for peacemakers

[quinientos]

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[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.

[peacemakers]

He observes Vasquez, eyes narrowed and unblinking – not the gaze he uses at card tables, but the gaze he uses in the seconds before a duel, watchful and wary and waiting for that twitch of movement that signals the other man means to draw. Whatever it is that Faraday reads seems to satisfy him, and Faraday sits up. He almost looks smug, having apparently driven to the heart of the matter.

“There,” he says with a crooked, self-satisfied smile. “Was that so difficult, admitting that?”

But Vasquez seems to be sinking back into the dark waters of that mood again, and Faraday leans over, poking Vasquez in the arm.

“You coulda come with me, you know,” Faraday says breezily. “Small town like that, I doubt anyone would recognize you in the slightest.” Faraday pauses, then continues on with a shit-eating grin, “And if you walk in with me, I doubt anyone would look at you twice.”

[quinientos]

Vasquez scowls when Faraday reprimands him like that, like it's so easy for him to admit to something that wound up being a lie anyway, but he's grateful that the topic is being dropped. Lighting up his smoke properly, he lets it dangle between two fingers, blowing out smoke with derision at Faraday's suggestion. "For one, guapo, I'm much handsomer than you," he starts with a glint of mischief and amusement in his eyes.

One day, Faraday is going to meet another Spanish speaker who's willing to translate all of Vasquez's little endearments and then he will be in deep shit, but for now, he enjoys this.

"And two, if I did that, someone would end up shot," he guarantees, not sure whether it would be a warning shot to one of the girls, someone who might sell him out, or Faraday himself for being so stupidly frustrating. He takes off his hat and runs the fingers of his free hand through his hair, reclining back on one elbow. "You really think that I would be so ignored?" Hand over his heart, he clucks his tongue. "You're hurting my feelings, guero."

[peacemakers]

The nickname, whatever the hell it means, earns Vasquez a flat, irritated look. Given that Vasquez refuses to translate all of these names he throws at Faraday, Faraday has to assume they're insults. Guero, guerito, guapo, querido. One of these days, Faraday's going to track down someone who can translate all of those little barbs, and Faraday's reasonably sure when he finds out what they all mean, he's going to give Vasquez exactly what's coming to him.

But Vasquez's prediction draws a snorted laugh from Faraday, and he smirks. While Faraday still thinks they could get away with slipping into the smaller towns without that $500 bounty hounding them, he'll fully grant that the two of them tended to attract trouble in their own ways.

He glances over at the other man's teasing, and he's stricken, for a brief moment, by the thought that Vasquez looks good like that, laid out with his hair mussed, face ruddy with whiskey. It's a peculiar thought that he pushes away quickly enough, but that the idea manifested in his head is odd enough to catch him off-balance.

He recovers quickly, rolling his eyes at Vasquez's little act.

"You're not so bad," Faraday says archly, and he spreads his arms with a showman's grace. "Just pointin' out that if you were set next to me, you'd barely have a chance."

[quinientos]

Vasquez is still drunk enough that he's swaying a little, the bread not absorbing up all of the alcohol the way he wants it to, which is why when Faraday makes his little promise, Vasquez doesn't see it as a statement, it's challenge. "Then, let's see," he says, full of stupid tonight, apparently. Face hot, body warmed with liquor and want, Vasquez is laid out and not even noticing Faraday's half-compliment.

"If you think this town, it is safe for me, then tomorrow, you take me into town," he says, a thrill bolting through him at even that possibility. "I will show you how charming I can be," he guarantees. "Querido," he mock-croons, stupid and idiotic and latching stubbornly onto a challenge, "I'm going to make such a fool of you when I prove that I could have twice your chances if I really wanted."

[peacemakers]

Faraday watches Vasquez flop around like a half-dead fish out of water, and he can't help but be entertained by the sight, snorting out a laugh. Vasquez is absolutely throwing a wager his way, and Faraday's always had a nasty habit of taking most bets that come away, assuming they're interesting enough.

"Only fool right now is you, amigo," Faraday says, voice warm and amused in spite of the insult. "Way you're goin' on now, you're gonna get yourself shot in the head, even without that bounty on your neck."

He reaches over, plucking up Vasquez's hat and dropping it on the other man's face.

"Sleep off that liquor," he instructs the other man. He adds with a faint edge of exasperation, "And quit callin' me those names if you're not gonna tell me what they mean. You're gettin' on my last nerve."

[quinientos]

"You could always ask someone," Vasquez stupidly says behind the hat, batting it off with a clumsy push of his fingers, nearly faceplanting in the dirt as a result, but he manages to get his feet back under himself (or his back) in time to glower petulantly at Faraday, now that his hair is even more of a mess. Still, as he drags up his jacket like a blanket, he thinks that maybe sleep isn't the worst idea in the world.

"How do you know chingato, but not querido." He's mumbling to himself, now, because deep down, he doesn't really want Faraday to know about this. Then he won't get to say it anymore. Other worse things, like being shot, but also the lack of subtle flirting. Even as he lays down to curl up against the dying heat of the fire, he's mumbling, mostly in Spanish, eyes heavy with drink. "Can't believe you've tricked me into this," he mumbles, where 'this' is a boyish stirring of interest and excitement the way he hasn't felt since his first lonely days on a ranch so far away from other people.

His soft, hushed mumblings fade as he falls asleep, but every once in a while, his body gives little kicks like he's still awake. Worse, he hasn't stopped speaking out loud. The sounds and mumbles are soft, barely heard things, but he's always vocal when he's been drinking. What's unfortunate is that he's also stupid. Writhing, he curls up against the jacket into a ball, inhaling sharply and nosing at the fringes.

Clearly, from his lips, there's a soft exhalation of a name. It's not loud, not even full, but very clearly someone's that's sitting right with him, said with clear fondness and an undercurrent of want, just the beginnings of, "Fara..." before it trails off into silence, Vasquez then muttering, "Stop dancing with bullets," grumpily. Silence, then, but soon enough, there's a sound that can't be mistaken. If he were awake, he might have stormed away to save the embarrassment. As it is, sleeping means he can only lie there awash in his dreams and let his clear moan of want echo in their little campsite, hips arching forward and making it very clear that he's dreaming of something in particular.