Faraday catches the hat on instinct, glaring up at Vasquez. Truth is, he doesn’t know too much about the war that sparked up in Mexico, considering it sparked up when he was still swaddled in blankets, and the possible animosity hadn’t occurred to him. (Maybe he is that stupid.
Not that he would ever admit as much.)
Vasquez thrusts his gun belt at him next, and Faraday dutifully catches that, as well, his glare turning into a flat, unimpressed look.
“What do I care if you shoot someone?” he asks. God knows they’ve both shot plenty of folks before, and Faraday imagines they’re about even as far as how many men they’ve gunned down. (Actually, Faraday believes he edged a bit ahead of Vasquez after the battle of Rose Creek – taking out the Gatling gun meant he took down over a half-dozen men in one go. But as much as he refuses to admit it, thinking too long or too hard about that ride out, one that he had imagined to be his last, makes something cold and writhing clench in his gut.)
After all, Faraday is hardly shy about violence.
“So long as it ain’t me,” he says. Their fingers brush as he tugs his hat from Vasquez’s hand, putting it on. “And so long as it ain’t someone who didn’t already have it comin’.”
Vasquez feels the prickle of his skin raising to goosebumps from the touch, dragging his palm down the side of his pants as he eases it back to force himself back to normal, finding his own things and buckling in the gun belt as he ties the lasso to it, handing Faraday his cards and flask, all the possessions he's been watching going back to him. The thrill of actually leaving is keeping his mood light, now, ignoring all the potentially disastrous things that could (and will) probably happen.
"You know I don't kill people who don't deserve it," he promises, crossing his heart and kissing his fingers with a smirking promise, settling his hat on his head. They still haven't picked where to go, but they're going. "If you annoy me too much, it won't be the guns," he says, patting the lasso with a serious look on his face, because it's as much of a promise as he'll give.
"Guero, you're making me waste daylight," he complains, as if they haven't had to change paths so they could get him back to standing. The spark of mischief is in his eyes and the curve of his lips as he buttons his vest up the whole way. "Come on. Go get the food and I will get the ammo. If you're late, then I get to decide where we go. Mexico," he says cheerfully.
He takes the deck of cards and the flask; the latter gets tucked away into a pocket, but the cards he treats with a little more care. He runs a thumb over the short edge, the paper riffling with a satisfying snap, and he squares up the deck before that, too, gets tucked into another pocket in his fest.
At Vasquez's promise and his gesture to the lasso, Faraday finds himself barking out a laugh, startled by the audacity of the threat. "Let me tell you now," he says, without any real intention to threaten, "if you try to tie me up like a wild bull, I might shoot you."
He straightens himself out, fastening his gun belt to his hips, straightening out his shirt and vest, adjusting the hat on his head. The time between now and the first second he stepped foot in Rose Creek has certainly changed him, and he wears the differences on his person. A new set of clothes, a mess of scars (some more pronounced than others) mottling his skin, and slightly altered temperament set him apart from the Faraday that first arrived.
Taking a breath, he pushes himself to stand, one hand resting on the nightstand to brace himself. He gives his bad leg an experimental stretch, and while it still aches, it's nowhere near the persistent keening that had redirected them earlier.
"We're not goin' to Mexico," he retorts without looking up from his stretching. "You're bad enough as it is. Lord only knows what I'd do in a place where I couldn't understand a single word folks were sayin' at me."
Vasquez tips his head casually to the side, letting it hang there as he watches Faraday stretching, his line of sight giving him a look at the line of his hip and the gun belt slung over it. It's distracting in all the worst ways and he gives himself a mental slap on the wrist for letting himself be so shallow, but can he help it? It's a pretty thing. Smirking to himself for the brazen mistake, he snorts at Faraday's reply. "Or," he says, amused, "you could do something surprising and actually learn Spanish. It would make you a far more attractive person," Vasquez deadpans.
He bends to collect the last of his things, feeling strangely sad that he's going to be seeing the last of this room, all at the same time as wishing he could burn it down with a match so they never have to see it again. It's been a home, of sorts, not because of the place, but because it's where he and Faraday have been able to build on something that just might end up being an actual genuine friendship.
"Then if you don't want to end up surrounded by Mexicans, then you shouldn't stray, guero. Don't forget to pick up some of the biscuits I like so much," he reminds him. "And the jerky. Some of the, how you say it, the taffy too. Yes?" He gives Faraday an expectant look, that the man should know how vastly his appetite stretches.
With one last squeeze to Faraday's shoulder, Vasquez is ready to let his eager heart get the best of him, thinking of the road ahead.
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2017-09-20 08:49 pm (UTC)Not that he would ever admit as much.)
Vasquez thrusts his gun belt at him next, and Faraday dutifully catches that, as well, his glare turning into a flat, unimpressed look.
“What do I care if you shoot someone?” he asks. God knows they’ve both shot plenty of folks before, and Faraday imagines they’re about even as far as how many men they’ve gunned down. (Actually, Faraday believes he edged a bit ahead of Vasquez after the battle of Rose Creek – taking out the Gatling gun meant he took down over a half-dozen men in one go. But as much as he refuses to admit it, thinking too long or too hard about that ride out, one that he had imagined to be his last, makes something cold and writhing clench in his gut.)
After all, Faraday is hardly shy about violence.
“So long as it ain’t me,” he says. Their fingers brush as he tugs his hat from Vasquez’s hand, putting it on. “And so long as it ain’t someone who didn’t already have it comin’.”
no subject
Date: 2017-09-20 11:08 pm (UTC)"You know I don't kill people who don't deserve it," he promises, crossing his heart and kissing his fingers with a smirking promise, settling his hat on his head. They still haven't picked where to go, but they're going. "If you annoy me too much, it won't be the guns," he says, patting the lasso with a serious look on his face, because it's as much of a promise as he'll give.
"Guero, you're making me waste daylight," he complains, as if they haven't had to change paths so they could get him back to standing. The spark of mischief is in his eyes and the curve of his lips as he buttons his vest up the whole way. "Come on. Go get the food and I will get the ammo. If you're late, then I get to decide where we go. Mexico," he says cheerfully.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-27 10:01 am (UTC)At Vasquez's promise and his gesture to the lasso, Faraday finds himself barking out a laugh, startled by the audacity of the threat. "Let me tell you now," he says, without any real intention to threaten, "if you try to tie me up like a wild bull, I might shoot you."
He straightens himself out, fastening his gun belt to his hips, straightening out his shirt and vest, adjusting the hat on his head. The time between now and the first second he stepped foot in Rose Creek has certainly changed him, and he wears the differences on his person. A new set of clothes, a mess of scars (some more pronounced than others) mottling his skin, and slightly altered temperament set him apart from the Faraday that first arrived.
Taking a breath, he pushes himself to stand, one hand resting on the nightstand to brace himself. He gives his bad leg an experimental stretch, and while it still aches, it's nowhere near the persistent keening that had redirected them earlier.
"We're not goin' to Mexico," he retorts without looking up from his stretching. "You're bad enough as it is. Lord only knows what I'd do in a place where I couldn't understand a single word folks were sayin' at me."
no subject
Date: 2017-09-28 02:40 am (UTC)He bends to collect the last of his things, feeling strangely sad that he's going to be seeing the last of this room, all at the same time as wishing he could burn it down with a match so they never have to see it again. It's been a home, of sorts, not because of the place, but because it's where he and Faraday have been able to build on something that just might end up being an actual genuine friendship.
"Then if you don't want to end up surrounded by Mexicans, then you shouldn't stray, guero. Don't forget to pick up some of the biscuits I like so much," he reminds him. "And the jerky. Some of the, how you say it, the taffy too. Yes?" He gives Faraday an expectant look, that the man should know how vastly his appetite stretches.
With one last squeeze to Faraday's shoulder, Vasquez is ready to let his eager heart get the best of him, thinking of the road ahead.