day, you find people you like too much to play cards with, you stay late." Vasquez shakes his head, annoyed. "I'd rather be here, where I can ride out for a day to be alone and come back to safety than that." Even if that's how he would get to be with Faraday and have all the things he wants so badly.
He misses Faraday's body warm under his. He misses the press of his fingers into Faraday's body and the way he can make him open up with slow kisses. One day, in one of those towns, he knows he'll lose Faraday. Whether it's to women or drink or cards or boredom, he will, and he hates the idea that he should be a kept man in the wilderness until then.
"What do you want?" he demands again, angrily, setting the milk down at the door. He wants to her it in words, what he actually wants.
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That inclination abruptly leaves him as Vasquez speaks, and Faraday's blood runs cold. His pulse pounds in his ears at those words, something like disgust and shock writhing in his gut, and maybe Vasquez expected the words to feel like a taunt, like a bait, like an easy jab to lure Faraday into a fight.
Instead, Faraday just feels like he's been gutshot.
It hits too close to home. It dredges up all those old fears he felt on the road – that eventually Vasquez would tire of him. That eventually he'd feel shackled by Faraday's infirmity, by the old wounds that still plagued him. That Faraday's mere presence would be like a ball and chain, slowing him down.
Vasquez poses that question to him once again, and Faraday just blinks at him, his expression a weird mixture of dismay and nausea and—
(heartbreak.)
—remorse.
For a long while, he's silent, ducking his head and scrubbing at his face, before he can finally muster his voice to speak.
"That's what this was to you?" he asks, voice little more than a bitter croak. "I trapped you?"
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Faraday is also so wrong that it's almost comical. "My warrant trapped me," he wants to make that so very clear. "Being with you was what made all the danger and the trapping worth it." He needs Faraday to stop being so thickheaded and stupid about this, even if his feelings on this matter are so complicated.
It's true that what they were doing was trapping him, though. "I didn't like sitting by myself at a campsite while you fetched supplies, enjoyed the town. Joshua, you're no idiot, not really," he points out. "One day, those visits are going to get longer, longer, and then what?"
"I want a bed, I want meals, I want to not think that every time I go into a saloon, I could end up in a jail cell and you need to rescue me again," he says, sinking onto the milking stool when he feels so fucking tired, running both hands over his face as he hunches over.
I love you, he doesn't say, because it will hurt too much to admit. "Eres todo para mí," is said out loud, and it hurts just as much, but at least it's something Faraday won't understand how much it cuts him to be here, be safe and have all these things he wants, but lose out on the rest.
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Stupid, really. Idiotic. He had told himself it was fine that Vasquez had left him behind like deadweight, that if the bastard didn't want to be found, he'd leave him to it. But now that Vasquez is here, looking like absolute shit, it's so much harder to just leave it be.
He forces himself to listen – to really listen – as Vasquez speaks. He visibly bristles at the implication that he would leave Vasquez behind as Vasquez had done to him, but he lets the man say his piece.
When Vasquez switches to his mother tongue, though, Faraday can't help it – he throws up his hands and lets out an aggravated grunt.
"You know that damn well ain't fair," he snaps, angrier and sharper than he intends. He winces at himself but after a pause, he presses on instead of apologizing. "You can't just keep sayin' shit in Spanish at me when you know I don't know what the hell you mean. Either talk to me or don't, Vasquez. This ain't gonna work otherwise."
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"Fine," he gets out, gesturing absently to him. "You get so mad at me, but you never learn it," he mutters to himself, because even if he's about to fully bare his heart, he can't help a small jibe. He wouldn't be himself and Faraday wouldn't be Faraday if not for it. Rising to his feet to hang up the milking bucket, he grabs his hat and settles it back on his head.
"I said that you are everything to me," he says flatly, keeping his voice steady, but not without emotion. "And I don't say it out loud, but I think it. Te amo, that I love you, you stubborn mule," he sighs, and shakes his head. "Which is why I want you to enjoy your life and not be stuck in Rose Creek with me, that I can't bear to think of you getting tired of me because of my warrant, that I don't want to run it to ruin on a dusty trail."
He's so tired. He's been up since dawn working and this has exhausted him. He's had a smoke, but he needs a drink. "I'm going to the saloon," he informs Faraday. "I'll buy a bottle, if you're planning to join and shout at me more."
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And it shows, in the way his anger drains away to outright shock, shoulders dropping and eyes widening. The hands he had balled into fists go slack, and his mouth nearly drops open. He rocks back to make space as Vasquez moves, replacing his milk bucket, retrieving his hat.
For once, Faraday doesn't seem to know what to say.
He stands there, transfixed for a moment, letting Vasquez put more space between them as he makes his hasty retreat. Eventually, though, Faraday shakes himself out of his stunned silence as he hurries after the other man, limping slightly. (The turn in weather affects his wounds, and in particular it makes the scar in his thigh put up one hell of a fuss.)
"We're not done yet," he grits out, gathering his jacket a little closer around him. He pays it a bit more attention than strictly necessary, since he's not entirely sure if he can look Vasquez's way, still reeling as Faraday is. "But you sure as hell owe me a drink."
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He's been here long enough to have familiarity with folks, tipping his hat to the ones he sees, offering polite greetings. He has no fucking idea how they can't be done (what else is there left to say?), but he's also not wanting Faraday to leave.
He buys a bottle of whiskey instead of tequila and settles in his usual spot, a table in the corner near the card game. He sits here because he can imagine that they're Faraday, hustling someone out of their money. Today, he doesn't need to imagine that, though, because he's here.
The whole process is a reminder on its own about how safe he is here. He's able to buy a drink, he can talk and sit, he doesn't have to lie. Pouring two glasses, he slides one over to Faraday, not sure what's left to talk about. "There, I'll start working down my debt," he says sarcastically.
"You should take care of your leg more," he says, because apparently, he can't let that go. "Or you'll do something stupid and lose it."
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Apparently time has soothed away those sour memories, and Faraday isn’t likely to bring them back up again.
They sit at a corner table, and in a different moment, his attention might have been drawn to the card game not too far away. Now, though, he pulls of his hat, setting it on the table as he accepts the glass of whiskey. Naturally, he downs it all in one go, letting the familiar numbing burn travel its way down his throat. He slides it back over to Vasquez for a refill.
The nagging is familiar and not entirely welcome; he grimaces at Vasquez across the table and can’t help but snap back, “What, are you sayin’ it’s gonna get up and walk off in the middle of the night and leave behind scribbled note, too?”
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"I'm not strong enough to be responsible, that weight, someone else that you love like this..." He's a coward, he knows that, but it doesn't make it any easier to bear. Fuck, he misses Faraday though. He knows he's not allowed to, but he does.
Shrugging helplessly, he knocks back his whiskey, but doesn't refill. "What do you want me to do? I can't go back and undo it? I don't even think I should."
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But any satisfaction he might have felt is swept away when Vasquez says that. “Love.” Hardly easy for the man to say, admittedly, but even less easy for Faraday to hear, and he quickly averts his gaze to the refilled glass.
He’s silent for a long while, the companionable noise of the bar filling the space for him. He can feel the weight of the townsfolks’ gazes on his shoulders, most of them curious and eager to speak with him, to goad him into spinning one of his many yarns like he used to, back when the pain of his injuries had faded to a dull ache and his mood had improved enough for it. But they’re either too polite or too aware of the tension snapping between Faraday and Vasquez to interrupt.
What do you want me to do? Vasquez asks, and Faraday’s brow furrows.
Faraday is thinking, as he sits there – an ability that many of his compatriots assumed he lacked the capacity for, despite how observant and insightful he can be. (Not that he always is.) His jaw clenches briefly before his gaze snaps up to Vasquez. He leans forward a little, elbows on the table, voice pitched low to ward off prying ears.
“I want you to leave with me,” he says, the words tumbling out a little clumsily, like he worries if he thinks about them much longer, they won’t come out at all. A muscle in his jaw tics before he forces himself to continue. “When the worst of the cold is done, leave with me. We’ll go up north, or down south, or wherever the hell you want. Anywhere they won’t recognize you.”
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That he was scared, that he's a coward, and that he doesn't know how to love anyone.
When Faraday speaks, Vasquez is counting on a curt beginning to a goodbye. He thinks maybe this will be when Faraday tries to cut his losses and go. Instead, he says that he wants Vasquez to go with him. He doesn't just want him to go, he wants to go north or south, places that he didn't think Faraday would ever entertain.
Suspicious, he's not so sure they're on the same page. "How south?" he asks, because if he doesn't want to be recognized, he has the feeling they're not just talking about Texas, seeing as where that's where the trouble had all started.
He hasn't said no.
He doesn't think he can and he doesn't want to.
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He loses a bit of steam, then, jaw clenching, before he looks down at the table at his still full glass. He knocks back the shot of whiskey, breathing through the familiar burn that fills his nose, travels down his throat. This, at least, has the small advantage of re-centering him, though he knows all too well that too much “re-centering” might fog up his head, make him do or say something he’ll regret once he’s sober again.
“I ain’t married to California,” he says with finality. He’s wandered all along the coast, in and out of the various territories that make the west; maybe he had a preference for the freedom this far out, but a part of him thinks he’d abandon that, if Vasquez wanted.
And that’s a part of him he doesn’t want to examine too closely right now.
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Of course he wants to go. He's miserable here without Faraday, stuck in a place that he's only in because he knows he's safe.
What if they did go outside of the bounty's reach? What if he managed to escape it somehow, and be with Faraday. It's dangerous to reach out and touch him, here, but that's all he wants. He aches with the need and he stares longingly at Faraday, thinking he doesn't want to be here, not right now.
"I'll pay for the drinks, but we should go back to my farm," he insists. There are things he wants to talk about that he doesn't want to say in public, but he wants to discuss the arrangement. He wants to say yes, but he wants to touch Faraday so badly, it's nearly the most he's ever wanted to do anything.
He's sure the look on his face tells Faraday plenty about how willing he is to accept the offer.
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That hopeful look on Vasquez’s face is briefly mirrored in Faraday’s eyes, and a small, tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Vasquez hasn’t said yes, obviously. He hasn’t agreed to anything. But neither has he said no, and that’s the fact that Faraday can’t help but latch onto. And he wonders if maybe, for once in his giant mess of a life, things might actually work out.
But there’s a peel of laughter somewhere behind him that startles him out of his daze, and he seems to remember himself in that moment. He schools his expression back to something neutral – as if to signal to Vasquez that he’s still not entirely off the hook. As if sensing that the storm between Faraday and Vasquez has passed, a few of the men start calling out Faraday’s name, voices made loud and consonants made slightly lazy with a couple of drinks.
“Joshua Faraday,” someone else shouts companionably, “you get your ass over here!”
Faraday turns in his seat, waving a dismissive hand to silently say, Keep your shirt on.
“We’ll go after we make a few rounds,” he tells Vasquez, trying for something that sounds like reluctance – like he’s granting Vasquez a great favor by heading back with him. It doesn’t quite hit the mark, though, considering Faraday’s already tipped his hand mere seconds ago, and they both know it. His mood, at least, seems far lighter. “You and me have got an adoring public to entertain.”
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He knows in all these situations that he would have Faraday at his side, both for protection and because he wants him to be there. He can't find it in him to be upset about this, though.
When they call Faraday over, he tries very hard not to get annoyed, but it's a close thing. After all, he'd been hoping that he could head back to the farm and start to make up for his mistake of abandoning Faraday on the road, but he supposes a few more rounds can't hurt. At least, not truly.
They can frustrate and they can annoy, but they can't hurt.
"I think they're more your adoring public, right now," he observes. "Mainly, they're annoyed by my bad moods while I drink." He gestures for Faraday to go join them, though. "Go, enjoy it."
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It lasts for all of a heartbeat, and Faraday smooths out his expression into his usual mask – the unconcerned look of a man who takes nothing seriously, who carries no burdens on his shoulders.
(Obviously, that’s far from the case, but Faraday has always been a convincing conman.)
“Be here when I get back,” he commands, and even if there’s a wry tilt to his words, there’s also an unspoken warning in his voice. Faraday is reasonably sure he doesn’t need to say it, and it’s almost certainly unfair to keep picking at that scab, but Vasquez has set a precedent of leaving Faraday in the dust – a precedent that Faraday isn’t soon to forget.
Reluctantly, then, he turns from the table, plastering on a bright grin – his showman’s smile – as he steps toward the men who had called him a moment ago. He’s greeted by a chorus of delighted shouts as he makes his way over, as he suffers through sociable pats on the shoulders and numerous shouts of “how the hell are you, you son of a bitch?”
True to the promises he made earlier in the day, he tells the men and women of Rose Creek how he’s fared since he left – and he feels far more in his element than he has since Vasquez left him, his mood buoyed by their earlier conversation. He doesn’t see fit to lie about the time he spent with Vasquez, though he’s wise enough to keep the private dalliances to himself. He is, however, prone to exaggeration. Towns become larger or smaller as his story needs, women become prettier, men become uglier, card games and arguments become more fraught with tension. It’s the natural tendency of a good storyteller, after all, and every laughing shout of “Bullshit!” is answered with Faraday pressing one hand to his heart, lifting the other with his palm facing his accuser, and saying solemnly, “I swear on my honor, compadre.”
Granted, Faraday has very little honor to begin with, but the other folks are wise enough to not point that out.
He weaves his tales a little longer than he expects, but not nearly so long that the night has been exhausted. He deftly avoids having to retell the circumstances of why he and Vasquez parted ways, and the others seem to know better than to try to ask a second time. By the time he’s done, he’s rosy-cheeked and warm, thanks to the drinks and food pressed upon him, but rather than waste away the rest of the night by drinking himself silly, he eventually pushes back from the table with a minimal amount of swaying and says his goodbyes. He turns down all invitations and offers of places to stay.
“A certain vaquero already beat you folks to the punch,” he tells them plainly, and he turns to look over his shoulder, back to Vasquez’s table.
(A small part of him worries he’ll see only an empty chair.)
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"It's fine," Vasquez mutters, hearing the riotous laughter behind him. As much as he knows he should remain steady and keep his face muted, he can't help the private smile on his lips as he hears Faraday spin his yarns and be the storyteller he loves.
Whatever happiness washes over him must help to convince the man to give him his liquor, because Vasquez walks back to the table successful. He picks the seat that lets him have a direct line of sight to Faraday, watching him in this role that he loves best. It fills him with the absolute certainty that his feelings for Faraday haven't changed or diminished at all.
His fear had made him run, but equally, his desire to make sure Faraday had a good life. He thought that life meant being here, in California, where he knew the land and the people. Maybe he is thicker than he thought and he just hasn't been thinking through this.
No matter how much time passes, he waits out Faraday, waits for him to finish drinking, and when he hears him use the Spanish, he ducks his head down. It's how Faraday will find him, his head lowered, a fondly amused look on his face as he catches his gaze and holds it.
I'm still here, it says. I'm not going anywhere this time.
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