for peacemakers

[quinientos]

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[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.

i'm so sorry for the delay; feel free to ignore if this is too old

[peacemakers]

Vasquez drifts away to sleep, and Faraday huffs out a laugh. The ornery bastard always was good at slipping away into sleep, and it seems the drink only helped to grease that particular transition.

Faraday watches him for a moment or two, a strange, warm curl of fondness twisting in his chest, before he takes his own advice and turns in for the evening. (They apparently have a big day tomorrow, considering Faraday will be turning up the charm, drawing attention away from Vasquez – both to keep anyone from recognizing the man from the wanted posters and to win their stupid little wager.)

Later in the evening, with the fire burning low and the sky dark above them, Faraday slowly wakes. He's always been something of a light sleeper – it's one of the many facets that have gone into keeping him alive all these years. He's not sure what it is that wakes him, and in the dim light, he looks to where the horses are hitched. If there were danger, Jack would be on high alert, would have his ears swiveled forward, tail lashing sharply. Instead, Jack seems relaxed, and he watches Faraday with large, lazy eyes.

Not danger, then. No approaching bandits or wild animals, at least, and Faraday rubs sleep from his eyes, sitting up. He hears it, then, Vasquez's sleepy voice, shaping his name, and Faraday snorts out a laugh at himself, feeling silly for having been woken up by Vasquez's nighttime murmurings. Faraday shuffles down a little, preparing to get back to sleep, except—

The sound Vasquez makes this time makes Faraday's gaze snap to him, and the quiet rasp of dirt as Vasquez's body moves makes Faraday sit up a little straighter. This is... new. This is odd, and for as often as Faraday touts his ability to adapt, this has him at a bit of a loss.

For a few, long moments, Faraday sits there uncertainly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. At length, he heaves out a sigh and reaches out, grasping Vasquez by the shoulder.

"Hey, you noisy bastard," because it's easier to frame this as annoyance to save both of them some face. "Wake up."

are you kidding? I literally gasped with glee when I saw this, I'd love to con't!

[quinientos]

Vasquez has been in the middle of steamy, hazy dreams that usually happen when he's drunk. He's also usually smarter than to drink so much when Faraday is around, because he knows what happens when his defenses start to lower. Those things he buries start to rise up and when they do, it's bad. His snoring gives way to speaking, to sounds, to names, and it's all the liquor's fault.

He comes awake at the grab of his shoulder, hand immediately reaching for his gun. He's halfway to grabbing it when he realizes that Faraday is the one shaking him away. Cheeks reddening, he's grateful he's mostly face down, because he definitely has a very pressing morning problem happening right now. He drags his jacket over his torso, trying to subtly push it lower, blearily peering at Faraday with one open eye, feeling the hangover start to settle behind his eyes.

"What?" he demands, grumpy at having been woken up, especially now that the haze of that very nice dream about clever fingers and wicked tongues has evaporated and he's back to reality.

[peacemakers]

Faraday, in the meanwhile, can feel color creeping up his own neck. He isn't the type to embarrass easily by any means, but this situation is distinctly—

Well. It's distinctly peculiar, and Faraday can certainly say he's never faced as unique a problem as this.

"You were makin' enough noise to rouse the dead," he grumbles, gaze darting away to the campfire – now little more than a few dying flames and embers. For a man who typically always had some quip at the ready, Faraday finds it difficult to collect his thoughts or to find something particularly witty to say.

[quinientos]

Vasquez is still bleary with sleep, rubbing his eyes and staring at Faraday for a long moment, but as he slowly starts to wake up, he's also beginning to see that something is clearly wrong. The colour in his neck, the way he won't make eye contact, and his general quiet means that something is wrong.

Dread begins to sink in his heart because he has a bad feeling he knows why. "Was I talking in my sleep?" he asks, his heart pounding louder in his ears, making it hard to hear anything but the pulsing of his panic. He knows what he'd been dreaming (and is glad that his panic had stemmed any flagging interest in other parts of his body), but if he'd been making the sounds and noises he thinks he might have been...

His gun is too far, but he sits up slowly, not sure if he's going to need to run or fight, but he's on high alert. "Faraday, I..." He can't say he didn't mean to. He can't say that he doesn't want it, not without being caught in a lie. "I didn't mean you to hear anything," he settles on, because there is the truth.

[peacemakers]

Faraday fidgets a little, wishing he had a deck of cards in his hand as an outlet for the nervous energy bubbling beneath the surface of his skin – just something to do with his hands instead of clenching them into fists.

This is wholly awkward. Faraday isn’t in the habit of feeling wrong-footed, except this current situation certainly has him floundering. When Vasquez sits up, Faraday’s gaze unconsciously darts to him, and when he sees the growing mortification on the other man’s face, turning his entire frame rigid, Faraday winces, straightening up a little.

He licks his lips, fixes his expression into a well-practiced blank mask – the mask he wears at card tables, when stakes are high, and he’s trying to bluff his way through with a gutshot straight. (The same mask he wore while he knelt in the grass in front of the Gatling gun, bluffing his way through lighting a stick of dynamite with a half-dozen gutshots spilling fresh blood into the dirt.)

“There was nothing to hear,” he lies with an easy shrug. “You were spoutin’ off some shit Mexican. Didn’t understand a word.”

(Faraday’s usual go-to solution for problems that feel too big? Running from them. Or lying about them.

Today’s solution is apparently the latter.)

[quinientos]

Vasquez isn't sure that he believes him. For one, it's very likely that he might have been moaning on in Spanish, but Faraday's name is still his name, which doesn't change between languages. "Spanish," is his absentminded retort, carrying a little (but not a lot) of heat in it, because he's still not entirely sure what's happening between his grogginess and his unsureness about whether or not Faraday is telling the truth.

"You're sure that I..." he shuts himself up after a moment, because if Faraday is going to give him an out like this, he should take it. Besides, isn't this just more clear of a point that he needs to keep it to himself? This is not the sort of thing that will be well-taken, is clear, and even though he can feel the disappointment sinking in his chest, he's made his peace with it.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he tries not to let any of that show either, even though he thinks maybe it lingers in the eyes. "Did you wake me up and there's no breakfast?" he complains, trying to shake off the drink and the dreams and the lingering reminder of Faraday's friends in town and how they're going to see them because of a stupid challenge.

[peacemakers]

Faraday waits, shoulders tense in spite of the relaxed way he seems to lounge. He’s never run into a problem like this, not while he’s still uncertain as to the name of that what that weird, warm coil in his chest whenever Vasquez is involved. He’s not quite ready to face this, whatever this is, and more than that— well, he can’t read much into this, can he? Men had odd dreams, and just because Vasquez was having odd dreams – seemingly about Faraday – didn’t exactly mean there was anything meaningful to it.

Vasquez falters, and Faraday forces himself to maintain his gaze, tries to force down the blush still warming his neck, the tips of his ears, and he can write that off as awkwardness at catching Vasquez in the throes of that same dream. And when Vasquez changes the topic at last, Faraday relaxes by slow, incremental degrees, hands relaxing from tight fists, shoulders dropping slightly.

“I woke you up ‘cause I was tryin’ to sleep,” he cuts back, though there’s only a hint of his usual exasperation; his tone largely reads as relieved. “I’m getting’ back to bed while it’s still dark out. You’re more than welcome to see about your own breakfast.”

[quinientos]

"I want no breakfast, I want to go back to my dreams," Vasquez says grumpily, in enough of a mood that he says that instead of just hinting around the topic. He hauls at his coat again, even though he doesn't lay down just yet, because he doesn't want to go back to sleep now that he's past paranoid about the things he might say.

"Go back to sleep, querido," Vasquez sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, aware that this is going to come to a head some day. He knows he could take a horse, pack his things, escape now, but he's too selfish to want to give up a single moment when he doesn't have to.

Lying back down, he positions himself so that he can face Faraday only a little, in such a way that he sees only a sliver of him like this. "Next time, let me sleep. If this is so you think you can win our bet, you won't," he promises. "I am going to be the one with victory."

[peacemakers]

Faraday can’t help but snort out a laugh at that, relaxing more and more when Vasquez seems disinclined to discuss what, exactly, Vasquez was dreaming. (Not that Faraday is completely clueless – it would take a complete fool to see and hear what Faraday had and not figure out where Vasquez’s dreams had wandered.) The gears in Faraday’s mind spin wildly, though, with the revelation of this particular facet, and Faraday tries to think back – have there been signs? Or was this merely an odd, one-time dream?

He settles back down, pulling his blanket around himself, and frowning up at the night sky. It’s still dark, as Faraday had pointed out earlier, but sunrise isn’t too far off, by his reckoning. He huffs out a sigh, glancing over as Vasquez continues to grouse.

The reminder of their little wager elicits a quick frown, but it’s smoothed away one of Faraday’s usual devil-may-care smirks.

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, amigo,” he says, with an obvious lilt of amusement. “Night, Vas.”

[quinientos]

For all that he talks about going back to sleep, he stays awake and fakes it until he's sure that Faraday is out like a light. He doesn't want to risk any more moaned names, or worse, his body gravitating back to him in the middle of the night selfishly seeking heat. He sighs, aware that this is a problem for him to address, one that's been lingering since those early days of sitting at Faraday's bedside, but it always seemed easy to ignore.

Now, with jealousy hot in his head from the girl and the drinking, he's not sure he could stand it to watch it happen for real. Once he's sure Faraday is out, he starts to move around the camp again, leaning into the wager with the new intention to win.

There's no reason for him to be jealous if he can draw all the attention away from Faraday. He ducks behind some of their things and changes into a spare set of clothes, black button-down shirt (he'd stolen it on the road, after seeing how good it looked on Sam), a pair of slick calf-skin leathers, and his usual boots. He uses the dull reflective surface of one of the canteens to use some of the oil in his hair and beard, make it glossy and curly and shiny as he pushes them back.

He even takes one of the razors to his cheeks, cleans himself up a little. When they get to town, maybe he can see about washing his hands up, splashing rosewater on their face, but by the time he has breakfast out (not much more than bread and jerky), he feels like he's going to win. Passing Faraday, he gives him a light prod with the toe of his boot. "Awake, Faraday," he demands. "Breakfast so we can head into town."

god i'm the worst, i'm so sorry i keep taking so long

[peacemakers]

It's not the most peaceful sleep he's ever had, plagued as it is with half-formed thoughts and ideas. A boatload of what if's? and what about's? that circle around and around in his head, that by the time Vasquez nudges him awake, Faraday wakes without much difficulty.

(A marked change, considering the only thing liable to wake Faraday when he doesn't want to be woken is a sense of impending danger.)

He grumbles unintelligibly to himself, scrubbing sleep from his eyes – and while Vasquez might have cleaned himself up, Faraday looks like he's hardly gotten a wink of sleep for how restless the remainder of the night had been for him. He peers up at the other man in the morning light, and—

For a long while, he's simply stricken, startled by the change of appearance. It's... nice, he's startled to find, even Faraday prefers the man in his usual gear. The white linen shirt with its embroidered design, the unruly curl of his hair, that made him look road-worn.

(What startles Faraday even more is that he realizes he has a preference.)

"Look at you, all dolled up," Faraday murmurs wryly, his voice rough and thick with exhaustion. "Don't see you gettin' all nice and cleaned up when it's just me."

it's all good! I only got back from vacay mid-last week too!

[quinientos]

Vasquez has to work not to react to Faraday's voice when it's so thick and rough, but it does things to him that force him to turn away and think about any number of things that can dump cold water on all these thoughts or that voice, that mouth, and all the other things that have gotten him into this mess in the first place.

"Maybe if you asked nicely, I would," is his retort. "Besides, dressing up for you doesn't get me anything," is an added point, a touch sharp. Faraday is awake quicker than usual; Vasquez had been ready to get the pail of water to dump on him, not that getting the man soaking wet would've helped his cause, either.

Tucking the shirt in absently, he gestures to the food, breaking a piece of bread for himself as he settles on a rock, chewing thoughtfully as he stares just beyond Faraday to keep himself from thinking about Faraday saying his name with that voice.

"What does the winner get?" he asks. "I don't think we decided."

[peacemakers]

Faraday snorts out a quick laugh, shoving himself up to sit. He slouches a little, the heel of his palm digging into the sore muscle of his thigh, over that old battle scar. (It tends to act up in the morning, these days, or in the cold, or after too much riding; nowhere near as bad as those long stretches of weeks in Rose Creek, where even the mere thought of moving his leg was liable to make it scream at him in protest, thankfully.)

When he trusts his leg to hold his weight, he stands and stretches his arms overhead, moving over to the food and grabbing up a piece of bread. He doesn’t settle again, instead tentatively stretching out his bad leg. At Vasquez’s question, he frowns.

“Winner?” Faraday repeats around a mouthful of bread. “Winner for what?”

Apparently he didn’t take last night’s wager very seriously.

[quinientos]

"Come here," Vasquez beckons when he sees how Faraday is fussing with his leg, making room for him at his side as he cracks his hands, loosening them up. He doesn't think about the awkward night before, doesn't think about what's happening, all he knows is that he sees Faraday being fussy and his instinctual need to make that better kicks in.

"And winner for our wager," he replies, as he's moving to make space. "Remember? You said that if I came to town, no one would look twice at me, so occupied with you. I'm taking you up on it." He feels brazen and brave, stupid with it, because he thinks he can somehow stem his jealousy at the source by rendering it a moot point.

It's why he's gone to so much trouble to make himself look decent. "Give me a chance to prove that I can be more charming than you believe."

[peacemakers]

Faraday still isn’t in the habit of accepting help, even when he probably needs it. A matter of pride, he thinks, and a need to distance himself from his recovery in Rose Creek, when he was laid so low that he needed someone to feed him broth, like he was some sickened baby. Now that he’s mobile, now that he’s well enough to handle himself, he finds himself bristling whenever someone might imply he was helpless or weak.

Which is why whenever Vasquez offers a hand, Faraday tends to scowl at it, bite at it, like some mistrusting dog. It’s always a bit of a fight, though they both had about even odds of winning.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, and he lifts his weaker leg, rests his weight on it. “See? Quit fussin’.”

He waves his hand, dismissive, and returns to pacing around to ease out the sore muscle.

“You were serious about that bet?” he asks, before taking another bite of his bread. “Hell, I’m surprised you even remembered it all, drunk as you were.”

[quinientos]

Vasquez is far from convinced with that far-from-rousing defense of his leg. He keeps a steady eye on it, convinced that Faraday is going to end up regretting denying the help. When he keeps moving around, he eventually forfeits both hands in the air, like if Faraday plans to be this stubborn, then what can Vasquez do?

He can fuss, constantly and totally, but that will only bring them right back to here. "You can be fine and still accept help," is his deliberately nonchalant reply, possibly passive-aggressive in his tone and how he waves a hand around. "Never mind that you could be good instead of fine, carino."

Shaking his head, he leans over for some water for his parched throat, grateful that he hasn't got a hangover after everything he drank. Good family stock, he thinks. "Of course I was serious. What else am I doing?"

Apart from going half out of his mind with jealousy.

"Why should you get all the fun? Look, see? I dressed for it."

[peacemakers]

There's that word again, carino, and Faraday casts the other man a dark, unimpressed look for it. Clearly, not knowing what it means is far more annoying than the use of the word; Vasquez could happily call Faraday a bastard, an idiot, a fool, and Faraday would hardly bat an eye. The mystery proves to be far more frustrating.

Vasquez may have a point, Faraday silently concedes. May have, but stubborn mule that he is, Faraday will never cop to it. Instead, he huffs out an impatient breath, waving his hand at Vasquez's tone – somehow both level and sharp at once – and gives one last full-bodied stretch.

He does, however, take a seat beside Vasquez – not because he needs the help, of course (of course), but because he's simply finished with being on his feet.

"I see that, yes," Faraday replies evenly, if not a little skeptically. He casts Vasquez a sidelong glance before yawning; he still hasn't quite chased away his own sleeplessness.

"You sure you wanna head in there?" Apparently for all of Faraday's boasting yesterday, he's staring to have second thoughts – especially considering a wrong step might remind the world of that reward on Vasquez's head. "It ain't much to look at."

[quinientos]

The worst part about those dark looks every time Vasquez drags out a nickname is that it only makes him want to use them more. He tears off another strip of jerky, uses bread to soften it up, and water to wash it down before he sets them aside, moving to kneel at Faraday's side where he can dig his fingers into his leg, even though Faraday never actually gave him permission.

He can haul off and deck him later, if he wants, but as Vasquez lays his hands flush against the warmth of Faraday's skin even through the trousers, he keeps his touch firm, but light. When Faraday keeps trying to steer them away from it, Vasquez can't help the annoyed look on his face.

"I'm not sitting around doing nothing while you go into town again," is his heated reply. "If you go, I come with you. If I'm coming with you, might as well have a wager." Both to defend his own charms and to prevent any more flirting that will make him jealous by trying to draw it away.

Unfortunately, a bolt of that jealousy makes him dig his fingers just a little too deep into Faraday's leg, wincing when he realizes he's done so.

"Sorry, nene," he mumbles, flushing when he realizes what little endearment spilled his lips this time (and wondering why this one seems so much worse).

[peacemakers]

Faraday is usually quick, but given the sleepless night, given his difficulty in shaking off his exhaustion, when Vasquez moves to kneel in front of him, it doesn’t quite register what the other man has planned. The instant Vasquez’s hands are on that old wound, though, Faraday bristles, defensive and mulish.

He snaps, “The hell do you think you’re—”

But Vasquez has already set into it, fingers kneading into the knots, and Faraday sucks in a pained breath between his teeth, tensing under the attention. Usually, he’d latch onto Vasquez as he worked, on those rare instances where Faraday allowed him to (or when Vasquez surprised him, as he has now), making a wrinkled mess of Vasquez’s sleeves by clutching at them like a man being swept out to sea. This time, he has mind enough to leave it alone. Vasquez did go to the trouble of gussying himself up; it seems a shame to waste his efforts. Instead, Faraday clenches his jaw, nails biting into his palms, and he screws his eyes shut.

He’s only half-listening as Vasquez speaks, distracted as he is by the dull ache of his old scars, made worse as Vasquez works them away. It always feels worse until, after a few moments, Vasquez manages to soothe the worst of it away. Vasquez falls into a rhythm, and his touch is consistent enough that Faraday grows accustomed to it. He manages to focus only enough to mark out that tone in Vasquez’s voice – annoyance, frustration, he thinks.

But at that harder press, Faraday gives a full-bodied jerk, grunting out a curse— and, listen to that, a brand new nickname to add to the growing list. It’s— different, from the rest, he distantly notes. He’ll ask after it in a moment, but for now—

“Shit,” he pants out, breathless and pained. He pries an eye open, gaze almost accusing as he focuses on Vasquez. “The hell was that?”