Faraday waits, shoulders tense in spite of the relaxed way he seems to lounge. He’s never run into a problem like this, not while he’s still uncertain as to the name of that what that weird, warm coil in his chest whenever Vasquez is involved. He’s not quite ready to face this, whatever this is, and more than that— well, he can’t read much into this, can he? Men had odd dreams, and just because Vasquez was having odd dreams – seemingly about Faraday – didn’t exactly mean there was anything meaningful to it.
Vasquez falters, and Faraday forces himself to maintain his gaze, tries to force down the blush still warming his neck, the tips of his ears, and he can write that off as awkwardness at catching Vasquez in the throes of that same dream. And when Vasquez changes the topic at last, Faraday relaxes by slow, incremental degrees, hands relaxing from tight fists, shoulders dropping slightly.
“I woke you up ‘cause I was tryin’ to sleep,” he cuts back, though there’s only a hint of his usual exasperation; his tone largely reads as relieved. “I’m getting’ back to bed while it’s still dark out. You’re more than welcome to see about your own breakfast.”
"I want no breakfast, I want to go back to my dreams," Vasquez says grumpily, in enough of a mood that he says that instead of just hinting around the topic. He hauls at his coat again, even though he doesn't lay down just yet, because he doesn't want to go back to sleep now that he's past paranoid about the things he might say.
"Go back to sleep, querido," Vasquez sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, aware that this is going to come to a head some day. He knows he could take a horse, pack his things, escape now, but he's too selfish to want to give up a single moment when he doesn't have to.
Lying back down, he positions himself so that he can face Faraday only a little, in such a way that he sees only a sliver of him like this. "Next time, let me sleep. If this is so you think you can win our bet, you won't," he promises. "I am going to be the one with victory."
Faraday can’t help but snort out a laugh at that, relaxing more and more when Vasquez seems disinclined to discuss what, exactly, Vasquez was dreaming. (Not that Faraday is completely clueless – it would take a complete fool to see and hear what Faraday had and not figure out where Vasquez’s dreams had wandered.) The gears in Faraday’s mind spin wildly, though, with the revelation of this particular facet, and Faraday tries to think back – have there been signs? Or was this merely an odd, one-time dream?
He settles back down, pulling his blanket around himself, and frowning up at the night sky. It’s still dark, as Faraday had pointed out earlier, but sunrise isn’t too far off, by his reckoning. He huffs out a sigh, glancing over as Vasquez continues to grouse.
The reminder of their little wager elicits a quick frown, but it’s smoothed away one of Faraday’s usual devil-may-care smirks.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that, amigo,” he says, with an obvious lilt of amusement. “Night, Vas.”
For all that he talks about going back to sleep, he stays awake and fakes it until he's sure that Faraday is out like a light. He doesn't want to risk any more moaned names, or worse, his body gravitating back to him in the middle of the night selfishly seeking heat. He sighs, aware that this is a problem for him to address, one that's been lingering since those early days of sitting at Faraday's bedside, but it always seemed easy to ignore.
Now, with jealousy hot in his head from the girl and the drinking, he's not sure he could stand it to watch it happen for real. Once he's sure Faraday is out, he starts to move around the camp again, leaning into the wager with the new intention to win.
There's no reason for him to be jealous if he can draw all the attention away from Faraday. He ducks behind some of their things and changes into a spare set of clothes, black button-down shirt (he'd stolen it on the road, after seeing how good it looked on Sam), a pair of slick calf-skin leathers, and his usual boots. He uses the dull reflective surface of one of the canteens to use some of the oil in his hair and beard, make it glossy and curly and shiny as he pushes them back.
He even takes one of the razors to his cheeks, cleans himself up a little. When they get to town, maybe he can see about washing his hands up, splashing rosewater on their face, but by the time he has breakfast out (not much more than bread and jerky), he feels like he's going to win. Passing Faraday, he gives him a light prod with the toe of his boot. "Awake, Faraday," he demands. "Breakfast so we can head into town."
It's not the most peaceful sleep he's ever had, plagued as it is with half-formed thoughts and ideas. A boatload of what if's? and what about's? that circle around and around in his head, that by the time Vasquez nudges him awake, Faraday wakes without much difficulty.
(A marked change, considering the only thing liable to wake Faraday when he doesn't want to be woken is a sense of impending danger.)
He grumbles unintelligibly to himself, scrubbing sleep from his eyes – and while Vasquez might have cleaned himself up, Faraday looks like he's hardly gotten a wink of sleep for how restless the remainder of the night had been for him. He peers up at the other man in the morning light, and—
For a long while, he's simply stricken, startled by the change of appearance. It's... nice, he's startled to find, even Faraday prefers the man in his usual gear. The white linen shirt with its embroidered design, the unruly curl of his hair, that made him look road-worn.
(What startles Faraday even more is that he realizes he has a preference.)
"Look at you, all dolled up," Faraday murmurs wryly, his voice rough and thick with exhaustion. "Don't see you gettin' all nice and cleaned up when it's just me."
Vasquez has to work not to react to Faraday's voice when it's so thick and rough, but it does things to him that force him to turn away and think about any number of things that can dump cold water on all these thoughts or that voice, that mouth, and all the other things that have gotten him into this mess in the first place.
"Maybe if you asked nicely, I would," is his retort. "Besides, dressing up for you doesn't get me anything," is an added point, a touch sharp. Faraday is awake quicker than usual; Vasquez had been ready to get the pail of water to dump on him, not that getting the man soaking wet would've helped his cause, either.
Tucking the shirt in absently, he gestures to the food, breaking a piece of bread for himself as he settles on a rock, chewing thoughtfully as he stares just beyond Faraday to keep himself from thinking about Faraday saying his name with that voice.
"What does the winner get?" he asks. "I don't think we decided."
Faraday snorts out a quick laugh, shoving himself up to sit. He slouches a little, the heel of his palm digging into the sore muscle of his thigh, over that old battle scar. (It tends to act up in the morning, these days, or in the cold, or after too much riding; nowhere near as bad as those long stretches of weeks in Rose Creek, where even the mere thought of moving his leg was liable to make it scream at him in protest, thankfully.)
When he trusts his leg to hold his weight, he stands and stretches his arms overhead, moving over to the food and grabbing up a piece of bread. He doesn’t settle again, instead tentatively stretching out his bad leg. At Vasquez’s question, he frowns.
“Winner?” Faraday repeats around a mouthful of bread. “Winner for what?”
Apparently he didn’t take last night’s wager very seriously.
"Come here," Vasquez beckons when he sees how Faraday is fussing with his leg, making room for him at his side as he cracks his hands, loosening them up. He doesn't think about the awkward night before, doesn't think about what's happening, all he knows is that he sees Faraday being fussy and his instinctual need to make that better kicks in.
"And winner for our wager," he replies, as he's moving to make space. "Remember? You said that if I came to town, no one would look twice at me, so occupied with you. I'm taking you up on it." He feels brazen and brave, stupid with it, because he thinks he can somehow stem his jealousy at the source by rendering it a moot point.
It's why he's gone to so much trouble to make himself look decent. "Give me a chance to prove that I can be more charming than you believe."
Faraday still isn’t in the habit of accepting help, even when he probably needs it. A matter of pride, he thinks, and a need to distance himself from his recovery in Rose Creek, when he was laid so low that he needed someone to feed him broth, like he was some sickened baby. Now that he’s mobile, now that he’s well enough to handle himself, he finds himself bristling whenever someone might imply he was helpless or weak.
Which is why whenever Vasquez offers a hand, Faraday tends to scowl at it, bite at it, like some mistrusting dog. It’s always a bit of a fight, though they both had about even odds of winning.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles, and he lifts his weaker leg, rests his weight on it. “See? Quit fussin’.”
He waves his hand, dismissive, and returns to pacing around to ease out the sore muscle.
“You were serious about that bet?” he asks, before taking another bite of his bread. “Hell, I’m surprised you even remembered it all, drunk as you were.”
Vasquez is far from convinced with that far-from-rousing defense of his leg. He keeps a steady eye on it, convinced that Faraday is going to end up regretting denying the help. When he keeps moving around, he eventually forfeits both hands in the air, like if Faraday plans to be this stubborn, then what can Vasquez do?
He can fuss, constantly and totally, but that will only bring them right back to here. "You can be fine and still accept help," is his deliberately nonchalant reply, possibly passive-aggressive in his tone and how he waves a hand around. "Never mind that you could be good instead of fine, carino."
Shaking his head, he leans over for some water for his parched throat, grateful that he hasn't got a hangover after everything he drank. Good family stock, he thinks. "Of course I was serious. What else am I doing?"
Apart from going half out of his mind with jealousy.
"Why should you get all the fun? Look, see? I dressed for it."
There's that word again, carino, and Faraday casts the other man a dark, unimpressed look for it. Clearly, not knowing what it means is far more annoying than the use of the word; Vasquez could happily call Faraday a bastard, an idiot, a fool, and Faraday would hardly bat an eye. The mystery proves to be far more frustrating.
Vasquez may have a point, Faraday silently concedes. May have, but stubborn mule that he is, Faraday will never cop to it. Instead, he huffs out an impatient breath, waving his hand at Vasquez's tone – somehow both level and sharp at once – and gives one last full-bodied stretch.
He does, however, take a seat beside Vasquez – not because he needs the help, of course (of course), but because he's simply finished with being on his feet.
"I see that, yes," Faraday replies evenly, if not a little skeptically. He casts Vasquez a sidelong glance before yawning; he still hasn't quite chased away his own sleeplessness.
"You sure you wanna head in there?" Apparently for all of Faraday's boasting yesterday, he's staring to have second thoughts – especially considering a wrong step might remind the world of that reward on Vasquez's head. "It ain't much to look at."
The worst part about those dark looks every time Vasquez drags out a nickname is that it only makes him want to use them more. He tears off another strip of jerky, uses bread to soften it up, and water to wash it down before he sets them aside, moving to kneel at Faraday's side where he can dig his fingers into his leg, even though Faraday never actually gave him permission.
He can haul off and deck him later, if he wants, but as Vasquez lays his hands flush against the warmth of Faraday's skin even through the trousers, he keeps his touch firm, but light. When Faraday keeps trying to steer them away from it, Vasquez can't help the annoyed look on his face.
"I'm not sitting around doing nothing while you go into town again," is his heated reply. "If you go, I come with you. If I'm coming with you, might as well have a wager." Both to defend his own charms and to prevent any more flirting that will make him jealous by trying to draw it away.
Unfortunately, a bolt of that jealousy makes him dig his fingers just a little too deep into Faraday's leg, wincing when he realizes he's done so.
"Sorry, nene," he mumbles, flushing when he realizes what little endearment spilled his lips this time (and wondering why this one seems so much worse).
Faraday is usually quick, but given the sleepless night, given his difficulty in shaking off his exhaustion, when Vasquez moves to kneel in front of him, it doesn’t quite register what the other man has planned. The instant Vasquez’s hands are on that old wound, though, Faraday bristles, defensive and mulish.
He snaps, “The hell do you think you’re—”
But Vasquez has already set into it, fingers kneading into the knots, and Faraday sucks in a pained breath between his teeth, tensing under the attention. Usually, he’d latch onto Vasquez as he worked, on those rare instances where Faraday allowed him to (or when Vasquez surprised him, as he has now), making a wrinkled mess of Vasquez’s sleeves by clutching at them like a man being swept out to sea. This time, he has mind enough to leave it alone. Vasquez did go to the trouble of gussying himself up; it seems a shame to waste his efforts. Instead, Faraday clenches his jaw, nails biting into his palms, and he screws his eyes shut.
He’s only half-listening as Vasquez speaks, distracted as he is by the dull ache of his old scars, made worse as Vasquez works them away. It always feels worse until, after a few moments, Vasquez manages to soothe the worst of it away. Vasquez falls into a rhythm, and his touch is consistent enough that Faraday grows accustomed to it. He manages to focus only enough to mark out that tone in Vasquez’s voice – annoyance, frustration, he thinks.
But at that harder press, Faraday gives a full-bodied jerk, grunting out a curse— and, listen to that, a brand new nickname to add to the growing list. It’s— different, from the rest, he distantly notes. He’ll ask after it in a moment, but for now—
“Shit,” he pants out, breathless and pained. He pries an eye open, gaze almost accusing as he focuses on Vasquez. “The hell was that?”
He absolutely didn't mean to do that and he feels like the guilt shows on his face, but is he planning to apologize past his initial comment? No. No, he's definitely not. That would imply that he's also going to explain why his hand slipped and dug in harder at the thought of Faraday going up into one of those girls' rooms, doing something he's absolutely allowed to, but that Vasquez doesn't need to think about.
"Hand slipped," is his deliberately obtuse response, because that's not why he wound up pressing too hard at all. He eases back to make the touch lighter again, working on getting the knots out instead of letting his mind drift to whatever happened yesterday to earn that lipstick mark on Faraday's skin.
That way lies very bad thoughts, things that might get him in trouble not just with Faraday, but with the consequences of his actions. He also tries not to think about the fact that Faraday hasn't reached out, isn't gripping his sleeves, feeling a pang of disappointment.
When he's sure his grip hasn't tightened, he smooths his thumb in a sweeping motion over the aching area, wishing it wasn't so early and that he could drink without comment. "Does it feel better, now?"
“Your hand slipped,” he echoes, voice heavy with disbelief, but Vasquez gets back to it, interrupting any further complaints. Faraday grits his teeth, swallowing down the sounds of discomfort he wants to make. At length, though, the soreness of his leg dulls, and some of the tension freezing his frame falls away. He exhales slowly through his lips, and he props up his head with a hand, elbow resting against his good leg.
At Vasquez’s question, Faraday grunts quietly, apparently still inclined to keep up his own act. “It was fine before,” he grumbles unconvincingly; usually he has a better poker face than this, but he’s not particularly inclined to put in the effort, right now. “So it’s fine now.”
He should probably shove Vasquez away, now, should probably give him a cuff on the ear for explicitly ignoring Faraday’s insistence that he was fine, but he doesn’t. He lets Vasquez stay just as he is, hands warm against his leg, thumbs sweeping over that old knotted scar. Faraday swallows thickly, weariness evident in his posture, before he gives a quick sigh.
“What’s ‘nene’?” and he asks it flatly, knowing Vasquez was about as likely to answer as pigs were likely to fly.
Vasquez keeps his head bowed down, trying not to let any emotion into his face because he regrets that word completely. It's too personal, too much, and it had slipped out in a fit of emotion when he'd worried about hurting Faraday. His head still bowed low, he keeps brushing his thumb in steady strokes, trying not to make it seem like he's doing this for himself (but he is).
"It's just a Mexican insult," he tries to pass it off, but there are tells. He says 'Mexican', not Spanish. He doesn't look up and give Faraday a steely-eyed dare to counter him. There are so many ways for Faraday to see through him, but he's tired and he'd felt bad, and honestly, he's starting to realize that the more names he brings up, the more trouble he's going to be in.
Faraday is going to find someone who speaks Spanish, he's going to find out.
The last Vasquez can do is be ready to ride his horse out as quickly as possible. Squeezing Faraday's thigh, then his hip, he thinks that he needs to let go and he reluctantly takes his hand away, brushing dirt off his knees as he settles by the dwindled fire, trying not to panic. "I think maybe it's better than fine," he says, being deliberately difficult to steer them away from him calling Faraday 'baby' under the guise of Spanish. "I think maybe you don't know how to say 'thank you, Alejandro, thank you for putting up with me'," he mimics mockingly.
Faraday may be thick sometimes, but over the years, he's become a fair hand at reading people. Marking out changes in their body language, noticing subtle tics. Which means that everything that Vasquez is doing, right now, screams at Faraday that something was different about that nickname – insult? – as he had figured earlier.
Vasquez is lying, that much he can tell. But what is there to lie about?
As Vasquez stands, Faraday studies him, eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down. A familiar look, considering Faraday uses it often when he's marking out a target. (He abruptly feels the loss of Vasquez's hands, almost like a punch in the gut, but he tries not to think too hard on that.) As the other man turns away, Faraday carefully stretches out his bad leg, his own palm running over the old scar.
The attempt to change the topic is glaringly obvious – a roaring fire in a pitch black night – and Faraday continues to frown at him.
He slowly asks, "Why aren't you tellin' me what all those names mean?"
"I don't tell you what anything I say in Spanish means," Vasquez is happy that this much is true, because he can counter with this. He's in deep shit, he feels it, he can tell, but at the same time, he's not about to fold and show his cards. They might have a fight because Vasquez is lying, but it will be nothing compared to the fight they'll have once Faraday finds out what carino and querido, and most of all, nene means.
He wishes he hadn't stood, misses the warmth of Faraday's body under his hands, but with a sorrowful ache, reminds himself that this is the exact thing that he's only dreaming about having -- like hands on bare skin, lips on it, murmuring half of those nicknames against Faraday's hips and mouth and other places.
Flushed pink with the thought, he runs a hand through his hair absently to fix any loose curls, finally dredging up the courage to look at Faraday. "I told you, learn Spanish if you want to know what I say. I learned how to speak English," he says pointedly. "Sometimes, I know even more of it than you when Goodnight is speaking," he jibes.
Faraday glares at Vasquez for the dodge. It's irritating that it's true, and if Faraday wants to call him on avoiding answering the question, he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on.
He sees the flush on Vasquez's cheeks, but he assumes it's merely Vasquez reflecting that same irritation back at him, anger making color rise on his skin. He had known riding out with Vasquez was going to be a bit of a trial – both of them unused to the company as they are – and he had known the both of them would have secrets, given the lives they led. What he didn't realize was that these odd walls between them would be goddamn vexing.
Huffing out an exasperated sigh, Faraday shakes his head sharply.
"Fine," and it's not quite a concession, but it is, at least, a signal that he's sick of this conversation. "Fine. Guess I'm done askin' you, then."
There's a moment here where Vasquez could do something and decide to tell Faraday. He could take ownership of the things he's been saying and instead of hiding behind a wall of Spanish, he could be honest. The thought nearly makes him snort with disbelieving laughter. Tell Faraday all the endearments he's been slipping in, half to say them, half to watch how irritated he gets.
No, he doesn't think that's a smart plan. Of course, he goes locked in all his limbs when Faraday emphasizes the 'you' in that comment. Shit, he thinks. That's not a good sign. There's one easy way to get him to forget this, though.
Distraction. "Good," he says, lifting his chin as he digs out a cigar, eager to focus Faraday's mind elsewhere. "Is this how you're going to town?" he asks, with a flick at Faraday's sleepy-eyed state. "I didn't think it would be so easy to win this bet."
He could do something stupid, call him querido on the heels of this, but it feels much too risky.
Watching as he is, Faraday sees the way Vasquez goes rigid, seized up like some sort of statue, and he files the bit of information away, once again, as Vasquez seems to recover.
He snorts out a derisive laugh when Vasquez brings up the bet again, and Faraday shakes his head, disbelieving.
"I don't recall agreein' to that wager," he says easily, though the peculiar argument sharpens his tone. Add in the sleepless night and the lingering ache of his wounds, Faraday hardly seems to be in the best of moods.
Once his leg has recovered enough from Vasquez's attentions, he moves to stand, a touch unsteadily, but he stays on his feet. He goes back to moving, testing the wound, trying to see if it'll deign to hold his weight. He's a little steadier than earlier, at least, his steps slightly more sure, thanks to Vasquez's help (though he'll never admit it).
"Play your game, if you like. Don't mean I gotta play along."
On the one hand, he's disappointed that Faraday has backed out of this. After all, everything is more fun when you're having a bet and he thrives on the competitive nature between them. Not that he'll say it out loud, but every time they try and one-up another, it fills him with glee and warmth.
On the other hand, it was never about the bet, was it. The bet was just something to excuse the fact that he has to do something about the fact that his jealousy will eat him whole if he lets it happen again. Is it smart to go into town? Probably not the smartest, but the trouble is, he doesn't want Faraday to go back on his own.
"So, you're not going to go back in?" Vasquez isn't tentative in his question, but it is hesitant as he tries to strip the hope from his face. Or is this just him saying he's going to come and indulge in someone else's attentions while Vasquez makes a fool of himself.
Heart sinking, he stands as well, smoking his cigar and working his lips around it distractedly as he works to tack up his horse, on the fence himself about whether he should keep pushing this wager. His eyes track back to Faraday, cautious to watch him given the crankiness in his tone, the way he seems annoyed.
It's too early to haul out drink or cards, but his first instinct remains to cheer him up.
He pauses in his stretching, turning to look at Vasquez over his shoulder.
Faraday notices a peculiar quality in Vasquez’s tone, something that hadn’t been there a moment earlier, but while Faraday is good at marking out those differences, those strange little tics, he’s not always quite as good at identifying what they are, what they mean.
For a second or two longer, Faraday studies Vasquez, eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a thin, solemn line. Then, he asks slowly, “Do you want to go?”
Because it stands to reason that Vasquez may just be using the wager as an excuse to wander into more civilized areas, to enjoy the company of other people, aside from Faraday. Granted, Faraday is the type of man who thinks his company is more than enjoyable enough to make up for at least five other men, but he wouldn’t fault Vasquez for wanting a change of pace, something new.
(Rose Creek had spoiled them both for it, in a way, finding and enjoying the company of like-minded men. They were wildly different, came from all sorts of walks of life, but they understood one another, after a fashion. That touch of dark that followed after them like shadows.)
“You want the extra set of eyes, we can go,” he says after a moment, though the phrasing betrays his misgivings. They still have Vasquez’s bounty to contend with, though Faraday can’t fault the man for wanting to risk it for a change in atmosphere.
"I don't want to end up sitting here alone again waiting for someone to come back from town like I have nothing better to do," he spits out, grateful that the bitterness that fuels him is genuine, seeing as that's the last thing that he wants to end up doing today. He works the cigar and puffs out smoke in constant little puffs, but the truth is, he's not so eager to rush into town.
All the company he actually wants is right here at his side. Not that he wants to tell Faraday this, because after last night that will be very awkward, but he still doesn't want to go in without him.
Tired, he's not entirely sure how much he can keep this up and maybe going into town and having other problems to face, other issues, maybe it was a chance to escape away from this. Wearily, he also knows he doesn't want the opposite, to go into town without Faraday. "What about you?" he asks. "You're not itching to go back, spend time with other people?"
Faraday’s expression sours at that little jab, a subtle reminder that he had spent far too much time in the town yesterday. Faraday isn’t in the habit of apologizing, which means that when his transgressions are brought to light, he’s more likely to act childishly than own up to them.
“You’re still sore about that?” which is not a helpful question in the slightest, but here’s Faraday asking it, nonetheless.
As for the other question, now that Faraday trusts his leg to hold his weight, he moves around their little camp, gathering up his belongings, similarly readying Jack for the day. The stallion huffs through it, bearing the attentions with a sort of practiced, barely restrained impatience that Faraday either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind.
“Saw what I needed to,” he replies easily. “Small town like that, you only need an hour or so to get a feel for those folks. A same-ish sorta place, all over the coast.”
And being as well-traveled as Faraday is, he’s fallen into the bad habit of assuming one place is the same as all the rest. He pauses, as he’s adjusting the saddle on Jack’s back. He adds, “Wouldn’t mind sleepin’ on a real bed for a change, but...”
He trails off, then shrugs his shoulders. Riding out of Rose Creek with Vasquez meant having to make a few sacrifices – and apparently enjoying such simple pleasures as a roof over his head during the night was among them. (It’s worth it, he thinks, if only so he doesn’t have to be alone.
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2017-11-08 11:25 pm (UTC)Vasquez falters, and Faraday forces himself to maintain his gaze, tries to force down the blush still warming his neck, the tips of his ears, and he can write that off as awkwardness at catching Vasquez in the throes of that same dream. And when Vasquez changes the topic at last, Faraday relaxes by slow, incremental degrees, hands relaxing from tight fists, shoulders dropping slightly.
“I woke you up ‘cause I was tryin’ to sleep,” he cuts back, though there’s only a hint of his usual exasperation; his tone largely reads as relieved. “I’m getting’ back to bed while it’s still dark out. You’re more than welcome to see about your own breakfast.”
no subject
Date: 2017-11-09 12:30 am (UTC)"Go back to sleep, querido," Vasquez sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, aware that this is going to come to a head some day. He knows he could take a horse, pack his things, escape now, but he's too selfish to want to give up a single moment when he doesn't have to.
Lying back down, he positions himself so that he can face Faraday only a little, in such a way that he sees only a sliver of him like this. "Next time, let me sleep. If this is so you think you can win our bet, you won't," he promises. "I am going to be the one with victory."
no subject
Date: 2017-11-09 12:51 am (UTC)He settles back down, pulling his blanket around himself, and frowning up at the night sky. It’s still dark, as Faraday had pointed out earlier, but sunrise isn’t too far off, by his reckoning. He huffs out a sigh, glancing over as Vasquez continues to grouse.
The reminder of their little wager elicits a quick frown, but it’s smoothed away one of Faraday’s usual devil-may-care smirks.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that, amigo,” he says, with an obvious lilt of amusement. “Night, Vas.”
no subject
Date: 2017-11-09 01:09 am (UTC)Now, with jealousy hot in his head from the girl and the drinking, he's not sure he could stand it to watch it happen for real. Once he's sure Faraday is out, he starts to move around the camp again, leaning into the wager with the new intention to win.
There's no reason for him to be jealous if he can draw all the attention away from Faraday. He ducks behind some of their things and changes into a spare set of clothes, black button-down shirt (he'd stolen it on the road, after seeing how good it looked on Sam), a pair of slick calf-skin leathers, and his usual boots. He uses the dull reflective surface of one of the canteens to use some of the oil in his hair and beard, make it glossy and curly and shiny as he pushes them back.
He even takes one of the razors to his cheeks, cleans himself up a little. When they get to town, maybe he can see about washing his hands up, splashing rosewater on their face, but by the time he has breakfast out (not much more than bread and jerky), he feels like he's going to win. Passing Faraday, he gives him a light prod with the toe of his boot. "Awake, Faraday," he demands. "Breakfast so we can head into town."
god i'm the worst, i'm so sorry i keep taking so long
Date: 2017-11-26 10:02 am (UTC)(A marked change, considering the only thing liable to wake Faraday when he doesn't want to be woken is a sense of impending danger.)
He grumbles unintelligibly to himself, scrubbing sleep from his eyes – and while Vasquez might have cleaned himself up, Faraday looks like he's hardly gotten a wink of sleep for how restless the remainder of the night had been for him. He peers up at the other man in the morning light, and—
For a long while, he's simply stricken, startled by the change of appearance. It's... nice, he's startled to find, even Faraday prefers the man in his usual gear. The white linen shirt with its embroidered design, the unruly curl of his hair, that made him look road-worn.
(What startles Faraday even more is that he realizes he has a preference.)
"Look at you, all dolled up," Faraday murmurs wryly, his voice rough and thick with exhaustion. "Don't see you gettin' all nice and cleaned up when it's just me."
it's all good! I only got back from vacay mid-last week too!
Date: 2017-11-26 04:13 pm (UTC)"Maybe if you asked nicely, I would," is his retort. "Besides, dressing up for you doesn't get me anything," is an added point, a touch sharp. Faraday is awake quicker than usual; Vasquez had been ready to get the pail of water to dump on him, not that getting the man soaking wet would've helped his cause, either.
Tucking the shirt in absently, he gestures to the food, breaking a piece of bread for himself as he settles on a rock, chewing thoughtfully as he stares just beyond Faraday to keep himself from thinking about Faraday saying his name with that voice.
"What does the winner get?" he asks. "I don't think we decided."
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Date: 2017-11-28 08:01 pm (UTC)When he trusts his leg to hold his weight, he stands and stretches his arms overhead, moving over to the food and grabbing up a piece of bread. He doesn’t settle again, instead tentatively stretching out his bad leg. At Vasquez’s question, he frowns.
“Winner?” Faraday repeats around a mouthful of bread. “Winner for what?”
Apparently he didn’t take last night’s wager very seriously.
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Date: 2017-11-28 09:48 pm (UTC)"And winner for our wager," he replies, as he's moving to make space. "Remember? You said that if I came to town, no one would look twice at me, so occupied with you. I'm taking you up on it." He feels brazen and brave, stupid with it, because he thinks he can somehow stem his jealousy at the source by rendering it a moot point.
It's why he's gone to so much trouble to make himself look decent. "Give me a chance to prove that I can be more charming than you believe."
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Date: 2017-11-28 10:23 pm (UTC)Which is why whenever Vasquez offers a hand, Faraday tends to scowl at it, bite at it, like some mistrusting dog. It’s always a bit of a fight, though they both had about even odds of winning.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles, and he lifts his weaker leg, rests his weight on it. “See? Quit fussin’.”
He waves his hand, dismissive, and returns to pacing around to ease out the sore muscle.
“You were serious about that bet?” he asks, before taking another bite of his bread. “Hell, I’m surprised you even remembered it all, drunk as you were.”
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Date: 2017-11-28 11:33 pm (UTC)He can fuss, constantly and totally, but that will only bring them right back to here. "You can be fine and still accept help," is his deliberately nonchalant reply, possibly passive-aggressive in his tone and how he waves a hand around. "Never mind that you could be good instead of fine, carino."
Shaking his head, he leans over for some water for his parched throat, grateful that he hasn't got a hangover after everything he drank. Good family stock, he thinks. "Of course I was serious. What else am I doing?"
Apart from going half out of his mind with jealousy.
"Why should you get all the fun? Look, see? I dressed for it."
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Date: 2017-11-30 10:25 am (UTC)Vasquez may have a point, Faraday silently concedes. May have, but stubborn mule that he is, Faraday will never cop to it. Instead, he huffs out an impatient breath, waving his hand at Vasquez's tone – somehow both level and sharp at once – and gives one last full-bodied stretch.
He does, however, take a seat beside Vasquez – not because he needs the help, of course (of course), but because he's simply finished with being on his feet.
"I see that, yes," Faraday replies evenly, if not a little skeptically. He casts Vasquez a sidelong glance before yawning; he still hasn't quite chased away his own sleeplessness.
"You sure you wanna head in there?" Apparently for all of Faraday's boasting yesterday, he's staring to have second thoughts – especially considering a wrong step might remind the world of that reward on Vasquez's head. "It ain't much to look at."
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Date: 2017-11-30 12:30 pm (UTC)He can haul off and deck him later, if he wants, but as Vasquez lays his hands flush against the warmth of Faraday's skin even through the trousers, he keeps his touch firm, but light. When Faraday keeps trying to steer them away from it, Vasquez can't help the annoyed look on his face.
"I'm not sitting around doing nothing while you go into town again," is his heated reply. "If you go, I come with you. If I'm coming with you, might as well have a wager." Both to defend his own charms and to prevent any more flirting that will make him jealous by trying to draw it away.
Unfortunately, a bolt of that jealousy makes him dig his fingers just a little too deep into Faraday's leg, wincing when he realizes he's done so.
"Sorry, nene," he mumbles, flushing when he realizes what little endearment spilled his lips this time (and wondering why this one seems so much worse).
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Date: 2017-11-30 07:54 pm (UTC)He snaps, “The hell do you think you’re—”
But Vasquez has already set into it, fingers kneading into the knots, and Faraday sucks in a pained breath between his teeth, tensing under the attention. Usually, he’d latch onto Vasquez as he worked, on those rare instances where Faraday allowed him to (or when Vasquez surprised him, as he has now), making a wrinkled mess of Vasquez’s sleeves by clutching at them like a man being swept out to sea. This time, he has mind enough to leave it alone. Vasquez did go to the trouble of gussying himself up; it seems a shame to waste his efforts. Instead, Faraday clenches his jaw, nails biting into his palms, and he screws his eyes shut.
He’s only half-listening as Vasquez speaks, distracted as he is by the dull ache of his old scars, made worse as Vasquez works them away. It always feels worse until, after a few moments, Vasquez manages to soothe the worst of it away. Vasquez falls into a rhythm, and his touch is consistent enough that Faraday grows accustomed to it. He manages to focus only enough to mark out that tone in Vasquez’s voice – annoyance, frustration, he thinks.
But at that harder press, Faraday gives a full-bodied jerk, grunting out a curse— and, listen to that, a brand new nickname to add to the growing list. It’s— different, from the rest, he distantly notes. He’ll ask after it in a moment, but for now—
“Shit,” he pants out, breathless and pained. He pries an eye open, gaze almost accusing as he focuses on Vasquez. “The hell was that?”
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Date: 2017-11-30 08:37 pm (UTC)"Hand slipped," is his deliberately obtuse response, because that's not why he wound up pressing too hard at all. He eases back to make the touch lighter again, working on getting the knots out instead of letting his mind drift to whatever happened yesterday to earn that lipstick mark on Faraday's skin.
That way lies very bad thoughts, things that might get him in trouble not just with Faraday, but with the consequences of his actions. He also tries not to think about the fact that Faraday hasn't reached out, isn't gripping his sleeves, feeling a pang of disappointment.
When he's sure his grip hasn't tightened, he smooths his thumb in a sweeping motion over the aching area, wishing it wasn't so early and that he could drink without comment. "Does it feel better, now?"
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Date: 2017-12-01 06:31 pm (UTC)At Vasquez’s question, Faraday grunts quietly, apparently still inclined to keep up his own act. “It was fine before,” he grumbles unconvincingly; usually he has a better poker face than this, but he’s not particularly inclined to put in the effort, right now. “So it’s fine now.”
He should probably shove Vasquez away, now, should probably give him a cuff on the ear for explicitly ignoring Faraday’s insistence that he was fine, but he doesn’t. He lets Vasquez stay just as he is, hands warm against his leg, thumbs sweeping over that old knotted scar. Faraday swallows thickly, weariness evident in his posture, before he gives a quick sigh.
“What’s ‘nene’?” and he asks it flatly, knowing Vasquez was about as likely to answer as pigs were likely to fly.
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Date: 2017-12-01 08:27 pm (UTC)"It's just a Mexican insult," he tries to pass it off, but there are tells. He says 'Mexican', not Spanish. He doesn't look up and give Faraday a steely-eyed dare to counter him. There are so many ways for Faraday to see through him, but he's tired and he'd felt bad, and honestly, he's starting to realize that the more names he brings up, the more trouble he's going to be in.
Faraday is going to find someone who speaks Spanish, he's going to find out.
The last Vasquez can do is be ready to ride his horse out as quickly as possible. Squeezing Faraday's thigh, then his hip, he thinks that he needs to let go and he reluctantly takes his hand away, brushing dirt off his knees as he settles by the dwindled fire, trying not to panic. "I think maybe it's better than fine," he says, being deliberately difficult to steer them away from him calling Faraday 'baby' under the guise of Spanish. "I think maybe you don't know how to say 'thank you, Alejandro, thank you for putting up with me'," he mimics mockingly.
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Date: 2017-12-03 03:58 am (UTC)Vasquez is lying, that much he can tell. But what is there to lie about?
As Vasquez stands, Faraday studies him, eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down. A familiar look, considering Faraday uses it often when he's marking out a target. (He abruptly feels the loss of Vasquez's hands, almost like a punch in the gut, but he tries not to think too hard on that.) As the other man turns away, Faraday carefully stretches out his bad leg, his own palm running over the old scar.
The attempt to change the topic is glaringly obvious – a roaring fire in a pitch black night – and Faraday continues to frown at him.
He slowly asks, "Why aren't you tellin' me what all those names mean?"
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Date: 2017-12-03 12:50 pm (UTC)He wishes he hadn't stood, misses the warmth of Faraday's body under his hands, but with a sorrowful ache, reminds himself that this is the exact thing that he's only dreaming about having -- like hands on bare skin, lips on it, murmuring half of those nicknames against Faraday's hips and mouth and other places.
Flushed pink with the thought, he runs a hand through his hair absently to fix any loose curls, finally dredging up the courage to look at Faraday. "I told you, learn Spanish if you want to know what I say. I learned how to speak English," he says pointedly. "Sometimes, I know even more of it than you when Goodnight is speaking," he jibes.
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Date: 2017-12-04 07:04 am (UTC)He sees the flush on Vasquez's cheeks, but he assumes it's merely Vasquez reflecting that same irritation back at him, anger making color rise on his skin. He had known riding out with Vasquez was going to be a bit of a trial – both of them unused to the company as they are – and he had known the both of them would have secrets, given the lives they led. What he didn't realize was that these odd walls between them would be goddamn vexing.
Huffing out an exasperated sigh, Faraday shakes his head sharply.
"Fine," and it's not quite a concession, but it is, at least, a signal that he's sick of this conversation. "Fine. Guess I'm done askin' you, then."
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Date: 2017-12-04 12:12 pm (UTC)No, he doesn't think that's a smart plan. Of course, he goes locked in all his limbs when Faraday emphasizes the 'you' in that comment. Shit, he thinks. That's not a good sign. There's one easy way to get him to forget this, though.
Distraction. "Good," he says, lifting his chin as he digs out a cigar, eager to focus Faraday's mind elsewhere. "Is this how you're going to town?" he asks, with a flick at Faraday's sleepy-eyed state. "I didn't think it would be so easy to win this bet."
He could do something stupid, call him querido on the heels of this, but it feels much too risky.
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Date: 2017-12-06 06:45 am (UTC)He snorts out a derisive laugh when Vasquez brings up the bet again, and Faraday shakes his head, disbelieving.
"I don't recall agreein' to that wager," he says easily, though the peculiar argument sharpens his tone. Add in the sleepless night and the lingering ache of his wounds, Faraday hardly seems to be in the best of moods.
Once his leg has recovered enough from Vasquez's attentions, he moves to stand, a touch unsteadily, but he stays on his feet. He goes back to moving, testing the wound, trying to see if it'll deign to hold his weight. He's a little steadier than earlier, at least, his steps slightly more sure, thanks to Vasquez's help (though he'll never admit it).
"Play your game, if you like. Don't mean I gotta play along."
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Date: 2017-12-06 01:04 pm (UTC)On the other hand, it was never about the bet, was it. The bet was just something to excuse the fact that he has to do something about the fact that his jealousy will eat him whole if he lets it happen again. Is it smart to go into town? Probably not the smartest, but the trouble is, he doesn't want Faraday to go back on his own.
"So, you're not going to go back in?" Vasquez isn't tentative in his question, but it is hesitant as he tries to strip the hope from his face. Or is this just him saying he's going to come and indulge in someone else's attentions while Vasquez makes a fool of himself.
Heart sinking, he stands as well, smoking his cigar and working his lips around it distractedly as he works to tack up his horse, on the fence himself about whether he should keep pushing this wager. His eyes track back to Faraday, cautious to watch him given the crankiness in his tone, the way he seems annoyed.
It's too early to haul out drink or cards, but his first instinct remains to cheer him up.
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Date: 2017-12-06 07:40 pm (UTC)Faraday notices a peculiar quality in Vasquez’s tone, something that hadn’t been there a moment earlier, but while Faraday is good at marking out those differences, those strange little tics, he’s not always quite as good at identifying what they are, what they mean.
For a second or two longer, Faraday studies Vasquez, eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a thin, solemn line. Then, he asks slowly, “Do you want to go?”
Because it stands to reason that Vasquez may just be using the wager as an excuse to wander into more civilized areas, to enjoy the company of other people, aside from Faraday. Granted, Faraday is the type of man who thinks his company is more than enjoyable enough to make up for at least five other men, but he wouldn’t fault Vasquez for wanting a change of pace, something new.
(Rose Creek had spoiled them both for it, in a way, finding and enjoying the company of like-minded men. They were wildly different, came from all sorts of walks of life, but they understood one another, after a fashion. That touch of dark that followed after them like shadows.)
“You want the extra set of eyes, we can go,” he says after a moment, though the phrasing betrays his misgivings. They still have Vasquez’s bounty to contend with, though Faraday can’t fault the man for wanting to risk it for a change in atmosphere.
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Date: 2017-12-06 10:10 pm (UTC)All the company he actually wants is right here at his side. Not that he wants to tell Faraday this, because after last night that will be very awkward, but he still doesn't want to go in without him.
Tired, he's not entirely sure how much he can keep this up and maybe going into town and having other problems to face, other issues, maybe it was a chance to escape away from this. Wearily, he also knows he doesn't want the opposite, to go into town without Faraday. "What about you?" he asks. "You're not itching to go back, spend time with other people?"
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Date: 2017-12-07 12:26 am (UTC)“You’re still sore about that?” which is not a helpful question in the slightest, but here’s Faraday asking it, nonetheless.
As for the other question, now that Faraday trusts his leg to hold his weight, he moves around their little camp, gathering up his belongings, similarly readying Jack for the day. The stallion huffs through it, bearing the attentions with a sort of practiced, barely restrained impatience that Faraday either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind.
“Saw what I needed to,” he replies easily. “Small town like that, you only need an hour or so to get a feel for those folks. A same-ish sorta place, all over the coast.”
And being as well-traveled as Faraday is, he’s fallen into the bad habit of assuming one place is the same as all the rest. He pauses, as he’s adjusting the saddle on Jack’s back. He adds, “Wouldn’t mind sleepin’ on a real bed for a change, but...”
He trails off, then shrugs his shoulders. Riding out of Rose Creek with Vasquez meant having to make a few sacrifices – and apparently enjoying such simple pleasures as a roof over his head during the night was among them. (It’s worth it, he thinks, if only so he doesn’t have to be alone.
But Lord help him if he ever admits that aloud.)
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