"Don't call me darling," he warns, because that's not going to go over so well if it keeps happening. Of course, Vasquez is the idiot who also doesn't match actions to words, because rather than a reprimand, he leans down to grab him by the back of his neck and kiss Sweeney hard, slightly dazed by the different feel of it, the way he doesn't have as much power, how his mouth feels smaller.

How the beard scrapes and scratches like a motherfucker (how Vasquez maybe doesn't find that so bad). Already, he's contemplating how that will feel against mostly bare thighs and the thought makes him smirk, because maybe bad magic can have some perks.

"Alcohol," he agrees, digging in the bedside drawer where his supplies are (lasso, lube, all the important things, and there beside it, whiskey). He pries off the lid and takes a swig instantly, handing it over to Sweeney while he uses a thumb to wipe the excess droplets away from a hard swig taken.