Vasquez digs through his pockets to unearth a cigarette, thinking that he needs something to do to fidget with his hands and his mouth so that he has something that will prevent him from saying anything else stupid. He wishes he were a better liar, but he thinks Faraday knows him too well to let him get away with any of this.
Don't lie. He's not supposed to lie, but if he tells the truth, this is going to start going so much worse and it's already terrible. He takes solace in the cigarette, closing his eyes as he lets himself spend a few minutes enjoying it, before he has to leave.
"You don't have to say anything, just don't shoot me," is his flat response. "You give me an hour, go drink at your tables, and I'll go. I've known this day would come, eventually," he admits, because if he's going to tell the truth, he might as well embrace it completely. One day, Faraday would find out what the words mean, he'd figure out Vasquez, and that would be the end of whatever this is.
It's today, that day, and Vasquez tries not to get so disappointed with himself for being upset. He'd known that this would happen, he'd planned. It's why he's got everything he needs to set out again, back to that lonely, awful life.
"If you are going to shoot me and get the reward, do it now," he says tiredly. "And don't spend all the money on cards and whiskey, I might just haunt you if you did," he says, the dark humour tiding him through the end of this, whatever's left between them. He thinks he knows that Faraday won't shoot him, but you never know what a man is capable of after he finds out that you want him in such ways.
That request startles the hell out of him, and Faraday straightens, hand dropping away from his face.
“Why the hell would I—?”
Faraday cuts himself off, and for a second, he looks insulted, glaring at Vasquez like the man had just punched him across the face. After all this time, after everything they’d gone through together, and Vasquez honestly thinks Faraday would throw all of that aside for a quick chunk of cash? His jaw clenches again, and he rocks back more firmly against the door – a strong indicator that he’s acting as a barrier between Vasquez and a quick escape.
“I’m not gonna shoot you, you goddamn idiot,” he grits out, and Faraday can hardly believe how angered he is by the suggestion. Something dark writhes in his chest at the very thought of it – something that he might recognize as a long-buried sense of protectiveness in a better moment – but Faraday tries to ignore it. “And you don’t get to go nowhere till we talk about this.”
Except, by his own admission, Faraday hardly knows what to say, nor does he know where to start, and with that command out of the way, he realizes hasn’t a single clue where to go from there. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with it, and he licks his lips, studying Vasquez as if that might spark some sort of inspiration. He flounders for a few seconds, eyes searching the other man.
Slowly, he starts, “How long have you...” But he winces at the phrasing, realizes he doesn’t know how to end that question except with had feelings for me? And it feels too— flowery, too maudlin. Faraday has never been a sentimental man – there’s little room for it in the type of life he leads – and asking it in such a manner feels disingenuous.
So he corrects himself and asks, “How long has it been?”
He feels like squirming against the edge of the bed, his whole bearing uncomfortable because he doesn't want to talk about any of this. He wants to run away. It's always been his greatest instinct when it comes to things he doesn't want to talk about, but Faraday isn't letting him because he's right in the middle of him and the outside world. He can't go anywhere, the thought making him a little dizzy as the blood drains from his brain.
"It was a joke," is his hollow echo, because he's fairly sure that Faraday wouldn't actually shoot him. Other things, though, like violence is what he's not so sure about. Not all men would react well to being told what Vasquez has just let slip.
Well, he didn't let it slip. Some little bartender had, though if not for him, it would have been someone else. Letting the cigarette rest against his lower lip, he gestures vaguely with his other hand, like he can somehow force this to be casual. "I don't know," he admits, which is true.
He can't actually look back and put a time and a day to this. He remembers that his fondness had started even in Rose Creek before the fight, when guero had become guerito. He'd looked to spend more time with Faraday, had tried to steal as many moments as he could. Was it then? He's not sure, but he can start to see how it began to stack up after. He can remember his eagerness to put hands on Faraday to heal him, to stay close and hear his terrible stories and his worse jokes.
How long has Faraday been healing at his side? Since then, he thinks.
"Months," is his hoarse reply, breathing in his exhaled smoke ring and capturing it back. Shrugging again, like he can continue to make this casual and not important. "Faraday," he's half ready to plead, ready to bargain. "I'll stop with the names, it can go back to how it was before. You won't notice a difference," he vows, because as much as it will ache and hurt, he can go back to treating Faraday as nothing more than a friend and turn every querido into a pendejo.
Maybe after all this, he's going to end up revisiting Josiah after all and not just for the drink he so desperately needs, depending on how well he thinks that could mend his broken edges.
“Months?” and Faraday echoes it back faintly, dazedly, and—
Months, which is a vague answer, but it still puts them right back to Rose Creek, when Faraday being an awful patient and snapping at anyone who came too close like cornered feral animal. No one could stand it for very long, least of all Faraday, but somehow, Vasquez endured it. Somehow, Vasquez became a near permanent fixture in Faraday’s room and sat at his side even during the darker turns of Faraday’s mood or while Faraday suffered through fevers and blinding pain. Vasquez had been an anchor through all of it, and—
Faraday never did thank Vasquez for that, did he? For the constant company, for that bullheaded insistence that he keep an eye on Faraday. Faraday never expressed how grateful he was for it, or how much he secretly enjoyed it, even as he groused and complained and protested Vasquez’s eternal fussing, his constant use of his mother tongue, and his awful jokes at Faraday’s expense.
His stomach twists, and his chest tightens a little, punching the air out of him. He watches Vasquez try to slip into that air of nonchalance, tries to pretend this is nothing, and it sparks something ugly and mean in Faraday. He scowls.
“Shut up,” he growls.
He scrubs at his face again, pushing away from the door at last, but this time it’s to pace the space in front of it as an outlet for that nervous energy building up within him. It’s a few passes in front of the door before he finally halts, facing Vasquez again.
“Were you ever gonna say?” he asks sharply, annoyance and anger to mask the confusion and the uncertainty knotting in his gut. He waves in the vague direction of the tavern across the way. “Or were you just gonna wait till I found out secondhand from some poor, random bastard, unlucky enough to get caught up in the crossfire?”
"Months," Vasquez confirms, because the truth is that it has been months where he'd started to process everything that he'd been feeling, watching as it distilled into crystallized feelings where he understood that yes, he wanted Faraday in so many ways. When Faraday snaps at him, his back straightens, shocked by the tone and the emphasis behind it.
The worst of all of this happens when Faraday asks what he does. He's promised not to lie, but if that's the case, then he's not sure that he can say anything but this: "No, I was never going to tell you," he says, with so much clarity of how bad an idea that was going to be.
He'd tried poking and prodding at Faraday to see if there was interest in return, but he'd always stopped short. He never flirted back really, never showed any special attention, and while he treated Vasquez as a friend, it had only been that. With that in mind, he knew now to make any declarations, lest he get his head shot off.
Or snapped at and stomped around, seeing as that's what's happening. "I thought maybe that when you did find out from someone, you wouldn't find out about the other things," he mumbles, putting out his cigarette when the fidgeting is only distracting him.
That he would only find out about the nicknames, not Vasquez's feelings. Dios, his stomach twists to see the way Faraday looks so furious, all because of Vasquez being an idiot. "In truth, no. No, if I could have my way, I would have let that secret tide me to the grave to preserve our friendship." That's what matters the most, after all.
In a surprising show of patience, Faraday waits for Vasquez to share his piece, though he goes right back to pacing like a caged animal. The heels of his boots clunk dully against the wooden slats, filling the silence between Vasquez’s words. He scowls briefly, once Vasquez admits that he would have gladly kept his trap shut about all this. Faraday knew Vasquez slipped into his native tongue to annoy Faraday, to say things so he wouldn’t understand, of course, but he had always figured it was because Vasquez was being an asshole, not because he was hiding something as big as all this.
It's the mention of their friendship that finally halts Faraday’s pacing, that finally makes him stop and think, and his anger gutters and dims – though it doesn’t entirely fade. He falls quiet, still as a statue as his mind races.
He supposes he can’t blame the other man, all things considered. The two of them were lonely – though Faraday would never admit as much aloud – and they found unlikely company in one another. And who would have thought with the way they met, the two of them would become friendly with one another, much less friends? But— that’s what they are now, and even if Faraday had always figured it would end one day, either because Vasquez got sick of the company or because Faraday did or said something particularly senseless to drive the other man off, he hadn’t figured it would end because of something like this.
That something twists in his chest again, something he partially recognizes as panic, but there’s a note of something else, there, too. Something sweet and warm and fluttery, and he can’t put a name to it.
Faraday is confused and angry, and he’s startled to realize it’s not because of this, not because of— whatever feelings Vasquez may have for him (and Faraday would be the first to tell the other man that those feelings aree frankly ill-advised, that he was better off with someone, anyone, else). He’s angry because Vasquez would keep him in the dark for this long, would never say, and it’s the shock of it all that’s left him in this state.
“I’m mad that you lied to me, you dumb bastard,” he finally grits out – which was rich, coming from Faraday, who dealt in half-truths and tall-tales most hours of the day. Faraday shakes his head sharply, before giving Vasquez a flat, unimpressed look.
“You been callin’ me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darlin’’ and ‘dear,’ and you honestly thought I wouldn’t put it all together? How stupid do you think I am?”
Every time Faraday gets a decent distance from the door, Vasquez judges it like he's going to try and make an escape attempt. He could always decide to burst through the window and run, but he thinks that would call attention to himself in ways he's trying to avoid. Not to mention, he's an idiot willing to sit here and listen to Faraday be mad at him, maybe because he knows it's his due.
He's the one who's made this bed, now he has to lie in it. "I didn't lie to you," he snaps, leveraging himself onto his feet. Not for the first time, he wishes he were taller than Faraday by more than a few inches, because he wants to loom and intimidate, but Faraday is nearly of a height. Yanking at his hat and shoving it on the table, he gives him a disbelieving look. "Not telling you is not lying," he snaps.
He doesn't make a crack about how stupid he thinks Faraday can be sometimes, because they're not joking anymore.
"What the fuck do you want me to say? No, I didn't think you'd put it all together because I'm better at hiding it," he says, irritated that he's started to slip and get too comfortable. He's already thinking about all the things that will slip away from him, how he won't be able to help with Faraday's leg anymore, how sleeping at night will grow awkward, and he feels his stomach churning as he realizes that it is for the best that they part ways. "Don't call me dumb," he hisses at him. "How many women do you call sweetheart and darling," he challenges. "Hmm? I know you do, I've heard it. Unless you mean something when you use it? So why should my words be different?"
He's acting like they aren't, but he's heatedly arguing now, because he wants to believe that the truth could've come out without ruining everything the way it has.
“You sure as hell haven’t been tellin’ me the truth!” Faraday snaps back, heedless of the way his voice rises. He refuses to be cowed once Vasquez gets to his feet – in fact, Faraday draws himself to his full height, expression nearly thunderous with his irritation. “You’ve been sidesteppin’ me, changin’ the subject, tellin’ me all that shit don’t matter when it obviously does.”
If it didn’t, then they wouldn’t be having this argument. If it didn’t, then Vasquez would be laughing at how completely gullible Faraday is, would be teasing and joking about how Faraday is jumping to wild conclusions instead of arguing right back.
When Vasquez tries to turn the tables on him, Faraday scowls. “You damn well know that’s different.”
Because as Vasquez is suggesting, that’s all meaningless, empty flirtation, things that slipped easily from Faraday’s lips with hardly a thought. They were practically part of his regular vocabulary. Vasquez, on the other hand, didn’t call anyone else by those names back at Rose Creek – at least, never that Faraday heard. In fact, Faraday had always been the focal point of those foreign nicknames. Guero, first, then guerito, and initially, Faraday had taken offense to the treatment – up until he recognized a note of fondness in Vasquez’s voice whenever he cast them out.
It was an easier pill to swallow after that, thanks to the way something curled in Faraday’s chest for it, warm and sweet.
Maybe back at the saloon, immediately after Josiah had translated those words, Faraday could have been led to believe that Vasquez had intended the same as Faraday would have, if he were using the endearments. If Vasquez had come out of the kitchen with that easy smile of his, that little chuckle and a good-natured insult, he could have convinced Faraday that he meant nothing by the nicknames.
But in Faraday’s experience, Vasquez has never been able to bluff worth a damn.
Instead, Vasquez had reacted like a man being led to the gallows. Guilty and heavy and full of regret. He had followed Faraday back to the inn, shamefaced and mortified, offering to leave, and—
Faraday had been too insulted by Vasquez implying he might shoot the other man for all of this, too busy covering his confusion with anger. Otherwise, he might have recognized the dread that had plummeted in his gut like a heavy stone at the thought of Vasquez leaving him behind.
Vasquez wishes that Faraday weren't being so right when it comes to this argument. True, he hadn't been lying, but he definitely had been holding back the truth because of what it would do to them. Even now, he hates that the truth came out because it means that everything that had been going so well has to change.
It does matter to him and it matters so incredibly much. That's the worst part of this. Somewhere along the line, Faraday became the most important thing in Vasquez's life, someone that he feels responsible for in a way that it doesn't scare him to have him like that.
It only scares him now to know he's about to lose it.
"Fine, it's different," he agrees, bitterly. "I'm saying that you could have found out the words without finding out the rest." It feels like he's been cut open and all of his secrets are spilling out in front of him, making him feel aching and awful. Maybe this is why he hasn't allowed himself to get close to anyone before, because when it all comes to an end, it's worse than being shot.
He can't even bring himself to call Faraday guero now, when it had been so easy to do before. "Cógeme," he breathes out, exhausted and aching. "I need a drink." He rubs a hand over his face, giving Faraday a tired look when he pulls it away. "I won't apologize," he says stubbornly. "I can't stop it, but I'll put space between us. I think maybe it's impossible now to go back to what was before." It will definitely hurt more to have to pretend and Faraday isn't so keen on the lying and the pretending.
"What does it matter that it matters?" he demands, but most of the anger has bled out of him, replaced by hollow certainty. "I know you, Faraday," he says, more of an accusation than it could be. "I know what life you like. Your red lipstick cheeks, your perfumed Henrietta, your Ethel," he lists. "That's what matters to you, so what I want, what I think or feel, it means that this..." He gestures between them, to signify their friendship, their partnership, whatever they want to call it. "It can't be any more. I can't do it," he admits, and maybe that's the most honest he's been so far.
It's not just about the awkwardness between them.
Vasquez has to confront the fact that he also can't keep watching Faraday go about the flirting and what he likes without it driving him crazy.
The accusation makes him freeze, and he looks up at Vasquez. That uncertainty writhing like an ugly, wounded creature in his chest, and it stands naked on his face.
He enjoys his women, sure; enjoys soft hands and softer lips. Living the life he leads means he’s often left starved for a kind, gentle touch – especially because, more often than not, the physical contact he tends to otherwise attract are fists to the face or the gut. But that ache hasn’t been so sharp, these days; he hasn’t longed for that kind of attention in a long while, hasn’t felt that particular ache since they left Rose Creek, when before, it would hit him like a physical blow.
It matters – of course it matters &dnash; but Faraday can hardly say why. Maybe it’s because he hates being left in the dark, or maybe it’s because he hates the idea of being lied to for all this time. It’s like playing without a full deck, like playing blind.
Or maybe it’s because it rouses something warm and sweet and frantic in him, and he doesn’t have a name for it, hardly knows what it means. And the lack of knowing makes him nervous.
That almost broken quality of Vasquez’s voice makes something bitter churn in Faraday’s gut, and Faraday swallows thickly, licking his lips.
“What’s that mean?” he asks sharply, dread clawing at the back of his sternum. “What are you sayin’? You’re not— you’re not plannin’ on goin’, are you?”
He hates to even think it, but Vasquez doesn't see how this works otherwise. It's uncomfortable for Faraday because now he knows how Vasquez has been lying. It's terrible for Vasquez because he'll stay jealous and now he won't even get his pet names and his touches. It's a miserable life he's seeing in his future, but it's the one that's safest for all of them.
"Maybe I'll go back, find Sam so I don't have to go back into hiding," he admits dully, because he can't do that either, not now that traveling with Faraday has given him a taste of what freedom on the road's been like.
Maybe he can develop another personality, another face, stay in a small town and create a new identity. Then again, didn't Powder Dan try and do exactly this? It would only work for so long, so Sam is the best bet, if he'd take him on.
"I can't stay, Faraday," he says, shaking his head at the whole idea. He hasn't used an endearment since this fight broke out and it feels like they're clawing to get out, but he needs to learn now, more than ever, to stop saying them. He won't get to again. "I'm too jealous. You're very uncomfortable. It's no good."
He wants to step forward, clasp Faraday by the shoulder and tell him that he's sorry that he fucked it all up. He is, but only for that. It's hard to believe that only a few hours ago, he'd been so happy to ride into town and have a nice comfortable bed and --
Vasquez glances over his shoulder to the bed, flashing Faraday a tired smile. "Take the room, it's yours," he says, returning to pick up his hat and set it back on his head, hooking his holsters back onto his hips before heading to the door. His things are still in the saddlebag that he hoists up off the floor slowly, gripping the strap in his unsteady fingers (hidden by how tightly he holds it). "If I can't find Sam, I'll go back to Rose Creek."
He nods, thinking that he's got a plan and it involves running away. No surprises there, but at least it's better than facing the mess that he's caused, letting himself let someone in the way he did.
Faraday stares stupidly as Vasquez moves around the room, as he speaks, as he formulates a plan of attack, and—
For the second time today, Faraday feels like the ground has opened up beneath him, like he’s falling and falling and falling, with no end in sight, and—
He has no idea what to do.
He’s only half-listening to Vasquez’s words, the majority of them drowned out by the way his pulse pounds in his ears, roaring and echoing, but he catches the gist of it. Vasquez is leaving. Vasquez is leaving, and Faraday knew this day would come eventually, but not now. It feels like they’ve only just set out together; Faraday expected them to part ways some weeks or months down the line, but not this soon.
Once Vasquez lifts up his saddlebags, Faraday snaps back to himself, like he’s blinking awake after dozing off, and he straightens, putting his back to the door.
“No.”
The word tears itself from his throat, escapes on a barely voiced rasp; he hardly realizes he’s said it until its fallen from his lips, but— well, he sure as hell isn’t taking it back.
(But what he really wants to say is Don’t go.)
“Hell, Vasquez. It’s been all of ten minutes of—” And he falters for the right word, the right phrasing. “—of me... knowing. We haven’t even tried.”
When Faraday backs into the door and blocks his way out, panic and a haze of impulse floods him for the briefest of seconds when he thinks about stupid things like trying to wrestle him away from it, knocking him unconscious, and all other kinds of stupid ideas. Luckily, it clears quickly enough, even if his gut is twisting up, wrenched by the bad idea of all of this.
"What, I get no say in this?" he snaps at him, irritably, as he narrows his eyes at Faraday, wondering why he's not allowed to do what he wants (even though this isn't what he wants, but it will be the best in the long run).
Disbelief is dominant on his face as he scoffs. "I don't want to sit around a campfire miserably waiting while you flirt with the women in towns I can't go into, some pathetic idiota enamorado and eventually left when you find something better because now you don't want to come back."
It had been so much better when Faraday had been in the dark and none of this was a problem for them.
"You're not going to let me help with your pain," he points out. "Because now you'll see my hands on you differently. Every time I tease you now, you're saying you don't flinch, won't look away?" He shakes his head, having convinced himself of the certainty of this future in his mind. "Tried what? Tried that? You didn't even want to talk about the dream I had last night, now you're going to be okay knowing all this? Having it in your face? No eres tan estúpido, you know that won't work."
Something sinks in his gut again, because Vasquez has something of a point. This— thing between them is going to color their interactions, their conversations. And he has a point, that the dream Vasquez had had last night had been awkward as hell, had made something tangle in Faraday’s chest, uncertain of how to proceed, but—
“That— that was different,” he insists again, and he feels color rising up his neck, coloring his cheeks, as he stumbles over his words. “That was— I thought you were— I didn’t think—”
He had assumed – wrongly, apparently – that Vasquez would have appreciated Faraday saving him the embarrassment of having to explain himself, would have appreciated Faraday’s rare instance of discretion. Dreams were hardly indicators of reality, anyway. Just because a man dreamed he had the head of a horse didn’t mean that’s what he wanted, and Faraday had imagined it was the same sort of situation, here.
He shakes his head sharply, frustrated and redirecting his focus.
“Stop doing that,” he snaps, once Vasquez slips into his native tongue again. “Talk so I can understand it, damn it.”
A silly thing to focus on, but far easier than the wild, snapping creature whose shadow has fallen over them.
Faraday still isn't moving away and he's stammering so much that Vasquez knows that he's right. He's also getting to the point of embarrassment and frustration that he's rounding up on being an asshole of big proportions, stepping a little further so that he's in Faraday's space, gearing up for a fight.
"You didn't think, not a surprise," he tells him, sneering. "You want for me to speak English? Fine," he snaps, even though the Spanish had been because in his heightened state of emotion, Spanish is just easier for him to fall back on, but if Faraday wants all of the truth, then he can have it all.
Let him flush and stammer and feel awkward around him, if he's going to demand it, then Vasquez is happy to keep going down this awful, endless track. "I said that I don't want to sit around like a lovesick idiot while you flirt with your women," he says, pushing at Faraday's shoulder to push him against the door, wanting to get out of this room. "That you're not so stupid to think that everything can go on the same." Another push and he cocks his head to the side, challenging. "That you'll sit there and let your leg lock up, stop joking with me, that's what should be your future?"
He wants to push and push, make Faraday snap and see the point -- this can't work and the sooner they both understand it, the sooner they can deal with the separation, the sooner Vasquez can go lick his wounds and mend his heart.
"Let me out," he says, low and sharp. "I want out of this fucking room," he says, breathing out the profanity like he's exhausted. "I need a drink."
Each word that passes through Vasquez’s lips feels like a blow, like the sharp, ripping lash of a whip. Even back at Rose Creek, when the two of them were circling one another like wary, starved dogs, Vasquez had never spoken to him like this.
It hurts, in a way, even if it’s hardly the harshest thing anyone has ever said to him. But as with most things, it just serves to stoke Faraday’s ire, making his expression darken and darken until his jaw clenches so tightly he thinks his teeth might shatter with it. He bears each of Vasquez’s shoves with surprising composure, even if his fingers reflexively twitch for the reassuring weight of his revolvers – but they’re just talking. Just talking. And even with as angry as the two of them are, snapping and snarling, Faraday isn’t about to go for his guns.
They’re friends, after all.
Or... were friends, and the thought is yet another blow to the gut.
He takes breath after steadying breath, trying to swallow down the anger rising up his throat like bile.
“If I let you out,” he says slowly, with a patience he hardly feels but seems able to mimic a little effectively. “I don’t trust that you’re not gonna run off.”
And it hangs silently in the air between them, the words he doesn’t speak: I don’t want you to go.
Selfish of him, he knows, but Faraday has always been a selfish bastard.
He needs to keep swinging, keep pushing, twisting the knife until Faraday sees the blood and decides that it's a lost cause, no matter how much it tears him apart to do this. He keeps staying right where he is, he doesn't even push back when Vasquez pushes at him. That had been his first hope for escape, thinking maybe if he could bait Faraday into a fistfight, he could scramble his way out.
Then, instead of arguing back or shouting, he just speaks calmly and patiently. Gaping at him with disbelief, Vasquez wonders what the hell has changed to make him so mature and calm.
Without meaning to, he sags a little in the shoulders, not taking his eyes off Faraday. "I'm not going to go," he vows, even if Faraday won't believe him. "I'm just going to go back to the saloon and drink until I pass out." He can't just go, not yet, he just doesn't want to be stuck in this room.
Now that the anger has ebbed slightly, Vasquez sees how close he is to Faraday, how intimately close. Stepping back, he swallows back other words, ones that are cruel and aimed to hurt.
"Why do you care so much that I stay?" he asks, because maybe that's the answer he really needs, before he can make a decision about what happens next.
Faraday is just a far better bluffer than Vasquez is.
Deep down, something thrashes and snaps inside him, dark and confused and afraid, panicking at the thought of Vasquez leaving him behind, at the idea that Faraday has fucked this up, somehow. That he’s ruined this, because that’s what he does. He’s been on his own for this long for a reason. Folks get sick of him. Get tired of him. Lose patience with him. He had hoped he’d have longer with Vasquez, at least. Hoped that with as similar as they were, they’d have something of an understanding. Only— they have a larger problem falling between them, and he has no idea how to handle it, how to fix it.
He hardly looks convinced by Vasquez’s promise, even if it sounds sincere, because— because maybe Vasquez won’t leave, but he’ll be back in that damned saloon, back with handsome, charming Josiah, and that son of a bitch of a barkeep will sense that bit of vulnerability and swoop in, and—
And why does he care? He shouldn’t give a shit, right? If Vasquez wanted to enjoy someone else’s company for the evening after all this mess, Faraday should let him, shouldn’t he? “Why not indulge?” he had asked just a handful of minutes ago, even if something that soured in him with the asking.
And that ugly thing writhes in him again, twists at his gut, claws the inside of his ribs. He doesn’t want to think about Vasquez with anyone else. Not with Josiah and his perfect Spanish, or Henrietta, with her dark eyes and confident smile. He doesn’t want Vasquez to fall into anyone else’s bed, because—
And when Vasquez poses that question to him, Faraday visibly flounders until the answer strikes him like a bolt of lightning. He goes rigid with it, eyes widening.
—Because he wants Vasquez.
It clicks into place so suddenly, so abruptly, that he forgets how to breathe for a long moment. And suddenly everything makes sense, just as much as it all feels equally confusing, still.
“I...” It’s strangled, choked out, a million words stopping up his throat, color rising in his cheeks, at the tips of his ears. He brings up a hand to scrub at his brow, eyes darting down to the floor. “I...”
Maybe in a different moment, it would be hilarious to see the silver-tongued Joshua Faraday at a complete loss for words.
He's never seen Faraday speechless before. That, more than anything, throws Vasquez from his rhythm and he falters completely. Not only does he forget everything that he's been saying, not only does he forget his intense need for a drink, but he forgets that he's supposed to be casual and not familiar. "Guero," he says worriedly, the first nickname he's used since this whole thing began. "What is it? Are you having a heart attack?"
It may seem like a stupid question, but in his defense, he's never seen Faraday look this way. He looks flushed and he can't speak, somewhat stunned. He's not sure what else it could be.
Reaching out for his shoulder, he pulls him away from the door, but he makes no move to escape it. Instead, it's become clear that all his biting words have been to gloss over the true issue that he wants to make this break easier, but in the face of something wrong with Faraday, it washes away like footprints against the ocean. Pulling him to sit on the bed, Vasquez rummages through his bag and curses when his flask is empty.
"Wait here, si, I'm not leaving," he swears, even if he does leave the room. He's back in two minutes with a glass of water, though, setting it at Faraday's elbow as he crouches in front of him, trying to look for signs of slowness in the features, a stroke or a heart attack or something else that could make this man shut up.
It would have to be heaven sent, he thinks, because it's an impossible task.
Peering up at his face, he doesn't know what Faraday intended to say, but it's been made clear that so long as Faraday is hurting or in trouble, he's not going anywhere. He wishes he were selfish, still, that he could go back to before Rose Creek where the only person he cared about was himself.
That's no more, though. It's too late to go back.
"Drink," he coaxes. "Do I need to get the doctor?"
Faraday nearly barks out a laugh at Vasquez’s question, but he’s still reeling still completely blindsided by the realization. And how stupid can he truly be to not see it until this very moment?
Pretty damn stupid, he thinks. Maybe Vasquez has the right of it, after all.
But it’s something of a relief that Vasquez’s tone has shifted away from that biting, angry sharpness, and if Faraday has to suffer through his usual overblown worry for it, Faraday figures it’s a fair enough exchange. He goes where he’s led, slumping on the edge of the bed and rubbing at his brow. He only looks up when he hears Vasquez get to his feet, when he speaks, and even with the reassurance, Faraday still sits bolt upright.
“Wait, hold on—”
But Vasquez is already gone.
He’s back soon enough, though, and when Vasquez holds out the glass of water, Faraday gulps it down without complaint, gaze darting away once Vasquez crouches in front of him. The mention of a doctor makes Faraday scowl – he’s had enough of doctors tutting over him to last him a lifetime – and he sharply shakes his head.
“I’m fine,” he grunts out, finishing off the rest of his glass and setting it aside on a nightstand. He scrubs his face before risking a glance at Vasquez.
Hell, the bastard looks so worried, so earnestly concerned, and when the hell has anyone looked at Faraday with anything less than strained amusement or outright frustration or anger? When has anyone given enough of a shit to make sure he was well, darting off to grab glasses of water, ducking against him to take his weight when his leg gave out? Shit, it makes something warm twist in his chest, steals his breath away, and as obnoxious as he usually found it, gratitude still punched him in the gut, sudden and startling.
“I just...”
Faraday trails off, uncertain of where he was going with that. He swallows thickly, licking his lips.
He’s already falling, he figures. Falling and reeling and spinning, and his stomach leaps up to his throat for it. Faraday had been so careful, earlier this morning, to avoid wrinkling Vasquez’s clothes when he had gone to such trouble to gussy himself up, but—
Apparently Faraday no longer cares, because he grabs two fistfuls of Vasquez’s sleeves, his grip so tight that he’s sure to leave deep wrinkles in the material. He hauls the other man up half the way and leans down to close the rest of the distance in a clumsy, awkward kiss.
In Faraday’s defense, he’s never kissed a man before. In fact, he’s never had an interest in it until Vasquez.
He's watching Faraday carefully, like he might somehow give away some hint or indication about what's happened to him. Speechless is not something that has happened on the road between them, so it must be intensely serious for it to happen now. He watches the glass go to the nightstand, eyeing Faraday warily because 'I'm fine' has been said so many times, only does he ever believe it?
For the most part, it's always been an outright lie, if Vasquez is honest, because when Faraday says he's fine, it's always a mask to hide the fact that he's not. Either his leg is bad or he's trying to pretend that something isn't so bad.
What he would never in a thousand years expect by 'I'm fine' is what happens next. For a second, Vasquez actually thinks that he's gone and hit his head when he'd been getting the water. Maybe he's gone into some kind of concussion dream and he's stupidly dreaming of something he's thought about so many times before.
Faraday's lips on his.
His hands on his clothes, pulling him in.
It's the shock of the moment, the sheer disbelief it could be real, that lets Vasquez work on autopilot, surging forward and cupping Faraday's cheeks as he clambers his way onto the bed, diving deep into what he'd thought were forbidden waters. It's when he turns his face a little to inhale sharply before deepening the kiss that he hears the rasp of his beard on Faraday's skin, sees his hat tumble away, and those two things knock him back to reality.
Shaking his head, he eases back, gaping at Faraday. "I..." It looks like it's his turn to be speechless, barely aware that even though he's eased back, he is still straddling Faraday, so he hasn't exactly gone too far.
"If this is some kind of pity or joke, I don't want it," he warns, because the last thing he needs is for Faraday to do this because he wants to hold something over Vasquez's head or he thinks that if this happens, then it will all be fine.
Still, for a man who's protesting this, he hasn't moved from his straddle, hasn't stopped absently stroking his thumbs up and down the line of Faraday's neck, like he's just hoping.
There’s a brief, heart-dropping second where Vasquez doesn’t move, doesn’t react, and Faraday realizes what a giant goddamn mistake he’s made. His grip loosens slightly on Vasquez’s sleeves, and apologies start piling and piling on the tip of his tongue, ready to toss out in rapidfire succession.
Unnecessary, it turns out, as something seems to spur Vasquez forward, as he climbs into Faraday’s lap, a calloused hand curling over the line of Faraday’s jaw. His own hat falls away, tumbles somewhere to the floor, where it’s sure to lie forgotten for a little while yet. The kiss is fierce and bruising, a little too sharp, a little too much teeth – and later, Faraday will chalk it up to inexperience. To desperation and nerves and a frantic sense of want that had struck him like a shot to the gut.
Faraday’s always been an impulsive son of a bitch. It’s why he rode out when Sam taunted him with an impossible job. It’s why he stuck around when the odds were stacked entirely against them. It’s why he charged the Gatling gun, with little more than his mulish determination and a handful of prayers.
For once, though, it seems his impulsiveness has paid off, and when Vasquez backs off, Faraday is still gripping his sleeves, breathless and dazed. He licks his lips, head tilting back slightly as Vasquez brushes a line, up and down, up and down. (It really has no right feeling as nice as it does, he thinks, but it does.)
He snorts out a quick laugh, something obviously distracted and distant, but he flashes Vasquez one of his customary smirks. “You oughta know by now that I don’t do nothing unless I want to.”
It all seems so suspiciously good, if Vasquez ignores so much else, but his mind is running like crazy and he's gaping at Faraday where he's lying and Vasquez is breathing hard, and he has no idea what to do other than keep touching him because he's not being shoved away.
The clumsiness and the badness of the kiss faintly registers for him, a mental note being made that he's going to have to make that better, but no, no, this is the point.
"You like women," he says. "I've only seen you like women, I even flirted with you and you never did anything back," he protests, the confusion clear on his face and in his tone. He's gaping at Faraday, unsure what's changed to make this happen, but his heart is leaping in his chest as he starts to think about things like how he doesn't have to leave, the fact that they can keep travelling together, that he can keep touching Faraday.
Maybe. He has to understand why they went from demands about Vasquez keeping secrets to this.
"I need to know you're not doing this just to keep me around," he says sharply. "Because if it's so that I won't leave and not because you don't want it..." He trails off, not bluntly saying he doesn't want it then either, because maybe a part of him wouldn't entirely mind? Maybe he needs more self-respect, is what he's realizing.
Fuck, Faraday looks good down there with his dazed look, his lips wet, and that languid line to him. It's going to become a problem in his trousers soon enough, but he can't convince himself to get up.
He comes back to himself as Vasquez speaks, as he lays down truth after little bit of truth. And Faraday—
Well, shamefully, his cheeks color with it again, embarrassed to have it laid out before him like that. Hell, Vasquez is really going to make him try and explain himself, isn’t he? And Faraday hardly knows what he’s doing, what he’s feeling, because emotions and sentiment are complicated topics. He swallows thickly, gaze darting away. Holding Vasquez’s gaze while he tries to sort through this aloud is practically impossible. Bad enough the man has his weight against him, pinning him more or less in place. And maybe in a different moment, he’d feel trapped by it, but not now.
“I don’t...” he tries, voice hoarse with hesitance, but that’s a false start. He licks his lips, tries again, “I’ve never...”
Jesus goddamn wept. He can feel his face heating, and after he takes a deep, rallying breath, he forces the words out in a rush:
“I’ve never been with a man.”
It hardly seems like an explanation, admittedly, but after another breath to compose himself, Faraday continues on; he traces the woodgrain of the floorboards with his eyes.
“I didn’t... when you— flirted, I didn’t think... I thought it was— I thought it was a joke.” Which was more or less in line with their usual modes of conversation, half-truths and mischievous smirks. At any given moment, half of what either of them said was probably bullshit. “I hadn’t considered it a possibility.
“And I do like women,” and this comes out almost a little defensively, like Vasquez might accuse him of lying, but he backs away from that tone quickly enough. He lets out a shuddering breath, head bowing further. Then, slowly, hesitantly, “But I... I think I... For a little while, now, I think I’ve—”
He trails off, frustrated with his inability to say it outright, and he huffs out a sharp sigh. His cheeks feel like they’re burning when he finally grunts out, “You’re not so bad.”
By which he means, I think I like you, too, but apparently too much honesty makes Faraday want to vomit.
That look in Faraday's cheeks is entirely too flushed and too good for him, given that he's having troubles with keeping his own desires under wraps,
"I've been with enough men to know what to do," is his low response, his voice hoarse with desire. There's a dark look in his eyes because Faraday looks ridiculously good right now. He keeps stroking his fingers over the warmth of Faraday's neck, wanting to lean down and kiss him again, but he has to be patient.
When Faraday says 'you're not so bad', he laughs. It's a low and loud and wonderful thing and he's lighter than he has been in ages to feel it. "Querido," he murmurs, happy to finally get to say that again and mean it, and to also have Faraday understand it. "You're pretty awful," he says bluntly. "You drink and smoke and gamble and swear and snore," he says (even if that last is a lie, seeing as it's Vasquez who does the snoring).
Still, even as he's saying all this, he's closing the space between them, a determined glint in his eye.
"And you don't know how to kiss," is his last accusation, living for what that might provoke out of Faraday, now that he's only inches away from him and those flush cheeks of his.
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2018-01-03 11:01 pm (UTC)Don't lie. He's not supposed to lie, but if he tells the truth, this is going to start going so much worse and it's already terrible. He takes solace in the cigarette, closing his eyes as he lets himself spend a few minutes enjoying it, before he has to leave.
"You don't have to say anything, just don't shoot me," is his flat response. "You give me an hour, go drink at your tables, and I'll go. I've known this day would come, eventually," he admits, because if he's going to tell the truth, he might as well embrace it completely. One day, Faraday would find out what the words mean, he'd figure out Vasquez, and that would be the end of whatever this is.
It's today, that day, and Vasquez tries not to get so disappointed with himself for being upset. He'd known that this would happen, he'd planned. It's why he's got everything he needs to set out again, back to that lonely, awful life.
"If you are going to shoot me and get the reward, do it now," he says tiredly. "And don't spend all the money on cards and whiskey, I might just haunt you if you did," he says, the dark humour tiding him through the end of this, whatever's left between them. He thinks he knows that Faraday won't shoot him, but you never know what a man is capable of after he finds out that you want him in such ways.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-04 09:19 pm (UTC)“Why the hell would I—?”
Faraday cuts himself off, and for a second, he looks insulted, glaring at Vasquez like the man had just punched him across the face. After all this time, after everything they’d gone through together, and Vasquez honestly thinks Faraday would throw all of that aside for a quick chunk of cash? His jaw clenches again, and he rocks back more firmly against the door – a strong indicator that he’s acting as a barrier between Vasquez and a quick escape.
“I’m not gonna shoot you, you goddamn idiot,” he grits out, and Faraday can hardly believe how angered he is by the suggestion. Something dark writhes in his chest at the very thought of it – something that he might recognize as a long-buried sense of protectiveness in a better moment – but Faraday tries to ignore it. “And you don’t get to go nowhere till we talk about this.”
Except, by his own admission, Faraday hardly knows what to say, nor does he know where to start, and with that command out of the way, he realizes hasn’t a single clue where to go from there. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with it, and he licks his lips, studying Vasquez as if that might spark some sort of inspiration. He flounders for a few seconds, eyes searching the other man.
Slowly, he starts, “How long have you...” But he winces at the phrasing, realizes he doesn’t know how to end that question except with had feelings for me? And it feels too— flowery, too maudlin. Faraday has never been a sentimental man – there’s little room for it in the type of life he leads – and asking it in such a manner feels disingenuous.
So he corrects himself and asks, “How long has it been?”
no subject
Date: 2018-01-04 10:20 pm (UTC)"It was a joke," is his hollow echo, because he's fairly sure that Faraday wouldn't actually shoot him. Other things, though, like violence is what he's not so sure about. Not all men would react well to being told what Vasquez has just let slip.
Well, he didn't let it slip. Some little bartender had, though if not for him, it would have been someone else. Letting the cigarette rest against his lower lip, he gestures vaguely with his other hand, like he can somehow force this to be casual. "I don't know," he admits, which is true.
He can't actually look back and put a time and a day to this. He remembers that his fondness had started even in Rose Creek before the fight, when guero had become guerito. He'd looked to spend more time with Faraday, had tried to steal as many moments as he could. Was it then? He's not sure, but he can start to see how it began to stack up after. He can remember his eagerness to put hands on Faraday to heal him, to stay close and hear his terrible stories and his worse jokes.
How long has Faraday been healing at his side? Since then, he thinks.
"Months," is his hoarse reply, breathing in his exhaled smoke ring and capturing it back. Shrugging again, like he can continue to make this casual and not important. "Faraday," he's half ready to plead, ready to bargain. "I'll stop with the names, it can go back to how it was before. You won't notice a difference," he vows, because as much as it will ache and hurt, he can go back to treating Faraday as nothing more than a friend and turn every querido into a pendejo.
Maybe after all this, he's going to end up revisiting Josiah after all and not just for the drink he so desperately needs, depending on how well he thinks that could mend his broken edges.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-04 11:35 pm (UTC)Months, which is a vague answer, but it still puts them right back to Rose Creek, when Faraday being an awful patient and snapping at anyone who came too close like cornered feral animal. No one could stand it for very long, least of all Faraday, but somehow, Vasquez endured it. Somehow, Vasquez became a near permanent fixture in Faraday’s room and sat at his side even during the darker turns of Faraday’s mood or while Faraday suffered through fevers and blinding pain. Vasquez had been an anchor through all of it, and—
Faraday never did thank Vasquez for that, did he? For the constant company, for that bullheaded insistence that he keep an eye on Faraday. Faraday never expressed how grateful he was for it, or how much he secretly enjoyed it, even as he groused and complained and protested Vasquez’s eternal fussing, his constant use of his mother tongue, and his awful jokes at Faraday’s expense.
His stomach twists, and his chest tightens a little, punching the air out of him. He watches Vasquez try to slip into that air of nonchalance, tries to pretend this is nothing, and it sparks something ugly and mean in Faraday. He scowls.
“Shut up,” he growls.
He scrubs at his face again, pushing away from the door at last, but this time it’s to pace the space in front of it as an outlet for that nervous energy building up within him. It’s a few passes in front of the door before he finally halts, facing Vasquez again.
“Were you ever gonna say?” he asks sharply, annoyance and anger to mask the confusion and the uncertainty knotting in his gut. He waves in the vague direction of the tavern across the way. “Or were you just gonna wait till I found out secondhand from some poor, random bastard, unlucky enough to get caught up in the crossfire?”
no subject
Date: 2018-01-05 12:19 am (UTC)The worst of all of this happens when Faraday asks what he does. He's promised not to lie, but if that's the case, then he's not sure that he can say anything but this: "No, I was never going to tell you," he says, with so much clarity of how bad an idea that was going to be.
He'd tried poking and prodding at Faraday to see if there was interest in return, but he'd always stopped short. He never flirted back really, never showed any special attention, and while he treated Vasquez as a friend, it had only been that. With that in mind, he knew now to make any declarations, lest he get his head shot off.
Or snapped at and stomped around, seeing as that's what's happening. "I thought maybe that when you did find out from someone, you wouldn't find out about the other things," he mumbles, putting out his cigarette when the fidgeting is only distracting him.
That he would only find out about the nicknames, not Vasquez's feelings. Dios, his stomach twists to see the way Faraday looks so furious, all because of Vasquez being an idiot. "In truth, no. No, if I could have my way, I would have let that secret tide me to the grave to preserve our friendship." That's what matters the most, after all.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-05 12:59 am (UTC)It's the mention of their friendship that finally halts Faraday’s pacing, that finally makes him stop and think, and his anger gutters and dims – though it doesn’t entirely fade. He falls quiet, still as a statue as his mind races.
He supposes he can’t blame the other man, all things considered. The two of them were lonely – though Faraday would never admit as much aloud – and they found unlikely company in one another. And who would have thought with the way they met, the two of them would become friendly with one another, much less friends? But— that’s what they are now, and even if Faraday had always figured it would end one day, either because Vasquez got sick of the company or because Faraday did or said something particularly senseless to drive the other man off, he hadn’t figured it would end because of something like this.
That something twists in his chest again, something he partially recognizes as panic, but there’s a note of something else, there, too. Something sweet and warm and fluttery, and he can’t put a name to it.
Faraday is confused and angry, and he’s startled to realize it’s not because of this, not because of— whatever feelings Vasquez may have for him (and Faraday would be the first to tell the other man that those feelings aree frankly ill-advised, that he was better off with someone, anyone, else). He’s angry because Vasquez would keep him in the dark for this long, would never say, and it’s the shock of it all that’s left him in this state.
“I’m mad that you lied to me, you dumb bastard,” he finally grits out – which was rich, coming from Faraday, who dealt in half-truths and tall-tales most hours of the day. Faraday shakes his head sharply, before giving Vasquez a flat, unimpressed look.
“You been callin’ me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darlin’’ and ‘dear,’ and you honestly thought I wouldn’t put it all together? How stupid do you think I am?”
no subject
Date: 2018-01-05 01:34 am (UTC)He's the one who's made this bed, now he has to lie in it. "I didn't lie to you," he snaps, leveraging himself onto his feet. Not for the first time, he wishes he were taller than Faraday by more than a few inches, because he wants to loom and intimidate, but Faraday is nearly of a height. Yanking at his hat and shoving it on the table, he gives him a disbelieving look. "Not telling you is not lying," he snaps.
He doesn't make a crack about how stupid he thinks Faraday can be sometimes, because they're not joking anymore.
"What the fuck do you want me to say? No, I didn't think you'd put it all together because I'm better at hiding it," he says, irritated that he's started to slip and get too comfortable. He's already thinking about all the things that will slip away from him, how he won't be able to help with Faraday's leg anymore, how sleeping at night will grow awkward, and he feels his stomach churning as he realizes that it is for the best that they part ways. "Don't call me dumb," he hisses at him. "How many women do you call sweetheart and darling," he challenges. "Hmm? I know you do, I've heard it. Unless you mean something when you use it? So why should my words be different?"
He's acting like they aren't, but he's heatedly arguing now, because he wants to believe that the truth could've come out without ruining everything the way it has.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-05 08:56 pm (UTC)If it didn’t, then they wouldn’t be having this argument. If it didn’t, then Vasquez would be laughing at how completely gullible Faraday is, would be teasing and joking about how Faraday is jumping to wild conclusions instead of arguing right back.
When Vasquez tries to turn the tables on him, Faraday scowls. “You damn well know that’s different.”
Because as Vasquez is suggesting, that’s all meaningless, empty flirtation, things that slipped easily from Faraday’s lips with hardly a thought. They were practically part of his regular vocabulary. Vasquez, on the other hand, didn’t call anyone else by those names back at Rose Creek – at least, never that Faraday heard. In fact, Faraday had always been the focal point of those foreign nicknames. Guero, first, then guerito, and initially, Faraday had taken offense to the treatment – up until he recognized a note of fondness in Vasquez’s voice whenever he cast them out.
It was an easier pill to swallow after that, thanks to the way something curled in Faraday’s chest for it, warm and sweet.
Maybe back at the saloon, immediately after Josiah had translated those words, Faraday could have been led to believe that Vasquez had intended the same as Faraday would have, if he were using the endearments. If Vasquez had come out of the kitchen with that easy smile of his, that little chuckle and a good-natured insult, he could have convinced Faraday that he meant nothing by the nicknames.
But in Faraday’s experience, Vasquez has never been able to bluff worth a damn.
Instead, Vasquez had reacted like a man being led to the gallows. Guilty and heavy and full of regret. He had followed Faraday back to the inn, shamefaced and mortified, offering to leave, and—
Faraday had been too insulted by Vasquez implying he might shoot the other man for all of this, too busy covering his confusion with anger. Otherwise, he might have recognized the dread that had plummeted in his gut like a heavy stone at the thought of Vasquez leaving him behind.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-05 09:35 pm (UTC)It does matter to him and it matters so incredibly much. That's the worst part of this. Somewhere along the line, Faraday became the most important thing in Vasquez's life, someone that he feels responsible for in a way that it doesn't scare him to have him like that.
It only scares him now to know he's about to lose it.
"Fine, it's different," he agrees, bitterly. "I'm saying that you could have found out the words without finding out the rest." It feels like he's been cut open and all of his secrets are spilling out in front of him, making him feel aching and awful. Maybe this is why he hasn't allowed himself to get close to anyone before, because when it all comes to an end, it's worse than being shot.
He can't even bring himself to call Faraday guero now, when it had been so easy to do before. "Cógeme," he breathes out, exhausted and aching. "I need a drink." He rubs a hand over his face, giving Faraday a tired look when he pulls it away. "I won't apologize," he says stubbornly. "I can't stop it, but I'll put space between us. I think maybe it's impossible now to go back to what was before." It will definitely hurt more to have to pretend and Faraday isn't so keen on the lying and the pretending.
"What does it matter that it matters?" he demands, but most of the anger has bled out of him, replaced by hollow certainty. "I know you, Faraday," he says, more of an accusation than it could be. "I know what life you like. Your red lipstick cheeks, your perfumed Henrietta, your Ethel," he lists. "That's what matters to you, so what I want, what I think or feel, it means that this..." He gestures between them, to signify their friendship, their partnership, whatever they want to call it. "It can't be any more. I can't do it," he admits, and maybe that's the most honest he's been so far.
It's not just about the awkwardness between them.
Vasquez has to confront the fact that he also can't keep watching Faraday go about the flirting and what he likes without it driving him crazy.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-06 01:08 am (UTC)He enjoys his women, sure; enjoys soft hands and softer lips. Living the life he leads means he’s often left starved for a kind, gentle touch – especially because, more often than not, the physical contact he tends to otherwise attract are fists to the face or the gut. But that ache hasn’t been so sharp, these days; he hasn’t longed for that kind of attention in a long while, hasn’t felt that particular ache since they left Rose Creek, when before, it would hit him like a physical blow.
It matters – of course it matters &dnash; but Faraday can hardly say why. Maybe it’s because he hates being left in the dark, or maybe it’s because he hates the idea of being lied to for all this time. It’s like playing without a full deck, like playing blind.
Or maybe it’s because it rouses something warm and sweet and frantic in him, and he doesn’t have a name for it, hardly knows what it means. And the lack of knowing makes him nervous.
That almost broken quality of Vasquez’s voice makes something bitter churn in Faraday’s gut, and Faraday swallows thickly, licking his lips.
“What’s that mean?” he asks sharply, dread clawing at the back of his sternum. “What are you sayin’? You’re not— you’re not plannin’ on goin’, are you?”
no subject
Date: 2018-01-06 01:45 am (UTC)"Maybe I'll go back, find Sam so I don't have to go back into hiding," he admits dully, because he can't do that either, not now that traveling with Faraday has given him a taste of what freedom on the road's been like.
Maybe he can develop another personality, another face, stay in a small town and create a new identity. Then again, didn't Powder Dan try and do exactly this? It would only work for so long, so Sam is the best bet, if he'd take him on.
"I can't stay, Faraday," he says, shaking his head at the whole idea. He hasn't used an endearment since this fight broke out and it feels like they're clawing to get out, but he needs to learn now, more than ever, to stop saying them. He won't get to again. "I'm too jealous. You're very uncomfortable. It's no good."
He wants to step forward, clasp Faraday by the shoulder and tell him that he's sorry that he fucked it all up. He is, but only for that. It's hard to believe that only a few hours ago, he'd been so happy to ride into town and have a nice comfortable bed and --
Vasquez glances over his shoulder to the bed, flashing Faraday a tired smile. "Take the room, it's yours," he says, returning to pick up his hat and set it back on his head, hooking his holsters back onto his hips before heading to the door. His things are still in the saddlebag that he hoists up off the floor slowly, gripping the strap in his unsteady fingers (hidden by how tightly he holds it). "If I can't find Sam, I'll go back to Rose Creek."
He nods, thinking that he's got a plan and it involves running away. No surprises there, but at least it's better than facing the mess that he's caused, letting himself let someone in the way he did.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-08 05:44 pm (UTC)For the second time today, Faraday feels like the ground has opened up beneath him, like he’s falling and falling and falling, with no end in sight, and—
He has no idea what to do.
He’s only half-listening to Vasquez’s words, the majority of them drowned out by the way his pulse pounds in his ears, roaring and echoing, but he catches the gist of it. Vasquez is leaving. Vasquez is leaving, and Faraday knew this day would come eventually, but not now. It feels like they’ve only just set out together; Faraday expected them to part ways some weeks or months down the line, but not this soon.
Once Vasquez lifts up his saddlebags, Faraday snaps back to himself, like he’s blinking awake after dozing off, and he straightens, putting his back to the door.
“No.”
The word tears itself from his throat, escapes on a barely voiced rasp; he hardly realizes he’s said it until its fallen from his lips, but— well, he sure as hell isn’t taking it back.
(But what he really wants to say is Don’t go.)
“Hell, Vasquez. It’s been all of ten minutes of—” And he falters for the right word, the right phrasing. “—of me... knowing. We haven’t even tried.”
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Date: 2018-01-08 06:28 pm (UTC)"What, I get no say in this?" he snaps at him, irritably, as he narrows his eyes at Faraday, wondering why he's not allowed to do what he wants (even though this isn't what he wants, but it will be the best in the long run).
Disbelief is dominant on his face as he scoffs. "I don't want to sit around a campfire miserably waiting while you flirt with the women in towns I can't go into, some pathetic idiota enamorado and eventually left when you find something better because now you don't want to come back."
It had been so much better when Faraday had been in the dark and none of this was a problem for them.
"You're not going to let me help with your pain," he points out. "Because now you'll see my hands on you differently. Every time I tease you now, you're saying you don't flinch, won't look away?" He shakes his head, having convinced himself of the certainty of this future in his mind. "Tried what? Tried that? You didn't even want to talk about the dream I had last night, now you're going to be okay knowing all this? Having it in your face? No eres tan estúpido, you know that won't work."
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Date: 2018-01-08 10:07 pm (UTC)“That— that was different,” he insists again, and he feels color rising up his neck, coloring his cheeks, as he stumbles over his words. “That was— I thought you were— I didn’t think—”
He had assumed – wrongly, apparently – that Vasquez would have appreciated Faraday saving him the embarrassment of having to explain himself, would have appreciated Faraday’s rare instance of discretion. Dreams were hardly indicators of reality, anyway. Just because a man dreamed he had the head of a horse didn’t mean that’s what he wanted, and Faraday had imagined it was the same sort of situation, here.
He shakes his head sharply, frustrated and redirecting his focus.
“Stop doing that,” he snaps, once Vasquez slips into his native tongue again. “Talk so I can understand it, damn it.”
A silly thing to focus on, but far easier than the wild, snapping creature whose shadow has fallen over them.
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Date: 2018-01-08 10:54 pm (UTC)"You didn't think, not a surprise," he tells him, sneering. "You want for me to speak English? Fine," he snaps, even though the Spanish had been because in his heightened state of emotion, Spanish is just easier for him to fall back on, but if Faraday wants all of the truth, then he can have it all.
Let him flush and stammer and feel awkward around him, if he's going to demand it, then Vasquez is happy to keep going down this awful, endless track. "I said that I don't want to sit around like a lovesick idiot while you flirt with your women," he says, pushing at Faraday's shoulder to push him against the door, wanting to get out of this room. "That you're not so stupid to think that everything can go on the same." Another push and he cocks his head to the side, challenging. "That you'll sit there and let your leg lock up, stop joking with me, that's what should be your future?"
He wants to push and push, make Faraday snap and see the point -- this can't work and the sooner they both understand it, the sooner they can deal with the separation, the sooner Vasquez can go lick his wounds and mend his heart.
"Let me out," he says, low and sharp. "I want out of this fucking room," he says, breathing out the profanity like he's exhausted. "I need a drink."
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Date: 2018-01-08 11:24 pm (UTC)It hurts, in a way, even if it’s hardly the harshest thing anyone has ever said to him. But as with most things, it just serves to stoke Faraday’s ire, making his expression darken and darken until his jaw clenches so tightly he thinks his teeth might shatter with it. He bears each of Vasquez’s shoves with surprising composure, even if his fingers reflexively twitch for the reassuring weight of his revolvers – but they’re just talking. Just talking. And even with as angry as the two of them are, snapping and snarling, Faraday isn’t about to go for his guns.
They’re friends, after all.
Or... were friends, and the thought is yet another blow to the gut.
He takes breath after steadying breath, trying to swallow down the anger rising up his throat like bile.
“If I let you out,” he says slowly, with a patience he hardly feels but seems able to mimic a little effectively. “I don’t trust that you’re not gonna run off.”
And it hangs silently in the air between them, the words he doesn’t speak: I don’t want you to go.
Selfish of him, he knows, but Faraday has always been a selfish bastard.
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Date: 2018-01-09 12:07 am (UTC)Then, instead of arguing back or shouting, he just speaks calmly and patiently. Gaping at him with disbelief, Vasquez wonders what the hell has changed to make him so mature and calm.
Without meaning to, he sags a little in the shoulders, not taking his eyes off Faraday. "I'm not going to go," he vows, even if Faraday won't believe him. "I'm just going to go back to the saloon and drink until I pass out." He can't just go, not yet, he just doesn't want to be stuck in this room.
Now that the anger has ebbed slightly, Vasquez sees how close he is to Faraday, how intimately close. Stepping back, he swallows back other words, ones that are cruel and aimed to hurt.
"Why do you care so much that I stay?" he asks, because maybe that's the answer he really needs, before he can make a decision about what happens next.
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Date: 2018-01-09 01:14 am (UTC)Faraday is just a far better bluffer than Vasquez is.
Deep down, something thrashes and snaps inside him, dark and confused and afraid, panicking at the thought of Vasquez leaving him behind, at the idea that Faraday has fucked this up, somehow. That he’s ruined this, because that’s what he does. He’s been on his own for this long for a reason. Folks get sick of him. Get tired of him. Lose patience with him. He had hoped he’d have longer with Vasquez, at least. Hoped that with as similar as they were, they’d have something of an understanding. Only— they have a larger problem falling between them, and he has no idea how to handle it, how to fix it.
He hardly looks convinced by Vasquez’s promise, even if it sounds sincere, because— because maybe Vasquez won’t leave, but he’ll be back in that damned saloon, back with handsome, charming Josiah, and that son of a bitch of a barkeep will sense that bit of vulnerability and swoop in, and—
And why does he care? He shouldn’t give a shit, right? If Vasquez wanted to enjoy someone else’s company for the evening after all this mess, Faraday should let him, shouldn’t he? “Why not indulge?” he had asked just a handful of minutes ago, even if something that soured in him with the asking.
And that ugly thing writhes in him again, twists at his gut, claws the inside of his ribs. He doesn’t want to think about Vasquez with anyone else. Not with Josiah and his perfect Spanish, or Henrietta, with her dark eyes and confident smile. He doesn’t want Vasquez to fall into anyone else’s bed, because—
And when Vasquez poses that question to him, Faraday visibly flounders until the answer strikes him like a bolt of lightning. He goes rigid with it, eyes widening.
—Because he wants Vasquez.
It clicks into place so suddenly, so abruptly, that he forgets how to breathe for a long moment. And suddenly everything makes sense, just as much as it all feels equally confusing, still.
“I...” It’s strangled, choked out, a million words stopping up his throat, color rising in his cheeks, at the tips of his ears. He brings up a hand to scrub at his brow, eyes darting down to the floor. “I...”
Maybe in a different moment, it would be hilarious to see the silver-tongued Joshua Faraday at a complete loss for words.
Hell, maybe it’s hilarious even now.
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Date: 2018-01-09 01:53 am (UTC)It may seem like a stupid question, but in his defense, he's never seen Faraday look this way. He looks flushed and he can't speak, somewhat stunned. He's not sure what else it could be.
Reaching out for his shoulder, he pulls him away from the door, but he makes no move to escape it. Instead, it's become clear that all his biting words have been to gloss over the true issue that he wants to make this break easier, but in the face of something wrong with Faraday, it washes away like footprints against the ocean. Pulling him to sit on the bed, Vasquez rummages through his bag and curses when his flask is empty.
"Wait here, si, I'm not leaving," he swears, even if he does leave the room. He's back in two minutes with a glass of water, though, setting it at Faraday's elbow as he crouches in front of him, trying to look for signs of slowness in the features, a stroke or a heart attack or something else that could make this man shut up.
It would have to be heaven sent, he thinks, because it's an impossible task.
Peering up at his face, he doesn't know what Faraday intended to say, but it's been made clear that so long as Faraday is hurting or in trouble, he's not going anywhere. He wishes he were selfish, still, that he could go back to before Rose Creek where the only person he cared about was himself.
That's no more, though. It's too late to go back.
"Drink," he coaxes. "Do I need to get the doctor?"
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Date: 2018-01-10 06:19 pm (UTC)Pretty damn stupid, he thinks. Maybe Vasquez has the right of it, after all.
But it’s something of a relief that Vasquez’s tone has shifted away from that biting, angry sharpness, and if Faraday has to suffer through his usual overblown worry for it, Faraday figures it’s a fair enough exchange. He goes where he’s led, slumping on the edge of the bed and rubbing at his brow. He only looks up when he hears Vasquez get to his feet, when he speaks, and even with the reassurance, Faraday still sits bolt upright.
“Wait, hold on—”
But Vasquez is already gone.
He’s back soon enough, though, and when Vasquez holds out the glass of water, Faraday gulps it down without complaint, gaze darting away once Vasquez crouches in front of him. The mention of a doctor makes Faraday scowl – he’s had enough of doctors tutting over him to last him a lifetime – and he sharply shakes his head.
“I’m fine,” he grunts out, finishing off the rest of his glass and setting it aside on a nightstand. He scrubs his face before risking a glance at Vasquez.
Hell, the bastard looks so worried, so earnestly concerned, and when the hell has anyone looked at Faraday with anything less than strained amusement or outright frustration or anger? When has anyone given enough of a shit to make sure he was well, darting off to grab glasses of water, ducking against him to take his weight when his leg gave out? Shit, it makes something warm twist in his chest, steals his breath away, and as obnoxious as he usually found it, gratitude still punched him in the gut, sudden and startling.
“I just...”
Faraday trails off, uncertain of where he was going with that. He swallows thickly, licking his lips.
He’s already falling, he figures. Falling and reeling and spinning, and his stomach leaps up to his throat for it. Faraday had been so careful, earlier this morning, to avoid wrinkling Vasquez’s clothes when he had gone to such trouble to gussy himself up, but—
Apparently Faraday no longer cares, because he grabs two fistfuls of Vasquez’s sleeves, his grip so tight that he’s sure to leave deep wrinkles in the material. He hauls the other man up half the way and leans down to close the rest of the distance in a clumsy, awkward kiss.
In Faraday’s defense, he’s never kissed a man before. In fact, he’s never had an interest in it until Vasquez.
But, hey, so far, so good.
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Date: 2018-01-10 11:16 pm (UTC)For the most part, it's always been an outright lie, if Vasquez is honest, because when Faraday says he's fine, it's always a mask to hide the fact that he's not. Either his leg is bad or he's trying to pretend that something isn't so bad.
What he would never in a thousand years expect by 'I'm fine' is what happens next. For a second, Vasquez actually thinks that he's gone and hit his head when he'd been getting the water. Maybe he's gone into some kind of concussion dream and he's stupidly dreaming of something he's thought about so many times before.
Faraday's lips on his.
His hands on his clothes, pulling him in.
It's the shock of the moment, the sheer disbelief it could be real, that lets Vasquez work on autopilot, surging forward and cupping Faraday's cheeks as he clambers his way onto the bed, diving deep into what he'd thought were forbidden waters. It's when he turns his face a little to inhale sharply before deepening the kiss that he hears the rasp of his beard on Faraday's skin, sees his hat tumble away, and those two things knock him back to reality.
Shaking his head, he eases back, gaping at Faraday. "I..." It looks like it's his turn to be speechless, barely aware that even though he's eased back, he is still straddling Faraday, so he hasn't exactly gone too far.
"If this is some kind of pity or joke, I don't want it," he warns, because the last thing he needs is for Faraday to do this because he wants to hold something over Vasquez's head or he thinks that if this happens, then it will all be fine.
Still, for a man who's protesting this, he hasn't moved from his straddle, hasn't stopped absently stroking his thumbs up and down the line of Faraday's neck, like he's just hoping.
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Date: 2018-01-10 11:33 pm (UTC)Unnecessary, it turns out, as something seems to spur Vasquez forward, as he climbs into Faraday’s lap, a calloused hand curling over the line of Faraday’s jaw. His own hat falls away, tumbles somewhere to the floor, where it’s sure to lie forgotten for a little while yet. The kiss is fierce and bruising, a little too sharp, a little too much teeth – and later, Faraday will chalk it up to inexperience. To desperation and nerves and a frantic sense of want that had struck him like a shot to the gut.
Faraday’s always been an impulsive son of a bitch. It’s why he rode out when Sam taunted him with an impossible job. It’s why he stuck around when the odds were stacked entirely against them. It’s why he charged the Gatling gun, with little more than his mulish determination and a handful of prayers.
For once, though, it seems his impulsiveness has paid off, and when Vasquez backs off, Faraday is still gripping his sleeves, breathless and dazed. He licks his lips, head tilting back slightly as Vasquez brushes a line, up and down, up and down. (It really has no right feeling as nice as it does, he thinks, but it does.)
He snorts out a quick laugh, something obviously distracted and distant, but he flashes Vasquez one of his customary smirks. “You oughta know by now that I don’t do nothing unless I want to.”
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Date: 2018-01-11 12:00 am (UTC)The clumsiness and the badness of the kiss faintly registers for him, a mental note being made that he's going to have to make that better, but no, no, this is the point.
"You like women," he says. "I've only seen you like women, I even flirted with you and you never did anything back," he protests, the confusion clear on his face and in his tone. He's gaping at Faraday, unsure what's changed to make this happen, but his heart is leaping in his chest as he starts to think about things like how he doesn't have to leave, the fact that they can keep travelling together, that he can keep touching Faraday.
Maybe. He has to understand why they went from demands about Vasquez keeping secrets to this.
"I need to know you're not doing this just to keep me around," he says sharply. "Because if it's so that I won't leave and not because you don't want it..." He trails off, not bluntly saying he doesn't want it then either, because maybe a part of him wouldn't entirely mind? Maybe he needs more self-respect, is what he's realizing.
Fuck, Faraday looks good down there with his dazed look, his lips wet, and that languid line to him. It's going to become a problem in his trousers soon enough, but he can't convince himself to get up.
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Date: 2018-01-11 12:26 am (UTC)Well, shamefully, his cheeks color with it again, embarrassed to have it laid out before him like that. Hell, Vasquez is really going to make him try and explain himself, isn’t he? And Faraday hardly knows what he’s doing, what he’s feeling, because emotions and sentiment are complicated topics. He swallows thickly, gaze darting away. Holding Vasquez’s gaze while he tries to sort through this aloud is practically impossible. Bad enough the man has his weight against him, pinning him more or less in place. And maybe in a different moment, he’d feel trapped by it, but not now.
“I don’t...” he tries, voice hoarse with hesitance, but that’s a false start. He licks his lips, tries again, “I’ve never...”
Jesus goddamn wept. He can feel his face heating, and after he takes a deep, rallying breath, he forces the words out in a rush:
“I’ve never been with a man.”
It hardly seems like an explanation, admittedly, but after another breath to compose himself, Faraday continues on; he traces the woodgrain of the floorboards with his eyes.
“I didn’t... when you— flirted, I didn’t think... I thought it was— I thought it was a joke.” Which was more or less in line with their usual modes of conversation, half-truths and mischievous smirks. At any given moment, half of what either of them said was probably bullshit. “I hadn’t considered it a possibility.
“And I do like women,” and this comes out almost a little defensively, like Vasquez might accuse him of lying, but he backs away from that tone quickly enough. He lets out a shuddering breath, head bowing further. Then, slowly, hesitantly, “But I... I think I... For a little while, now, I think I’ve—”
He trails off, frustrated with his inability to say it outright, and he huffs out a sharp sigh. His cheeks feel like they’re burning when he finally grunts out, “You’re not so bad.”
By which he means, I think I like you, too, but apparently too much honesty makes Faraday want to vomit.
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Date: 2018-01-11 12:57 am (UTC)"I've been with enough men to know what to do," is his low response, his voice hoarse with desire. There's a dark look in his eyes because Faraday looks ridiculously good right now. He keeps stroking his fingers over the warmth of Faraday's neck, wanting to lean down and kiss him again, but he has to be patient.
When Faraday says 'you're not so bad', he laughs. It's a low and loud and wonderful thing and he's lighter than he has been in ages to feel it. "Querido," he murmurs, happy to finally get to say that again and mean it, and to also have Faraday understand it. "You're pretty awful," he says bluntly. "You drink and smoke and gamble and swear and snore," he says (even if that last is a lie, seeing as it's Vasquez who does the snoring).
Still, even as he's saying all this, he's closing the space between them, a determined glint in his eye.
"And you don't know how to kiss," is his last accusation, living for what that might provoke out of Faraday, now that he's only inches away from him and those flush cheeks of his.
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