for peacemakers

[quinientos]

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pitching camp - weeks later

[quinientos]

The road is not like Vasquez remembers. For one, it's strange to have someone to wield a pistol whenever someone decides to look too close at Vasquez and not have to watch his own back all the time. Another, he maybe has some bad habits that he's not shaking so easy. He snores at night, wakes easy, doesn't like to share food, and definitely not cigarettes. The good of being with someone outweighs the frustrating, maybe because it's Faraday. There's difficult, too.

When he wakes up on the cusp of sleep and hazily stares across his bedroll through the embers to see the pale glow of them against Faraday's slack, sleeping face, and the loneliness and ache of not touching hits him like the handle of one of his Marias. When that happens, he digs out a cigarette, reminds himself that a bullet in the chamber is better than one in his head, and if he wants this, he keeps his hands to himself.

It doesn't mean that he is perfect. Far from it. This is what he finds when he ends up sending Faraday to town, because Vasquez has eaten the last of their food a whole week earlier than they were supposed to run out. Good timing, too, because the food and cigarettes could use more, not to mention some more ...personal supplies, because maybe Vasquez doesn't like to enjoy the pain. He can't go into town, not with his face so prominent on posters, so he's sent in Faraday with coins while he tends to the small camp outside the town, shoving the last of the beans into the pot to cook them up so they can go with the last of the whiskey.

Soon, though, the beans are starting to burn and Vasquez feels a twinge of worry when Faraday still isn't there over the horizon. His things, mostly, are still all around. He won't just run, would he? No, Vasquez tells himself, no, he's being paranoid and ridiculous. Taking the food from the pot, he slops them into one of the tin cups and hunches over to eat, drinking the rest of Faraday's whiskey almost vindictively because he isn't back yet.

It's really just bad timing that Faraday is back soon after and Vasquez knows how much things are different because he actually feels just a little guilty that he'd drank the last of the whiskey straight from Faraday's flask (still clasped between his fingers, loosely dangling). "They didn't shoot you. You must have been extra charming."

[peacemakers]

It's not the first time Faraday's traveled with company. When he first set out, he had befriended a few like-minded men – young and brash and filled with dreams of finding fortune out in the west. Of course, nothing was quite so easy, and those same men found their ends on the wrong side of a gun, thanks to some mixture of stupidity or poor luck. Somehow, Faraday alone managed to survive, to carve out a sort of life for himself, and managed to keep himself mostly whole out on the frontier.

... Aside from the incident at Rose Creek.

That isn't to say that he's used to Vasquez's company. Recuperating in that quaint, sparse little room with Vasquez at his side was one thing, but traveling with the man was another beast entirely. They bicker constantly, and Faraday tends to cut a little too close to the wick with his jokes, whether he means to do it or not. He drinks too much, which does little for the quick turn of his temper, and in the rare instances where they wander into little gatherings of tents that auspiciously call themselves "towns," Faraday is the one to cause trouble with his gambling. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Faraday only rarely cheats at the table; he makes more use of his uncanny ability to read people than he does his clever tricks. Still, that hardly stops his fellow players from throwing accusations at him, and things tend to get heated.

The town that Vasquez sends him into, this time, is actually deserving of the title. The folks who had set up the town had clearly meant to grow roots, which means that supplies are far easier to come by. Faraday loads up his saddle bags with all the goods they need to continue on with their travels. He stops by the saloon to replenish their whiskey reserves (because Lord knows the two of them tend to go through it quickly), and just as he's about to leave, he spies the game of cards in the corner.

... One hand couldn't hurt, he thinks. And while the job at Rose Creek had done well to pad their coffers, a bit of extra money wouldn't go amiss.

One hand turns into a half-dozen, and by the time he returns to Vasquez and the little camp they had set up, the sun is setting at his back. Vasquez's voice reaches him as he pulls on Jack's reins, slowing him to a stop, and Faraday snorts out a dismissive noise.

"Please, hombre," he says haughtily; the vowels are willfully imprecise on the borrowed word. "I'm always charming."

He dismounts, movements loose and slightly clumsy as he hitches Jack up for the night – a sign that he's had a drink or two. Tipsy, maybe, but nowhere near drunk. Faraday carefully sinks down to sit beside Vasquez, mindful of the warning ache of old scars; he brings with him the scent of whiskey and perfume, and on his cheek is a bright red smear. He flashes Vasquez a bright grin – Faraday, unsurprisingly, is in an excellent mood – though the smile slips into a frown when he sees what's in Vasquez's hand.

"Is that mine?"

[quinientos]

Vasquez makes a show of tipping the flask upside down to show the slow drop of the whiskey to the dust. When he sees there's still one or two, he sets his thumb to it and sucks off the last precious droplets of alcohol. "It was," is his curt reply, without sympathy. For all that Faraday is in a good mood, Vasquez's has plummeted. He jams his spoon into the remainder of the cold beans, nodding to Faraday's portion (it should say something that it's a miracle that there is still some of that left, or maybe Vasquez's irritation has sharply edged out his hunger).

That, or he's a little drunker than he'd thought, baked in by the heat and the annoyance. It's made worse by the fact that he can smell perfume off Faraday, has to stare accusingly at the red mark on the cheek. It's immature, it's childish, it's terrible because riding out together doesn't mean that he has a claim on the man.

Why would he want one? He's frustrating and annoying and drunk more often than not; crass, rude, he could go on and on. Trouble is, Vasquez is really no better and he thinks all the things he likes about Faraday outweighs that. Sneering and scowling, he buries his face in his tin cup, even though he's sure the disapproval radiates from him.

"I hope you didn't spend the money I sent with you on company," is his icy, annoyed reproach, already knowing Faraday wouldn't. "Whatever perfume your companion is using smells like horseshit, guero," he adds, with the air to cut sharply, though it probably falls short given that it sounds like petulant whining.

[peacemakers]

Surprise stands naked on Faraday’s face at Vasquez’s surly attitude. Both of them could fall into dark moods at the drop of a hat, but when he had ridden into town, Faraday had left Vasquez in a reasonable state. To find him sulking and snapping like a building thunderstorm is quite unexpected, considering there’s hardly anything out here to spark it – aside from the heat or the lack of company, he supposes.

“What the hell’s got you all worked up?” he asks, grumbling the words as he reaches for his share of the food. Faraday only ever gambles and spends his own shares, and Vasquez knows that. Faraday has always been particular about his own belongings (folks who threaten to steal his things tend to meet a swift end), and he extends that same courtesy to Vasquez, being mindful of the other man’s possessions.

The saloon girl in question had been a pretty thing, with red lips and rosy cheeks. The scent of new blood in the tavern had drawn her to him the instant he sat down at the table. She had hovered around him like a moth around a flickering candle, doing her level best to keep him in that chair to squander coin on rotgut; admittedly, thanks to a wide breadth of experience, Faraday knew she was quite good at her job, and if he had wandered into that saloon months ago, he would have happily stayed to enjoy her company. Wasting much more time there with Vasquez waiting for him at their little campsite hadn’t sat right with him, though, and he had made his excuses, once he had made a profit.

But here he is now, sitting beside this grumpy bastard, and Faraday almost regrets his decision.

“Is this how you’re gonna act the rest of the night? Like some kinda wet cat? ‘Cause I can’t say that I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

[quinientos]

Wet cat is probably the exact way to describe him, given that he's seconds away from spitting and hissing angrily for no reason other than a shock he hadn't expected. And why not? It wouldn't be out of the ordinary, would it? Still, staring at that red smear and inhaling sweet perfume makes him cranky in ways he understands, but has no desire to talk about. "No," he finally grumbles, recalcitrant though he's not really sorry.

Sorry implies that he's going to learn and change and grow from his behaviour. Truthfully, he's only sorry that it's managed to make things tense between them. He reaches into the bag that Faraday had brought with him, eager to investigate the findings and move onto something else.

Not that he thinks he'll be able to shake the displeasure so quickly, but at least he can start to let it simmer and die. "What did you bring me? Was it everything I wanted?" he asks, the hope clear in his eyes, given that he'd been somewhat wary of Faraday actually managing to find all the things on the list in the size of that town.

Pinche perfume, that smell, why does it keep lingering in his nostrils? He inhales and exhales sharply, like he can push it out somehow if he tries hard enough.

[peacemakers]

Faraday begins to relax once Vasquez seems to break off from that dark mood. It's not gone completely, of course, but whatever it was that had wound Vasquez up so terribly seems to be letting off, at least a little. If it had gotten much worse, Faraday would almost be tempted to ride straight back into that little town.

At Vasquez's question, Faraday rolls his eyes as he digs into his food. It's cold, and there's a faint bitterness that tells him that they had burned a little over the fire, but Faraday hardly minds.

"Got most of what was on your list," he says archly, trying to keep his mood buoyed. It stands to reason that if Faraday keeps things light, it might help brighten Vasquez's mood, as well. "Couldn't manage that diamond necklace, though. All they had was rubies."

[quinientos]

It's the right thing to say, because as soon as Faraday makes the joke, Vasquez presses a hand to his chest, like Faraday has gone and broken his heart not because of any behaviour in town, but this. "But emeralds would have made my eyes shine," is his joke, following it up with a wink as he pulls out some of the whiskey, handing it over to Faraday so he can top up their cups. Lucky for both of them, Vasquez hadn't felt the need to be truly wicked and make a crack about pearls.

His attention is still on the bag because he needs to distract his mind from thinking about the woman that had put that kiss-mark on Faraday's cheek, wondering how long she had spent around him, in his lap, and more.

He keeps looking, the dark not helping as he shifts the items around, making it clear that if he wants to know about all the items (or just one, really), he's going to have to ask Faraday directly. "Did you manage to pick up the oil?" he asks, refusing to allow himself to flush while he asks, but it helps that he's not looking at the other man when the question comes up.

[peacemakers]

The comment and the accompanying wink startle a laugh out of Faraday, and he accepts the bottle of whiskey easily enough.

"You do have such lovely eyes," Faraday agrees archly as he uncorks the bottle. He pours out a shot of whiskey for each of them, and once that's done, he cups his chin with his hand, elbow resting on his knee. He continues on, his voice affecting a flirtatious edge, though it's immediately belied by his words, "So dark and brown, on account of how you're full of so much shit."

As Vasquez rummages through Faraday's purchases, Faraday throws back the shot, wincing a little at the burn that runs down his throat. He's had more than enough to drink at the bar, of course, but restraint has never been a strong suit. He sighs once it passes, wiping at the corner of his mouth, and he lifts his head at Vasquez's question.

"Should be in there," he says, and if Vasquez flushes, if he's adamantly avoiding Faraday's gaze, the dark and the drink help Faraday not to notice. "No idea what you need it for," and this, he says a little pointedly, "but I got it."

[quinientos]

Vasquez can't help the way warmth rises in his chest, a burst of laughter on his lips as his shoulders shake for the joke, because he wouldn't know what to do with a straight compliment from Faraday if he heard one, but he still beams for the comment about his eyes, like even despite the following jab, it had been honest.

That falls away with mild horror and disbelief when Faraday says he doesn't know what he needs the oil for. It's enough to make the embarrassment fade away, wondering if no one has ever told Faraday that this can help personal matters, even when you're alone with just your hand. "Guero," he pleads, like he's begging for Faraday to clarify that he's just joking.

He reaches back for the whiskey bottle so he can top his glass back up, finally locating the little bottle so he can tuck it into his back pocket casual as you like, turning his disbelief on the other man now. "You're joking, yes?"

[peacemakers]

Faraday flashes the other man a sort of self-satisfied smile, glad to have drawn a laugh from him. Hopefully that ought to chase away whatever remained of Vasquez’s sour mood from earlier. He finishes off his beans, leaving the empty tin beside the edge of the fire, as Vasquez continues rummaging through the day’s purchases. But when Vasquez stares at him with mortification written on his face, plain even in the dimming sunlight and the flickering fire, Faraday fidgets in his seat.

And that tone of voice Vasquez takes with him just makes him bristle even further.

“What’s with that look?” he snaps defensively. Faraday’s never enjoyed when folks made him feel dull, and that look Vasquez gives him certainly makes him feel like he’s missed something obvious. “Quit starin’ at me like I’m stupid.”

[quinientos]

Vasquez lets out a disbelieving huff of laughter, glad he has whiskey for this. He never thought that they would be having this conversation, especially when he's still shaking his piss-poor mood that's mainly working as a front for his jealousy. Still, the part of him that can't believe the shitty education Faraday had tells him that yes, they are going to talk about it.

Apparently, he'd learned things as a farmhand that drunken idiots don't pick up during a game of poker. "You are stupid," Vasquez tells him, which isn't new, but it's said with a wry and amused note, something like fondness in his voice.

"You never were taught about the fact that you don't just have to use your hand and a little spit?" he asks, because they're not even getting close to talking about fucking at this point, and Vasquez can't help but sneak a surreptitious glance at Faraday's palms, wondering if maybe he shouldn't be so jealous after all. World's greatest lover, not in this world, he thinks to himself and can't help the way he laughs, even if it's mean and Faraday didn't even hear it. It's definitely not a topic he should be encouraging, not given what he dreams of at night, not what he thinks about in the day, but he's stupid too. That's the trouble with him.

[peacemakers]

The turn of this conversation means that it’s Faraday’s mood that starts to darken, thanks in no small part to the way Vasquez grins and laughs at him. The insult is hardly the worst thing anyone’s ever lobbed at him, and that strange note of warmth in the words keeps Faraday from reeling back and punching that smug look from Vasquez’s face.

It doesn’t stop him from swiping up a pebble from the ground beside his boot and chucking it in Vasquez’s general direction, however. Faraday is nothing if not petty.

“Asshole,” he grumbles, though it’s nowhere near as sharp as might have been months ago.

When Vasquez continues on, when his meaning finally settles, Faraday feels a sense of mortification wash over him, and heat starts to rise up his neck. He’s by no means a shrinking violet, and God knows he’s bedded more than his fair share of women, but this is almost certainly not the chat he wanted to have tonight. (Especially not after having left that saloon girl with her pretty red lips and dark hair and dark eyes.) Faraday is simply of a mind that what a man got up to in his own time was his own blessed business.

He drags a hand down his face, letting out an affronted sound.

“Jesus goddamn wept, Vasquez,” and some of his embarrassment bleeds into his voice, muffled by his palm, thanks to the way he covers the flush creeping up his face. “I am not discussin’ this with you.”

[quinientos]

He lifts both hands up, like it's no skin off his back, even as he has to duck out of the way out of that pebble, aware that he's a soft touch now because months ago there would be a murderous glare in his eyes. Now, there's just the brimming warmth of amusement and the knowing that there are much worse things that he could be called (and has been, by that man).

Pouring a fresh serving of whiskey into his cup, Vasquez can feel the warmth of the drink start to settle in his fingers and toes, making his limbs easily relaxed, his whole body sinking into that pleased little haze as he can't help his amused snort. "I was trying not to talk about it, I was horrified at the idea you had no idea what it was for," he points out, staring into the cup as he feels like maybe the liquor (a lot of it drank while Faraday was gone) is loosening his tongue too.

Vasquez lets his gaze linger on Faraday's face, the way his fingers drag over it, and chides himself for staring too long. "What, you want to talk about your girl with the lipstick and the perfume?" he demands. "Was she going to charge you? Wouldn't need this for her." Maybe he can steer Faraday away from the other path this topic leads to, the part Vasquez really would be embarrassed to talk about, at least, here. Another drink, swallowing the burn of the whiskey.

The one where, maybe, he keeps this on hand because when you're in the wilderness, easy to find a ranch-hand or another man who's good to help take the pressure off when it's been too long.

"You could go back into the town, you know," he says, even if those dark clouds threaten to storm his face again, but he's drinking still, going through the new bottle too fast, reckless with idiocy. "Just because I'm a wanted man doesn't mean you have to stay here, hearing me snore every night." Why not suggest the last thing he wants? At least then when it happens, he'll have seemed okay with it.

[peacemakers]

Faraday doesn’t quite notice the dark edges of Vasquez’s mood, occupied as he is with wrestling with his own mounting sense of mortification. Still, he scowls at Vasquez from behind his palm, fingers parted to fix the full force of his glare at the other man. The comments about the saloon girl make Faraday roll his eyes, and his hand finally falls away from his face.

“Henrietta,” he corrects. Faraday’s always been good with names; it’s an easy way to earn trust, he learned when he first set off on his own. Folks always liked the sound of their own names. Once Vasquez finishes pouring his share, Faraday takes the bottle back, pouring a drink for himself. “And the only reason for me to go back is if you empty out this bottle.”

Which is rich, coming from Faraday, considering his own drinking habits, but for once, he’s not the one drowning himself in liquor, as Vasquez seems intent on doing. And as much as Faraday occasionally missed the bustle of towns, the noise of conversation, the off-key dabbling at a poorly maintained piano, and even the simply comfort of a bed and four walls, he finds that he still prefers Vasquez’s company to those of strangers. A few hours on his own in town seems to be enough to sate Faraday’s need for a change in scenery.

“You oughta know by now I don’t do anything I don’t wanna do,” he says. He takes a sip from his cup, savoring the numbing burn of the drink, before he frowns a little. Then, with a wry sort of smirk, he adds, “Unless this is your way of tellin’ me you want some time to yourself.”

And he says that last bit with a pointed jerk of his chin toward Vasquez’s pocket, where he tucked away that little bottle.

[quinientos]

"It's a very pretty name," he admits, when some of the guilt of being so cruel to a woman he doesn't know kicks in, making him embarrassed to have acted in such a way. "Henrietta," he says with a soft hum of study, like he's thinking about it. It takes him a moment and in that time, he feels like an ass. Too bad that it's not like there's polite company to call him out on that. "And I'll stop, with the whiskey," he promises, because he thinks he has a little tequila left for him to sip at, to prevent giving Faraday an excuse to head back to town.

He likes his company too, after all, doesn't want to give him any reason to wander, especially not when they hit that sweet spot of just enough drink between them that things are hazy and warm and delightful.

At the suggestion, he snorts derisively, not to mock Faraday, but himself. "No, guero, this is for emergency situations. If someone comes along me, better to be prepared." The last thing he needs is to end up touching himself, finding himself wanting more. No. That will be what happens when he is pent up and frustrated and the dreams have invaded his waking days and made him sweat with want. "Being alone is no good, querido," he drunkenly mumbles, "it's alone or a corpse and I hate it, it's awful."

Mierda, he is far too drunk all of a sudden and is it hot? Yes, it's desert lands, of course it is, but is it hotter than usual?

[peacemakers]

He gives Vasquez a considering look when he makes that little promise, and Faraday supposes, in a rare fit of discretion, it’s only fair if he offers the other man the same courtesy. He jams the stopper back into the bottle’s mouth, effectively cutting them both off, and he tucks it back into his saddle bag.

Too little, too late, it seems, with the way Vasquez talks, and Faraday blinks at him, a startled smile curling at his mouth. More often than not, it’s Faraday who dives more deeply into the bottles than Vasquez and starts flapping off at the mouth, or the both of them are equally drunk, setting one another off into peals of laughter. This might be the first time Vasquez has beaten him to it.

Faraday’s nearly about to point out the irony of it all, delighted by the advantageous position, but Vasquez has to go on and say all that, doesn’t he?

He falls quiet, frowning at Vasquez as he studies him by the flickering light of the fire and the last few dregs of sunlight dimming at the horizon. Vasquez is being far more honest than either of them tend to be, and Faraday knows it’s because of the drink. (And what the hell does “querido” mean? Another new insult to add to the list, Faraday thinks.)

“Suppose it’s just as well you’ve got me,” he says brightly, trying to draw Vasquez away from that stormy mood again, like Vasquez hasn’t just dropped that piece of truth on him like a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. They’re treading on unsteady ground, here, and Faraday almost feels guilty, like he’s been eavesdropping on a private conversation. “I’m a delight.”

[quinientos]

It might be a joke and it might be sarcastic, but that passes by his drunken mind as he peers blearily at Faraday, leaning forward and falling over himself, managing to prevent his face from slamming into the dust with the heel of his boot pressed firmly in. "You are," he agrees, too passionately. "No one would ever put up with me the way you do, because you, you're just as bad as I am," he says, letting his fingers flicker between the two of them.

He reaches for his cup to take another long sip, but then remembers it's empty. Making a whiny noise, he settles it behind him and lifts up his hat to run his fingers through his hair, scratching at the back of his head, like he's trying to remember something he'd meant to say, but then forgot.

Right, they're talking about their company. "Sometimes," he says, and at least on this bordering state of drunkenness, his English starts to slip. "Me gusta estar contigo demasiado. Se supone que no quiero esas cosas, sobre todo porque me matarías por ello, he rambles, waving his hand in lazy circles. Shoulders sloping forward, he has to remind himself to sit up straight, fumbling through his things so that he can find some of the day-old bread from yesterday, fingers fumbling to split it apart to offer the other half to Faraday.

[peacemakers]

Guilt spikes through him again as Vasquez continues on. (Briefly, Faraday wonders if he’s ever like this when he’s drunk, though there’s little chance of this ever serving as a wake-up call for him.) The man is drunk, and he’s clearly spouting off information to which Faraday shouldn’t be privy; then again, that was without a doubt the kindest thing Vasquez has ever said to him, for all that it sounded like some sort of backhanded compliment and self-deprecation wrapped up in one, and he tucks the information away for later.

He watches as Vasquez sways, as he stumbles over his words, all with a faint sort of amusement on his face. When Vasquez continues on in his native tongue, Faraday’s nose wrinkles.

“I got no idea what you just said,” he tells the other man cheerfully, though Faraday grants that’s probably for the best. The outlaw’s already shared far more than he intended to share. Faraday watches, chin propped up by his palm and cup of whiskey balanced on his knee, as Vasquez rummages through his rations and produces the bread. Faraday holds up his free hand, refusing the offer. “You eat it. Maybe it’ll sop up all that liquor you got in your gut.”

[quinientos]

"Good, I'm very drunk," he tells Faraday seriously, as if this is something that he can't tell for himself with his own two eyes. He keeps the bread for himself, staring at it for a long moment like he's trying to puzzle it out, before chewing at it using both hands, stuffing his cheeks like a chipmunk before swallowing it back, trying to bypass the dizzy feeling swarming him, making him think and want stupid things. Then again, he wants them when he's sober, he's just better at hiding them.

"I got too drunk," he says, which is as close to apology as Faraday is going to get. Unfortunately, he's still a little too hazy to know what's a thought and what's out loud, which is why as he sprawls next to the fire, pushing another log onto it, what slips out isn't meant to, but does anyway. "Would've been better if I wasn't so jealous, it's like a wet cat, like you say," he says with a gesture to him, continuing to gnaw on the bread.

Narrowing his eyes, he sits up a little sharply when he tracks back over his words, thinking no, no, no, and startled into silence. No, he wouldn't have noticed. It's Faraday, he has no eye for that sort of thing, he hasn't been suspicious. It's fine, it will be fine, he tells himself.

[peacemakers]

“I’m certainly seein’ that,” Faraday replies with a laugh – which is his way of accepting the bare apology – and he watches Vasquez with undisguised amusement. The sun is well and truly gone, by now, and the fire sheds the both of them in a warm glow. The heat of the day still lingers in the dirt, in the rocks, but nightfall brings with it a bare, cool breeze.

Vasquez continues on – because of course he does; too much time at the bottle makes them both chatty bastards – and Faraday’s eyebrows rise when Vasquez mentions being jealous. It quickly turns into a frown, and he wonders what the hell would Vasquez have to be jealous of. Years and years sitting at card tables means that Faraday’s a fair hand at reading people, at observing their body language. The way Vasquez tenses, the way he jolts up like he’s been struck by lightning, tells Faraday that the man realizes he’s shared more than he meant to. Faraday studies him by the orange cast of the fire, trying to puzzle out what Vasquez could possibly mean.

Faraday can spot these things, sure, but actually interpreting things is an entirely different matter.

For a few seconds, Faraday chews over the words, confused. It could easily be explained away as the ramblings of a drunkard, but Vasquez has been in one hell of a state since Faraday returned. Curiosity makes him want to get to the core of things.

“Why would you be jealous?” he asks slowly. His own eyes narrow as he continues watching the other man. He pauses again before asking, “Is it ‘cause I can go into town, and you can’t?”

Not that many of the places they visit to resupply are much to look at.

[quinientos]

"Yes," Vasquez lies, through his teeth, and if he were sober, he might even have done it well. He'd spent a long time as an outlaw thieving and hiding and lying, to the point that he got very good at it, but he's been softened up now by being around so many other people. He knows that he's in no state to lie the way he used to, so when he lies now, he worries it's not very convincing. "Yes," he keeps going, because he's already committed to this rabbit hole.

"It's because I can't. You can, that's, it's that," he says, like if he seizes on that hard enough, it's going to help his case instead of making it worse. He tears off another bite of bread with his teeth, chewing and swallowing while not taking his eyes off Faraday, hoping that he's buying this.

Breathing out like he's managed to get away with it, he leans back to let his hat topple off and fall onto his pack, digging through to put away the bottle and drag out a jacket he'd yanked off one of the many dead men in Rose Creek before they'd left. He yanks it over his shoulders as he slumps down, aware that he's sulking like a child, all because he's an idiot who drank too much because...

Ugh, he can barely even think it when he's sober, but drunk, he knows why. He'd missed Faraday's company. He'd been jealous of another woman's hands and lips and smell all over him, like he's some pathetic touch-starved child. Burying his nose in the jacket, he wishes that all of that weren't true, but it is.

[peacemakers]

Faraday watches Vasquez’s denial with that same fond amusement, and when he seems to curl in on himself, moping, Faraday barks out a laugh.

“That’s a goddamn lie,” Faraday announces around an incredulous grin, though he hardly knows why Vasquez feels the need to lie in the first place.

The bastard is nearly drunk off his ass, Faraday recognizes that much, but the tantrum he’s throwing is almost endearing. It’s also peculiar and unexpected, to be sure, and if it lasts too much longer “endearing” may transform into “irritating,” but for now Faraday continues to watch him with a warm, crooked smile. He doesn’t expect Vasquez will be much help in helping to unravel this mystery, so Faraday continues to think aloud.

“Not ‘cause of my going into town, then,” he says thoughtfully. His jaw moves slightly to one side as he considers Vasquez, who continues to hide in his jacket like some moody tortoise. Faraday tugs at the jacket’s sleeve – not with enough force to dislodge it, but certainly enough to be a nuisance.

“C’mon on out of there, Vas,” Faraday says. “If you’re gonna make me guess at this, the least you can do is actually answer me when I’m talkin’ to you.”

[quinientos]

Vasquez groans as Faraday tugs at the sleeve of his coat and coaxes him out. He pushes it off of himself, but he's still making faces that are more than clear with his hat set aside, not crossing his arms petulantly, but feeling like he's fairly close. "I told you it was going into town," he feels compelled to stubbornly cling onto, even though he's a piss poor liar when he's drunk and even he didn't believe himself when he'd said the words.

He drags the jacket off of him and stretches out one leg beside the fire, heart beating hard for the fear that Faraday might actually latch onto the truth. He's still holding out hope that's not going to happen, but he's getting too curious.

Best to distract him, then. "Drink some more," he encourages, because if he can get Faraday drunk enough, then maybe he'll stop caring about Vasquez's big mouth and confessing that he's jealous of someone else getting their hands all over Faraday, not to mention sucking up his time.

[peacemakers]

When Vasquez tries to keep up the pretense, Faraday snorts out another laugh and cheerfully says, “That’s complete and utter bullshit, and we both know it.”

After all, the two of them are stubborn, contrary creatures. If not being able to wander into and out of towns had been the real source of whatever’s aggravating Vasquez as it is, Faraday expects Vasquez would have denied it for much longer. As it stands, Vasquez agreed far too quickly – a sure sign that the easy agreement was a cover for the genuine truth. At the very least, he managed to coax Vasquez out of his self-imposed shell, and Faraday flashes him a crooked grin.

At Vasquez’s suggestion, Faraday brushes him off with a wave of his hand. “Stop tryin’ to distract me, you surly bastard,” and despite the words, his voice is good-natured. Faraday freely admits he has a terrible habit of sticking his nose where it’s not wanted, but it’s only gotten him into trouble a few dozen times.

(“Only.”)

“What is it? You jealous that I stopped off at the saloon? Got a couple drinks?” Solitary lifestyle that Vasquez has led, Faraday figures it’s less about freedom and more about getting to shoot the shit with a new set of faces. “Or are you jealous about me getting’ a couple games in? Or—”

Faraday cuts off, stricken by an idea like a bolt of lightning. He studies Vasquez for another second, still with that warm curl of amusement, and he ventures, “Is it ‘cause of Henrietta? ‘Cause I got the attentions of a lovely lady and you didn’t?”

[quinientos]

Here's the trouble. Faraday has offered him the perfect out because he's not so far off the mark. It's true that he's managed to focus in on what Vasquez is feeling unsettled and jealous over, but if he's not careful, then the truth is going to come out and one of those beautiful peacemakers that Faraday holds so dear is likely to shoot parts of him clean off.

Why does Faraday have to look so charming and handsome when he's being an annoying son of a bitch? That's what Vasquez wants to know. Instead of answering right away, Vasquez keeps his face steely and sombre, though it's not hard when Faraday is inching so close to the truth.

"Yes," he says, and this is truthful and aching for it. "Yes, it was because of the saloon." Still true, still able to say it even though he's drunk and lonely and stupid. Scoffing, he shakes his head as he leans forward to dig a cigarette out of his pocket, searching for his matches. "That there were attentions to be had in the saloon, sometimes, it puts me in a mood." No lie given, no truth shown either. Vasquez nods to himself at a job well done as he strikes the match.