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.
Well, that went better than he figured. A part of him had been worried that having spent so much time together, Vasquez would be itching for this rare opportunity to have some time apart. He worried that without that particular option available, Vasquez might have huffed out an annoyed sigh and decided they ought to move on.
(Not the worst idea, Faraday figures, but with how oddly anxious the other man seemed to be with enjoying the comforts of civilization, it seemed an inauspicious end.)
Not the case, apparently, and when Vasquez urges them on elsewhere, Faraday huffs out a laugh, tucking the key into his pocket.
"Fine, fine," he says, while waving a hand toward the door. "We'll follow your nose, then. You're liable to direct us someplace palatable, then."
For a stupid moment, he wants Faraday to put his arm around Vasquez's shoulders again to give him an excuse to touch him, but the last thing they need is people in the town looking too long and whispering other things that are liable to get them shot. Food is easy, though, because when they'd passed one of the buildings, he'd seen inside to see that the saloon was setting down plates of food for people.
He reaches out to pluck at Faraday's vest and give him a light tug, a sign to start walking. The only trouble when they reach this little place is that Vasquez sees a pretty young woman with dark hair light up as soon as they enter.
"Mierda," he mutters under his breath, and steers Faraday towards a table before Henrietta (so he assumes) can interrupt, thinking that she has a new chance. At least with their shared room, there will be no chance for Faraday to charm her back.
Speaking of charm, he remembers their little wager and while it might not be on the table, it's also still a good idea to keep people distracted. Plastering on an easygoing smile, letting the tension drain his shoulders, Vasquez thinks that an outgoing, gregarious man won't flag people as an outlaw. Running a hand through his hair, he settles Faraday at a table before he goes to lean against the bar.
The bartender (and possibly owner of this place) is a handsome young man drying glasses behind the bar, with deep blue eyes, a well-coiffed moustache, and very nice fingers. If he were completely desperate, hadn't been keeping company, he would've been a very tempting thing. Right now, to get him heaping plates of food and liquor, he might be acting friendlier than normal, leaning forward, reaching out to absently tap the man's hand to try and forge a connection, keeping the conversation light and easy.
Besides, with his back set this way, he can avoid the inevitable -- when Henrietta decides to say hello to Faraday again, something he doubts he can watch without losing his easygoing front.
Vasquez is correct, of course, that the young woman who spots them is the infamous Henrietta. Faraday, for his part, seems to notice her at just the same moment, and he flashes her his customary crooked smile, all easy charm and confidence. Faraday is about to offer to introduce Vasquez to her (still thinking that the other man's strange mood is for the lack of feminine company), but Vasquez mutters something. A swear, Faraday's pretty sure – and it would figure he would only pick up the insults and the curses.
But before Faraday can ask what the matter is, he sees the way Vasquez's attitude shifts, the way he seems completely at ease in a way Faraday hasn't seen since Rose Creek. It suits him, he abruptly thinks, words stopping up for a second in his throat, and when Vasquez directs him to a table, Faraday forgets to commend him for it.
But he's not so far gone, at least, that he's forgotten that $500 reward for Vasquez's head. He's mindful of the patrons of the saloon, scanning the room casually enough – something well-practiced, considering he was more than used to watching his own back. Not too difficult, keeping an eye on Vasquez on top of it. When Vasquez leans against the bar, Henrietta just so happens to saunter her way over, smiling in that pretty way that Faraday remembers from yesterday.
"Back so soon?" she asks, and her hand trails along the back of his shoulders as she moves around his chair. "Thought you were movin' along to the next town?"
"Change of plans," Faraday says, shrugging. His gaze darts over to Vasquez, to the way he seems so familiar with the barkeep, and Faraday feels a bitter curl in his gut. It's an abrupt, strange sort of thing that he quickly shakes off, looking back to Henrietta. "Seemed a serendipitous turn of events, seein' as how I get to see you again."
Henrietta laughs, something light and musical like bells. Her hands smooth down his upper arms, as she leans against his back, whispering in his ear, "Flatterer."
A table calls for the saloon girl's attention, though, and she straightens slowly, giving them a light wave to signal her return. She promises Faraday she'll be back soon with a quick peck on his cheek, leaving a faint red mark. After that, she returns to the table of revelers, and Faraday refocuses on Vasquez at the bar.
(He doesn't realize it, but he's frowning a little sourly.)
The barkeep is a very handsome man who has his attentions, but the truth is that Vasquez finds himself answering questions a little shortly, wanting them to be over, wanting to get back to the table and Faraday. Still, he doesn't want to rush away, so he leans over and makes sure that they're going to get the very best whiskey, murmuring a low, gracias, guapo to him, sliding his fingers back. When he returns to the table, he has a bottle and glasses in his hand.
Faraday looks upset, though why, Vasquez has no idea. "I see your girl came back to see you," is his annoyed comment, gesturing to the red mark on Faraday's cheek, settling in a chair where he can sprawl, facing the door (and as a consequence, the barkeep, who he tosses a smirk and a wink as he lifts the whiskey bottle in thanks before pouring glasses for the both of them).
"This should be better than the last bottle you got," he says, tapping Faraday's glass against his own before setting it down in front of him. Henrietta is not the only one who can grease up someone with pretty smiles and loose touches.
When he wants to be, Vasquez can be plenty charming. It's just that travelling with Faraday, he had no use, because the other man never seemed to mind when he threw him an insult. In fact, he seemed to even like it, so Vasquez just never stopped, peppering in the sneaky affections that he can.
"Don't even think about bringing her back to the room, guapo," he says, for the second time in as many moments, but apparently, that's not such a good thing, because the barkeep is serving some of the tables and hears, drifting by to give them a searching look, very clearly drawn by the nickname.
"Is everything fine?"
"Everything is perfect," Vasquez guarantees with a charming grin, squeezing his forearm gently enough to assure, but firm enough to tell him that he shouldn't ask any more and should return to the bar.
When Vasquez returns the table, Faraday still seems to be almost sulking, eyes narrowed and eyebrows knit together, as though in disapproval. He brushes his fingers across his cheek at Vasquez's prompting, and when his fingers come away red, he lets out a humorless sort of laugh, wiping the rest of it away.
"I was gonna introduce you two," Faraday says, words sliding out of the side of his mouth as he frowns. "Doubt I'll bother, if you're gonna seem so surly about it."
It doesn't slip his notice, the way Vasquez's attentions keep returning to the bartender, and Faraday feels that bitter twist in his gut again for it – an emotion he can hardly identify, except for how little he likes it.
When Vasquez pours out the glasses, Faraday pulls his own closer toward himself, his mood darkening with each word that slips from Vasquez's lips. Another of those insulting nicknames, except Faraday sees the way the bartender perks up at it, like some dog who's heard its master shape its name. When he comes over, Faraday gives the other man a considering look, almost sizing him up, but his eyes snap to the way Vasquez squeezes the other man's arm.
That bitter curl flares to life, and Faraday glares first at the barkeep's retreating back, then to Vasquez, with that stupid smile curling his lips. When the other man is out of earshot, Faraday forces his expression to smooth out, looking down at the glass of whiskey instead of Vasquez.
If Faraday ends up introducing him to Henrietta, it won't go over well. He doubts that she'd understand the sharp jealousy that he'd pour into his words and it's not like he can tell her to stay away from Faraday because he has no claim, so maybe it's best if they stay acquaintances from afar, before something happens.
Besides, he has the barkeep to focus on, an easy distraction both because of the ease he has on the eyes, but also because he's the man responsible for their drinks and the food order he'd placed. What's strange, though, is how Faraday acts.
"I told you that I could be very charming," he says as he sips the whiskey and lets out a low laugh of delight when it is incredible. Apparently his flirtations have found their mark this time and paid off. "Let him think he is my friend until he brings me food piling the plate, whiskey as good as this," he says, feeling like a weight is pulled off his chest.
There's something else happening and while Vasquez isn't stupid, he is occasionally the kind of hopeful that is. Something is going on with Faraday. Shifting closer, he moves a hand to Faraday's bad leg, to the knee, and offers the lightest squeeze to get his attention.
"What?" he asks. "Did he act like a jackass when you were here before?" Annoyance hits him next, because if Faraday can cozy up with Henrietta, then why can't he have a civil conversation (even if it's borderline flirtatious) with someone else. "What do you care, when you have your pretty girl flitting over you?"
Faraday takes a sip from his own glass, and— grudgingly, he admits it is the top shelf stuff. Not exactly the type you offer to cowboys and gamblers haunting the corners of your establishment. With the payment from Rose Creek, Faraday could have afforded it, but why would he want to when the shitty stuff gets you just as drunk and in half the time?
He’s busy examining the wood grain of the table, scowling down at it like he might scare off the stains, when Vasquez squeezes his knee. He stiffens with the unexpected contact, and his gaze darts up to Vasquez.
“He was fine,” is the first reassurance that leaves his lips. He offered drinks quick enough, yesterday, and was nothing less than civil, as most bartenders are. Vasquez’s next question, though, draws a derisive snort from Faraday, and his gaze darts away again.
“Who said I cared? ‘Cause I don’t. Chat up whoever you want, it don’t matter none to me.”
Vasquez wishes that Faraday's answer didn't get him so annoyed. "Fine," he snaps back, snippy and annoyed. He drains back half of his glass of whiskey, glaring at Faraday from over it, not sure why he's upset that Faraday doesn't care, so why should he?
When the barkeep signals to him, Vasquez scrapes his chair as he stands, one hand firmly on Faraday's shoulders while he heads to the back kitchen with the barkeep so he can fetch the plates of food.
"Choose what you want," he says, to Vasquez's delight.
He pries biscuits and breads from the table, fresh and hot fried meats, and as much vegetables as he can lade down on two plates. When he steps back towards the main room, the barkeep stops him by the door and for a moment, Vasquez wonders if he needs to go for his guns. Luckily, it turns out his life is in no danger, only his virtue.
"Maybe after, you might want to take advantage of our rooms?" he offers, a pointed look sliding over him.
He could, but should he? It's not that Faraday is likely willing to give him this (and if he's honest, he's after a lot more than a quick tumble, has been deep in his own feelings for so, so long). Letting out a reluctant sound of disappointment, he thinks that his need for touch will have to continue unsatisfied. "I'm here with a friend," Vasquez says apologetically. "Maybe, if I come back on my own..." He tries to keep the promise open, because he wants his food and his drink.
"Maybe," the barkeep agrees. "I'm Josiah, by the way."
"Ale," he offers, knowing that he's only being so kind to get something, but it feels good to talk to someone and not expect to be hanged.
He pushes back into the dining room to settle the plates back to their table, settling into his chair to chew a biscuit thoughtfully, staring at Faraday for a long moment, wondering why he lets Faraday get under his skin so much. No, that's a lie. He knows why, but he needs to stop letting it, when he's struggling against something that's useless. "Eat your food, querido," he instructs. "Since my chatting up got us these portions."
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winterfish
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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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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.
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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."
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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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Date: 2017-12-10 07:17 am (UTC)(Not the worst idea, Faraday figures, but with how oddly anxious the other man seemed to be with enjoying the comforts of civilization, it seemed an inauspicious end.)
Not the case, apparently, and when Vasquez urges them on elsewhere, Faraday huffs out a laugh, tucking the key into his pocket.
"Fine, fine," he says, while waving a hand toward the door. "We'll follow your nose, then. You're liable to direct us someplace palatable, then."
no subject
Date: 2017-12-10 12:31 pm (UTC)He reaches out to pluck at Faraday's vest and give him a light tug, a sign to start walking. The only trouble when they reach this little place is that Vasquez sees a pretty young woman with dark hair light up as soon as they enter.
"Mierda," he mutters under his breath, and steers Faraday towards a table before Henrietta (so he assumes) can interrupt, thinking that she has a new chance. At least with their shared room, there will be no chance for Faraday to charm her back.
Speaking of charm, he remembers their little wager and while it might not be on the table, it's also still a good idea to keep people distracted. Plastering on an easygoing smile, letting the tension drain his shoulders, Vasquez thinks that an outgoing, gregarious man won't flag people as an outlaw. Running a hand through his hair, he settles Faraday at a table before he goes to lean against the bar.
The bartender (and possibly owner of this place) is a handsome young man drying glasses behind the bar, with deep blue eyes, a well-coiffed moustache, and very nice fingers. If he were completely desperate, hadn't been keeping company, he would've been a very tempting thing. Right now, to get him heaping plates of food and liquor, he might be acting friendlier than normal, leaning forward, reaching out to absently tap the man's hand to try and forge a connection, keeping the conversation light and easy.
Besides, with his back set this way, he can avoid the inevitable -- when Henrietta decides to say hello to Faraday again, something he doubts he can watch without losing his easygoing front.
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Date: 2017-12-11 02:06 am (UTC)But before Faraday can ask what the matter is, he sees the way Vasquez's attitude shifts, the way he seems completely at ease in a way Faraday hasn't seen since Rose Creek. It suits him, he abruptly thinks, words stopping up for a second in his throat, and when Vasquez directs him to a table, Faraday forgets to commend him for it.
But he's not so far gone, at least, that he's forgotten that $500 reward for Vasquez's head. He's mindful of the patrons of the saloon, scanning the room casually enough – something well-practiced, considering he was more than used to watching his own back. Not too difficult, keeping an eye on Vasquez on top of it. When Vasquez leans against the bar, Henrietta just so happens to saunter her way over, smiling in that pretty way that Faraday remembers from yesterday.
"Back so soon?" she asks, and her hand trails along the back of his shoulders as she moves around his chair. "Thought you were movin' along to the next town?"
"Change of plans," Faraday says, shrugging. His gaze darts over to Vasquez, to the way he seems so familiar with the barkeep, and Faraday feels a bitter curl in his gut. It's an abrupt, strange sort of thing that he quickly shakes off, looking back to Henrietta. "Seemed a serendipitous turn of events, seein' as how I get to see you again."
Henrietta laughs, something light and musical like bells. Her hands smooth down his upper arms, as she leans against his back, whispering in his ear, "Flatterer."
A table calls for the saloon girl's attention, though, and she straightens slowly, giving them a light wave to signal her return. She promises Faraday she'll be back soon with a quick peck on his cheek, leaving a faint red mark. After that, she returns to the table of revelers, and Faraday refocuses on Vasquez at the bar.
(He doesn't realize it, but he's frowning a little sourly.)
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Date: 2017-12-11 03:04 am (UTC)Faraday looks upset, though why, Vasquez has no idea. "I see your girl came back to see you," is his annoyed comment, gesturing to the red mark on Faraday's cheek, settling in a chair where he can sprawl, facing the door (and as a consequence, the barkeep, who he tosses a smirk and a wink as he lifts the whiskey bottle in thanks before pouring glasses for the both of them).
"This should be better than the last bottle you got," he says, tapping Faraday's glass against his own before setting it down in front of him. Henrietta is not the only one who can grease up someone with pretty smiles and loose touches.
When he wants to be, Vasquez can be plenty charming. It's just that travelling with Faraday, he had no use, because the other man never seemed to mind when he threw him an insult. In fact, he seemed to even like it, so Vasquez just never stopped, peppering in the sneaky affections that he can.
"Don't even think about bringing her back to the room, guapo," he says, for the second time in as many moments, but apparently, that's not such a good thing, because the barkeep is serving some of the tables and hears, drifting by to give them a searching look, very clearly drawn by the nickname.
"Is everything fine?"
"Everything is perfect," Vasquez guarantees with a charming grin, squeezing his forearm gently enough to assure, but firm enough to tell him that he shouldn't ask any more and should return to the bar.
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Date: 2017-12-11 09:45 am (UTC)"I was gonna introduce you two," Faraday says, words sliding out of the side of his mouth as he frowns. "Doubt I'll bother, if you're gonna seem so surly about it."
It doesn't slip his notice, the way Vasquez's attentions keep returning to the bartender, and Faraday feels that bitter twist in his gut again for it – an emotion he can hardly identify, except for how little he likes it.
When Vasquez pours out the glasses, Faraday pulls his own closer toward himself, his mood darkening with each word that slips from Vasquez's lips. Another of those insulting nicknames, except Faraday sees the way the bartender perks up at it, like some dog who's heard its master shape its name. When he comes over, Faraday gives the other man a considering look, almost sizing him up, but his eyes snap to the way Vasquez squeezes the other man's arm.
That bitter curl flares to life, and Faraday glares first at the barkeep's retreating back, then to Vasquez, with that stupid smile curling his lips. When the other man is out of earshot, Faraday forces his expression to smooth out, looking down at the glass of whiskey instead of Vasquez.
"See you've made a friend."
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Date: 2017-12-11 12:42 pm (UTC)Besides, he has the barkeep to focus on, an easy distraction both because of the ease he has on the eyes, but also because he's the man responsible for their drinks and the food order he'd placed. What's strange, though, is how Faraday acts.
"I told you that I could be very charming," he says as he sips the whiskey and lets out a low laugh of delight when it is incredible. Apparently his flirtations have found their mark this time and paid off. "Let him think he is my friend until he brings me food piling the plate, whiskey as good as this," he says, feeling like a weight is pulled off his chest.
There's something else happening and while Vasquez isn't stupid, he is occasionally the kind of hopeful that is. Something is going on with Faraday. Shifting closer, he moves a hand to Faraday's bad leg, to the knee, and offers the lightest squeeze to get his attention.
"What?" he asks. "Did he act like a jackass when you were here before?" Annoyance hits him next, because if Faraday can cozy up with Henrietta, then why can't he have a civil conversation (even if it's borderline flirtatious) with someone else. "What do you care, when you have your pretty girl flitting over you?"
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Date: 2017-12-11 05:20 pm (UTC)He’s busy examining the wood grain of the table, scowling down at it like he might scare off the stains, when Vasquez squeezes his knee. He stiffens with the unexpected contact, and his gaze darts up to Vasquez.
“He was fine,” is the first reassurance that leaves his lips. He offered drinks quick enough, yesterday, and was nothing less than civil, as most bartenders are. Vasquez’s next question, though, draws a derisive snort from Faraday, and his gaze darts away again.
“Who said I cared? ‘Cause I don’t. Chat up whoever you want, it don’t matter none to me.”
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Date: 2017-12-11 05:56 pm (UTC)When the barkeep signals to him, Vasquez scrapes his chair as he stands, one hand firmly on Faraday's shoulders while he heads to the back kitchen with the barkeep so he can fetch the plates of food.
"Choose what you want," he says, to Vasquez's delight.
He pries biscuits and breads from the table, fresh and hot fried meats, and as much vegetables as he can lade down on two plates. When he steps back towards the main room, the barkeep stops him by the door and for a moment, Vasquez wonders if he needs to go for his guns. Luckily, it turns out his life is in no danger, only his virtue.
"Maybe after, you might want to take advantage of our rooms?" he offers, a pointed look sliding over him.
He could, but should he? It's not that Faraday is likely willing to give him this (and if he's honest, he's after a lot more than a quick tumble, has been deep in his own feelings for so, so long). Letting out a reluctant sound of disappointment, he thinks that his need for touch will have to continue unsatisfied. "I'm here with a friend," Vasquez says apologetically. "Maybe, if I come back on my own..." He tries to keep the promise open, because he wants his food and his drink.
"Maybe," the barkeep agrees. "I'm Josiah, by the way."
"Ale," he offers, knowing that he's only being so kind to get something, but it feels good to talk to someone and not expect to be hanged.
He pushes back into the dining room to settle the plates back to their table, settling into his chair to chew a biscuit thoughtfully, staring at Faraday for a long moment, wondering why he lets Faraday get under his skin so much. No, that's a lie. He knows why, but he needs to stop letting it, when he's struggling against something that's useless. "Eat your food, querido," he instructs. "Since my chatting up got us these portions."
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