That's different. More different that Vasquez had been expecting, if he's truthful, but also not entirely in a bad way. His fingers tangled in the longer strands of Sweeney's hair, he absently pets him as the strangely wonderful feeling starts to dissipate through his bones and makes him feel normal again.

Collapsing back against the waiting pillows with a heavy thump, he feels sated and sleepy and so fucking good, pushing hair off his forehead in absent little pushes, something to keep his fingers occupied. "So that's making the most of it? Not bad at all," he murmurs, a rave review if ever he's given one.