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.
In that case, then Vasquez has already made a decision no matter what the cost might be. At the same time, he also is confident and stubborn enough to believe that no harm will come to him, but in that moment, Faraday's request is what drives him. Why he's so stupid still to think that if he can give Faraday something he wants and it will go over well for him?
Well, maybe he's drank too much finally and it's pickled his brain.
"Then we go," is his casual response, like it's not a big deal. He's already in the process of packing up the camp to leave little trace of who had been there, figuring that they have enough gold to get in town, he's cleaned up enough not to look like the poster, and Faraday misses a real bed.
So does he, honestly. It's been ages since he did, has rarely done this since they left Rose Creek, and his back aches for it. He's working on the ropes of his horse, forgetting the bet and the being abandoned (because yes, he is still sore about that, even though he knows he has no right to be), he only focuses on Faraday's hesitation and his comment.
"Come on, querido," he says, with a nod and a cluck of his tongue, before darting out from behind the flank of his horse, smirking because he never does know when to stop borrowing trouble. "I was talking to Jack, not you," he promises, trying to keep himself from worrying too much about being shot on sight.
Faraday will not let that happen, he knows this. He just has to keep reminding himself.
Once Vasquez reaches a decision, Faraday shoots the other man a quick, startled look as he’s adjusting Jack’s bridle. It had been Vasquez’s idea, after all, that they avoided towns, and one Faraday had reluctantly agreed to. Daredevil he may be, but even Faraday understood there were only so many times a man could tempt fate before fate finally whirled around and snapped.
But... just this once probably couldn’t hurt. Just once, so long as they’re careful, and he has to admit that with the way Vasquez has cleaned himself up for the day, it would be difficult to make the mental connection between the man in the flesh and the poor likeness of his posters, unless one were actively searching Vasquez out.
When Vasquez uses that nickname again, claiming to have directed it at Jack, Faraday’s eyes narrow a little in suspicion.
“Insultin’ my horse now?” he asks. Faraday is still undecided as to whether or not all those nicknames are offensive; obviously there’s more to it than that, and he can tell as much just from the way Vasquez keeps dodging his questions, more nervous than he needs to be. Best to keep acting on his initial instinct, Faraday decides, at least until he knows better. “That’s real low, Vas. Even for you.”
Carefully, his bad leg hitching a little with it, Faraday swings himself up into Jack’s saddle, taking hold of the reins. He frowns in the direction of the town before looking back at Vasquez.
The more that Faraday talks about it, the more nervous that Vasquez is getting, which annoys him because he'd made up his mind for this. True, though, that he probably won't sleep much at night because he'll be sitting up with a gun near his hand because he'll be on guard more than he would be in the wild, but at least it will more comfortable than dirt.
Hauling himself onto the horse, he sets his sights on the town, fiddling with his shirt as he buttons up and fidgets with the starch of his collar, eyeing Faraday warily. "Stop talking so much about it and I will be sure," is his annoyed response.
"I like your horse, but he is your horse," he says, as if he doesn't sneak Jack carrots and other treats, not to mention ends up combing him out when he can't sleep. Still, he is a bit of a wild thing, something that Vasquez doesn't exactly mind. He's one of those too, yes?
Once he rounds his horse around to the same direction, he gives a determined nod, already riding at a slow clip towards the town. "How about you just do most of the talking at first," he suggests, to stem some of his worry. "Maybe even come up with an alias, for me."
Well, alright then, if Vasquez is sure, then he’s sure. Faraday offers a quick sigh and a shrug of his shoulders, mouth twisting to one side as if to say, If that’s what you want...
Jack hardly needs Faraday’s input to follow along after Vasquez, and by now, Faraday’s gotten into the habit of merely pointing Jack in a direction and letting the horse go as he will. Considering Faraday rarely had a destination in mind, he was happy to let the winds of chance blow him where they would. He dutifully ignores Vasquez’s implications regarding his horse, knowing full well the strange sort of soft spot the man had developed for the stallion. More than once, Faraday had spotted Vasquez with a bit of food for the horse, even when Faraday snapped at the man, “Quit spoilin’ him.”
But Vasquez never listens to him, and the umpteenth time he catches Vasquez offering some treat to Jack, Faraday had tossed up his hands, gaze turned upward as though to ask the heavens for patience.
“I can do that,” Faraday says slowly, chewing it over. He’s perfected a magician’s patter after years of practice. He knows all too well how to redirect attentions when he wants or needs to. “But how ‘bout you come up with the name? You’ll remember it easier, that way.” And he adds pointedly, “And make it somethin’ I’d be able to say without much fuss.”
Vasquez snorts derisively, because asking for a name that sounds like a Mexican one that Faraday will be able to pronounce feels like a failing effort. He wishes that he could speak with less of an accent, but even though he's practiced, he's still not that good at it. "Reyes," he decides, because it's not so bad and even Faraday can manage'Ray-uz' in that drawl of his.
It will make him cringe, of course, but then, most of Faraday's Spanish does that. Trotting at an easy pace, he tucks his hat and most of his identifying materials into his saddlebag, not daring to go for a cigar or cigarette on the off chance someone knows his habit of smoking.
Now that town is in sight, he can feel the swell of excitement, like he hasn't in so long. "What was the tavern like? What about the rooms?" It's been so long since Rose Creek, he likely sounds like a desperate man. Stomach grumbling, a yearning look comes over his face. "I'd give anything for a hot meal."
“Reyes,” he repeats, testing the name. For once, he doesn’t try to actively mangle it, like his usual forays into borrowing Spanish words and phrases, though his drawl still drags out the vowels. He tests it a couple of more times, trying to commit it to memory – nothing would be worse than slipping up in the middle of a conversation and using “Vasquez” instead of the assumed name.
Vasquez’s excitement is near palpable as they approach the edge of the town, and Faraday feels himself grinning, despite his earlier frustration at the other man. Maybe this was a decent idea, if only to give Vasquez a change of pace. Sleeping under the stars, enjoying the quiet of nature, was all good and well, but sometimes, a man just needed the company of other people to stave off that feeling of loneliness.
“Dunno about the rooms,” he replies honestly. “Didn’t see ‘em, myself.”
He didn’t have reason to, either. His stay in the town was relatively brief, even if he did leave Vasquez waiting a good while.
(Even if Henrietta, the pretty saloon girl from yesterday, did try to coax him into renting a room for the night.)
“Saloon’s alright,” and his review is accompanied by a shrug, as though to silently add, I’ve seen better. “Decent prices. Bartender’s pour could stand to be a little heavier, but they ain’t servin’ the usual rotgut, at least.”
At that last comment Faraday breathes out a quick, soft laugh.
“Food’s decent, too. Try not to let your stomach eat itself whole ‘fore we get there.”
Vasquez tries not to make a face, because while he knows the reason for the subterfuge, he dislikes very much when his name is not on Faraday's mouth, even if it's an alias. He hears it again and again and when he feels extra stupid, he says, "You could also just call me Ale, or Alejo," he offers, seeing as no one know that apart from his family and there's a fat chance they'll be here.
"If it's easier." And then it will be his name on Faraday's lips, not some alias, not someone else. He's now jealous of himself, which is so stupid that he must have not slept enough, clearly. Still, the town's presence is overwhelming him and he doesn't much care as soon as he reaches the outskirts.
Paranoia swoops in, as expected. He feels like everyone is staring (which they probably are, he doesn't have to be recognized to be stared at because most little towns don't like a Mexican in them), and as he dismounts the horse, his eyes are bright as he takes in the crush of people, the sound of them, the movement. It's not a big town, but it's enough.
"Rooms, food, then saloon," he says, figuring that's a decent order of business, tying his horse up near the trough to let her get some water, drifting into the town and trying not to instantly let his hand go to his pistols.
Glancing back for Faraday, he gives him an excited nod, trying to get him to hurry. "If you'd come faster, my stomach wouldn't have to worry, then I could get something in me after we get rooms." He figures he owes Faraday a peaceful night of sleep, despite the little voice in his head that says, he might take her to his bed, this could be a very bad idea, but if that happens, Vasquez will just have to get blazingly drunk.
Faraday arches an eyebrow at the other man for a second, turning this bit of permission over in his head like he’s examining some fascinating trinket.
He had heard Vasquez mention his given name in passing, but seeing as how he hadn’t introduced himself with it, Faraday never risked using it. He figured it was a personal thing, in much the same way Faraday preferred being called by his surname, rather than the name his mother had given him. Too personal. Too close, to be called Josh after so many years.
Sam, Goodnight and Billy, and even the reclusive Jack Horne had offered up their first names as easy as you please. And Red Harvest seemed to tolerate being called an abbreviated “Red,” once Faraday realized he understood their language. Faraday’s introduction to Vasquez, on the other hand, had been short, perfunctory, with a level of tension by which Faraday had been puzzled.
(Apparently his actual introduction to Vasquez had hardly been pleasant, but the alcohol had made the memory hazy.)
But they’ve entered the town, and as though some switch has been thrown, Faraday can see the tension creeping into the set of Vasquez’s shoulders. As they’re hitching up their horses, Faraday takes an easy glance around – a marked difference from the wary way Vasquez goes about it. Yes, there are eyes on them, but Faraday figures it’s more from the oddity of two foreign men in their small town.
Vasquez urges them onward, and Faraday lets out a patient sort of sigh. After a split-second decision, Faraday frowns down at Jack, giving the stallion one companionable pat on the neck before putting on a limp (though considering the state of his leg, he doesn’t have to play it up too much) and making his way over to Vasquez. He tosses an arm around Vasquez’s shoulders. To anyone looking, it would appear as though an injured man was seeking the help of his riding companion, and little more.
“Relax, would you?” he says in an undertone – loud enough that Vasquez can hear it over the usual hubbub of a town starting its day, but soft enough that anyone nearby couldn’t hear him. “You keep lookin’ as hunted as you do, someone’s gonna get suspicious.”
Vasquez is still on edge, yes, of course, but when Faraday drapes an arm around him, that doesn't make his tension go away so much as it amps it up in a different way. Shocked at the touch, he momentarily forgets himself and presses a hand to the small of Faraday's back, like he's guiding him along, taking whatever little touches and sneaks that he can. Everyone in town, he looks at a little too long, wondering which of the pretty young girls is Henrietta, which he needs to be worried about.
Still, as he breathes out slowly, the warmth of Faraday's arm over his shoulder starts to shut down the more frantic parts of his brain, trying not to feel nervous, but it's been a long time and last time, he had at least six other people watching his back and they'd needed him.
"They're staring because I'm Mexican, cabron, I know that," he mutters back, gritting his teeth. "Still doesn't mean I have to like it." The good news is that no one is pulling out a warrant, no one is pointing at him. Heading towards the inn, he moves his hand to Faraday's hip, squeezing a little to give him a little help up the stairs.
Or maybe it's just for him, a brief reassurance to Faraday in lieu of being given one himself. "Come on, carino," he says, swallowing back whatever other words, the nickname slipping out in the face of his worry. "Get us some rooms."
Faraday glowers at Vasquez privately, as his paranoia seems only to increase with the contact, as they cross the street, but eventually, the man seems to wrangle his emotions, relaxing against Faraday’s side. Vasquez’s complaint is answered with a quick hum, ostensibly of agreement.
He thinks for a second about how if things were different, if the two of them were strangers arriving in town at the same time, Faraday would have been wary of the Vasquez – though strangely, that would have been more for the way he carried himself than for the color of his skin. It was the same with Sam, when their paths first crossed – the grave demeanor, the gun gleaming at his hip, the way he held his back straight against the weight of too many ghosts sitting on his shoulders. Vasquez wasn’t nearly as severe as Sam had been, that day in Amador City, but there’s an echo of it, all the same. A dangerous man, completely aware of how dangerous he was.
Of course, Faraday knows better now, with the benefit of all that time spent driving one another mad with their joking and teasing back at Rose Creek. Vasquez was still dangerous, of course, but so was Faraday. And he still trusted Vasquez with his life.
The inn is nothing to write home about, of course, given the size of the town, and more than anything, the stairs leading to the inn’s porch prove more daunting than anything so far. It’s not much of an act, the way he hobbles up, leaning heavily on Vasquez when his leg hitches just before the landing. It’s shameful, really, that weakness, and he feels a familiar curl of bitterness for it, like oily smoke. But it’s eased away near instantly when he feels the way Vasquez squeezes his hip, calloused hand warm even through the fabric of his trousers, and helps him up that final stretch. (His mouth goes dry with it, but he hardly knows why.)
Vasquez doesn’t have to tell him twice, though, and Faraday leaves Vasquez at the door to make his way up to the proprietor – a severe-looking older woman, with salt and pepper hair and a moue like she’s perpetually sucking on a lemon. He sweet talks her in his usual way, turning up his trademarked charm as he leans on the counter. After a few moments, he pushes off, and she places a key in his hand, casting a quick, almost wary glance at Vasquez before busying herself with a record book. When Faraday returns to Vasquez, it’s with a faintly sheepish air.
“So,” he says brightly – too brightly, maybe. “Good news? Got a room.” And he jangles the key, pointing to the floor above them.
The phrasing, of course, betrays that there’s more to it than that, and he clears his throat. A little less brightly, “Bad news is, it’s... a room.”
It would be so easy to vanish into the simple things like squeezing Faraday's hip, being so close to him, having these moments, but there is a whole town around them. Beyond that, if they want a room and for Vasquez to not call attention to himself (and, more notably, his accent), he needs to step back and let Faraday do his work.
He occupies himself by lighting a cigarette in the corner, working his way through the majority of it while he keeps a steady eye on Faraday, both to watch his back and also because he enjoys watching him, with no other motives.
If his parents could see him now, losing his head and heart over a guero jackass, he'd be in for a scolding, he thinks. He ducks his head and grins when Faraday seems to manage to talk the grizzled woman into at least acceptance of him, but when he returns, Vasquez squints at his words.
"Que?" Then he clarifies, "a" room, one single room. "It's fine," he says dismissively. In fact, it's probably better this way, because now Vasquez might stand a chance of sleeping if he knows that someone else will be there. "You wanted a bed, I'll take the floor." His back is used to such aches and he's had worse. He's just happy for the roof over his head, the warmth, and the prospect of food that he's willing to let Faraday have the mattress.
Besides, it won't be the first time Faraday has a bed and Vasquez sits uncomfortably near him, after all those weeks in Rose Creek. "Food," he says, putting out his cigarette, because maybe he's so fixated on this that he isn't thinking about such shared space.
Definitely isn't thinking about all the dangerous things that can happen with shared space, especially after his drunken episode the night before.
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winterfish
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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.
no subject
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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Date: 2017-12-07 12:55 am (UTC)Well, maybe he's drank too much finally and it's pickled his brain.
"Then we go," is his casual response, like it's not a big deal. He's already in the process of packing up the camp to leave little trace of who had been there, figuring that they have enough gold to get in town, he's cleaned up enough not to look like the poster, and Faraday misses a real bed.
So does he, honestly. It's been ages since he did, has rarely done this since they left Rose Creek, and his back aches for it. He's working on the ropes of his horse, forgetting the bet and the being abandoned (because yes, he is still sore about that, even though he knows he has no right to be), he only focuses on Faraday's hesitation and his comment.
"Come on, querido," he says, with a nod and a cluck of his tongue, before darting out from behind the flank of his horse, smirking because he never does know when to stop borrowing trouble. "I was talking to Jack, not you," he promises, trying to keep himself from worrying too much about being shot on sight.
Faraday will not let that happen, he knows this. He just has to keep reminding himself.
no subject
Date: 2017-12-07 07:40 pm (UTC)But... just this once probably couldn’t hurt. Just once, so long as they’re careful, and he has to admit that with the way Vasquez has cleaned himself up for the day, it would be difficult to make the mental connection between the man in the flesh and the poor likeness of his posters, unless one were actively searching Vasquez out.
When Vasquez uses that nickname again, claiming to have directed it at Jack, Faraday’s eyes narrow a little in suspicion.
“Insultin’ my horse now?” he asks. Faraday is still undecided as to whether or not all those nicknames are offensive; obviously there’s more to it than that, and he can tell as much just from the way Vasquez keeps dodging his questions, more nervous than he needs to be. Best to keep acting on his initial instinct, Faraday decides, at least until he knows better. “That’s real low, Vas. Even for you.”
Carefully, his bad leg hitching a little with it, Faraday swings himself up into Jack’s saddle, taking hold of the reins. He frowns in the direction of the town before looking back at Vasquez.
“You sure ‘bout this?”
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Date: 2017-12-07 08:57 pm (UTC)Hauling himself onto the horse, he sets his sights on the town, fiddling with his shirt as he buttons up and fidgets with the starch of his collar, eyeing Faraday warily. "Stop talking so much about it and I will be sure," is his annoyed response.
"I like your horse, but he is your horse," he says, as if he doesn't sneak Jack carrots and other treats, not to mention ends up combing him out when he can't sleep. Still, he is a bit of a wild thing, something that Vasquez doesn't exactly mind. He's one of those too, yes?
Once he rounds his horse around to the same direction, he gives a determined nod, already riding at a slow clip towards the town. "How about you just do most of the talking at first," he suggests, to stem some of his worry. "Maybe even come up with an alias, for me."
no subject
Date: 2017-12-07 10:11 pm (UTC)Jack hardly needs Faraday’s input to follow along after Vasquez, and by now, Faraday’s gotten into the habit of merely pointing Jack in a direction and letting the horse go as he will. Considering Faraday rarely had a destination in mind, he was happy to let the winds of chance blow him where they would. He dutifully ignores Vasquez’s implications regarding his horse, knowing full well the strange sort of soft spot the man had developed for the stallion. More than once, Faraday had spotted Vasquez with a bit of food for the horse, even when Faraday snapped at the man, “Quit spoilin’ him.”
But Vasquez never listens to him, and the umpteenth time he catches Vasquez offering some treat to Jack, Faraday had tossed up his hands, gaze turned upward as though to ask the heavens for patience.
“I can do that,” Faraday says slowly, chewing it over. He’s perfected a magician’s patter after years of practice. He knows all too well how to redirect attentions when he wants or needs to. “But how ‘bout you come up with the name? You’ll remember it easier, that way.” And he adds pointedly, “And make it somethin’ I’d be able to say without much fuss.”
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Date: 2017-12-07 11:34 pm (UTC)It will make him cringe, of course, but then, most of Faraday's Spanish does that. Trotting at an easy pace, he tucks his hat and most of his identifying materials into his saddlebag, not daring to go for a cigar or cigarette on the off chance someone knows his habit of smoking.
Now that town is in sight, he can feel the swell of excitement, like he hasn't in so long. "What was the tavern like? What about the rooms?" It's been so long since Rose Creek, he likely sounds like a desperate man. Stomach grumbling, a yearning look comes over his face. "I'd give anything for a hot meal."
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Date: 2017-12-08 12:01 am (UTC)Vasquez’s excitement is near palpable as they approach the edge of the town, and Faraday feels himself grinning, despite his earlier frustration at the other man. Maybe this was a decent idea, if only to give Vasquez a change of pace. Sleeping under the stars, enjoying the quiet of nature, was all good and well, but sometimes, a man just needed the company of other people to stave off that feeling of loneliness.
“Dunno about the rooms,” he replies honestly. “Didn’t see ‘em, myself.”
He didn’t have reason to, either. His stay in the town was relatively brief, even if he did leave Vasquez waiting a good while.
(Even if Henrietta, the pretty saloon girl from yesterday, did try to coax him into renting a room for the night.)
“Saloon’s alright,” and his review is accompanied by a shrug, as though to silently add, I’ve seen better. “Decent prices. Bartender’s pour could stand to be a little heavier, but they ain’t servin’ the usual rotgut, at least.”
At that last comment Faraday breathes out a quick, soft laugh.
“Food’s decent, too. Try not to let your stomach eat itself whole ‘fore we get there.”
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Date: 2017-12-08 03:36 am (UTC)"If it's easier." And then it will be his name on Faraday's lips, not some alias, not someone else. He's now jealous of himself, which is so stupid that he must have not slept enough, clearly. Still, the town's presence is overwhelming him and he doesn't much care as soon as he reaches the outskirts.
Paranoia swoops in, as expected. He feels like everyone is staring (which they probably are, he doesn't have to be recognized to be stared at because most little towns don't like a Mexican in them), and as he dismounts the horse, his eyes are bright as he takes in the crush of people, the sound of them, the movement. It's not a big town, but it's enough.
"Rooms, food, then saloon," he says, figuring that's a decent order of business, tying his horse up near the trough to let her get some water, drifting into the town and trying not to instantly let his hand go to his pistols.
Glancing back for Faraday, he gives him an excited nod, trying to get him to hurry. "If you'd come faster, my stomach wouldn't have to worry, then I could get something in me after we get rooms." He figures he owes Faraday a peaceful night of sleep, despite the little voice in his head that says, he might take her to his bed, this could be a very bad idea, but if that happens, Vasquez will just have to get blazingly drunk.
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Date: 2017-12-09 12:09 am (UTC)He had heard Vasquez mention his given name in passing, but seeing as how he hadn’t introduced himself with it, Faraday never risked using it. He figured it was a personal thing, in much the same way Faraday preferred being called by his surname, rather than the name his mother had given him. Too personal. Too close, to be called Josh after so many years.
Sam, Goodnight and Billy, and even the reclusive Jack Horne had offered up their first names as easy as you please. And Red Harvest seemed to tolerate being called an abbreviated “Red,” once Faraday realized he understood their language. Faraday’s introduction to Vasquez, on the other hand, had been short, perfunctory, with a level of tension by which Faraday had been puzzled.
(Apparently his actual introduction to Vasquez had hardly been pleasant, but the alcohol had made the memory hazy.)
But they’ve entered the town, and as though some switch has been thrown, Faraday can see the tension creeping into the set of Vasquez’s shoulders. As they’re hitching up their horses, Faraday takes an easy glance around – a marked difference from the wary way Vasquez goes about it. Yes, there are eyes on them, but Faraday figures it’s more from the oddity of two foreign men in their small town.
Vasquez urges them onward, and Faraday lets out a patient sort of sigh. After a split-second decision, Faraday frowns down at Jack, giving the stallion one companionable pat on the neck before putting on a limp (though considering the state of his leg, he doesn’t have to play it up too much) and making his way over to Vasquez. He tosses an arm around Vasquez’s shoulders. To anyone looking, it would appear as though an injured man was seeking the help of his riding companion, and little more.
“Relax, would you?” he says in an undertone – loud enough that Vasquez can hear it over the usual hubbub of a town starting its day, but soft enough that anyone nearby couldn’t hear him. “You keep lookin’ as hunted as you do, someone’s gonna get suspicious.”
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Date: 2017-12-09 12:51 am (UTC)Still, as he breathes out slowly, the warmth of Faraday's arm over his shoulder starts to shut down the more frantic parts of his brain, trying not to feel nervous, but it's been a long time and last time, he had at least six other people watching his back and they'd needed him.
"They're staring because I'm Mexican, cabron, I know that," he mutters back, gritting his teeth. "Still doesn't mean I have to like it." The good news is that no one is pulling out a warrant, no one is pointing at him. Heading towards the inn, he moves his hand to Faraday's hip, squeezing a little to give him a little help up the stairs.
Or maybe it's just for him, a brief reassurance to Faraday in lieu of being given one himself. "Come on, carino," he says, swallowing back whatever other words, the nickname slipping out in the face of his worry. "Get us some rooms."
no subject
Date: 2017-12-09 02:19 am (UTC)He thinks for a second about how if things were different, if the two of them were strangers arriving in town at the same time, Faraday would have been wary of the Vasquez – though strangely, that would have been more for the way he carried himself than for the color of his skin. It was the same with Sam, when their paths first crossed – the grave demeanor, the gun gleaming at his hip, the way he held his back straight against the weight of too many ghosts sitting on his shoulders. Vasquez wasn’t nearly as severe as Sam had been, that day in Amador City, but there’s an echo of it, all the same. A dangerous man, completely aware of how dangerous he was.
Of course, Faraday knows better now, with the benefit of all that time spent driving one another mad with their joking and teasing back at Rose Creek. Vasquez was still dangerous, of course, but so was Faraday. And he still trusted Vasquez with his life.
The inn is nothing to write home about, of course, given the size of the town, and more than anything, the stairs leading to the inn’s porch prove more daunting than anything so far. It’s not much of an act, the way he hobbles up, leaning heavily on Vasquez when his leg hitches just before the landing. It’s shameful, really, that weakness, and he feels a familiar curl of bitterness for it, like oily smoke. But it’s eased away near instantly when he feels the way Vasquez squeezes his hip, calloused hand warm even through the fabric of his trousers, and helps him up that final stretch. (His mouth goes dry with it, but he hardly knows why.)
Vasquez doesn’t have to tell him twice, though, and Faraday leaves Vasquez at the door to make his way up to the proprietor – a severe-looking older woman, with salt and pepper hair and a moue like she’s perpetually sucking on a lemon. He sweet talks her in his usual way, turning up his trademarked charm as he leans on the counter. After a few moments, he pushes off, and she places a key in his hand, casting a quick, almost wary glance at Vasquez before busying herself with a record book. When Faraday returns to Vasquez, it’s with a faintly sheepish air.
“So,” he says brightly – too brightly, maybe. “Good news? Got a room.” And he jangles the key, pointing to the floor above them.
The phrasing, of course, betrays that there’s more to it than that, and he clears his throat. A little less brightly, “Bad news is, it’s... a room.”
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Date: 2017-12-09 02:58 am (UTC)He occupies himself by lighting a cigarette in the corner, working his way through the majority of it while he keeps a steady eye on Faraday, both to watch his back and also because he enjoys watching him, with no other motives.
If his parents could see him now, losing his head and heart over a guero jackass, he'd be in for a scolding, he thinks. He ducks his head and grins when Faraday seems to manage to talk the grizzled woman into at least acceptance of him, but when he returns, Vasquez squints at his words.
"Que?" Then he clarifies, "a" room, one single room. "It's fine," he says dismissively. In fact, it's probably better this way, because now Vasquez might stand a chance of sleeping if he knows that someone else will be there. "You wanted a bed, I'll take the floor." His back is used to such aches and he's had worse. He's just happy for the roof over his head, the warmth, and the prospect of food that he's willing to let Faraday have the mattress.
Besides, it won't be the first time Faraday has a bed and Vasquez sits uncomfortably near him, after all those weeks in Rose Creek. "Food," he says, putting out his cigarette, because maybe he's so fixated on this that he isn't thinking about such shared space.
Definitely isn't thinking about all the dangerous things that can happen with shared space, especially after his drunken episode the night before.
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