And won't it be exciting to introduce them to mi amante.
[ And naturally as anything, he curls his arm around Faraday's waist, finally directing them towards a set of faces. It's easy to insinuate themselves into the conversation, though Vasquez is almost surprised no one so much as blinks twice at the familiar way he and Faraday stand and introduce each other. Vasquez has to wonder if it's a matter of business, of wealth; money speaks louder than any tastes or proclivities.
Mingling gives them the chance to put names to faces, to get a better look at the auction attendees: a room of almost exclusively men, from all corners of the globe.
At some point, they come across a man with black hair and a husky voice – made all the deeper, surely, by the cigar between his fingers. He stops in the middle of passing Faraday and Vasquez, pausing as Vasquez waves off a joke with a click of his tongue and a grin. Vasquez is suddenly very aware of him when he notices the man stop mid-step, and then a broad palm rests on Vasquez's shoulder.
It takes so much self-restraint not to swing on instinct.
Just as Vasquez is turning to ask the man what he wants, the gentleman offers, ]
Tu acento – Michoacan, sí?
[ That actually manages to throw Vasquez for a loop. He blinks at the man for a heartbeat, but his confusion and wariness is pushed aside by a brilliant grin (even if his mind is setting off alarm bells). ]
¿Sí, y usted?
[ The man's broad face splits in a smile. ]
Bogotá, mi amigo. Tan poca gente que habla Español aquí.
[ Bogotá—
Oh. ]
No lo se, no lo se. [ He sticks his hand out to the man, who pops his cigar between his lips to shake. ] Alejandro.
Maximiliano, amigo.
[ Maximiliano Rojas. Big in the Columbian cartels. Very big.
Vasquez rests his hand on Faraday's shoulder, speaking again to Maximiliano. ]
Ah, mi pareja no habla Español.
[ Maximiliano turns his attention to Faraday, finally, blinking at him before bursting out in another deep laugh. ]
My apologies, my apologies. English for you, then.
no subject
[ And naturally as anything, he curls his arm around Faraday's waist, finally directing them towards a set of faces. It's easy to insinuate themselves into the conversation, though Vasquez is almost surprised no one so much as blinks twice at the familiar way he and Faraday stand and introduce each other. Vasquez has to wonder if it's a matter of business, of wealth; money speaks louder than any tastes or proclivities.
Mingling gives them the chance to put names to faces, to get a better look at the auction attendees: a room of almost exclusively men, from all corners of the globe.
At some point, they come across a man with black hair and a husky voice – made all the deeper, surely, by the cigar between his fingers. He stops in the middle of passing Faraday and Vasquez, pausing as Vasquez waves off a joke with a click of his tongue and a grin. Vasquez is suddenly very aware of him when he notices the man stop mid-step, and then a broad palm rests on Vasquez's shoulder.
It takes so much self-restraint not to swing on instinct.
Just as Vasquez is turning to ask the man what he wants, the gentleman offers, ]
Tu acento – Michoacan, sí?
[ That actually manages to throw Vasquez for a loop. He blinks at the man for a heartbeat, but his confusion and wariness is pushed aside by a brilliant grin (even if his mind is setting off alarm bells). ]
¿Sí, y usted?
[ The man's broad face splits in a smile. ]
Bogotá, mi amigo. Tan poca gente que habla Español aquí.
[ Bogotá—
Oh. ]
No lo se, no lo se. [ He sticks his hand out to the man, who pops his cigar between his lips to shake. ] Alejandro.
Maximiliano, amigo.
[ Maximiliano Rojas. Big in the Columbian cartels. Very big.
Vasquez rests his hand on Faraday's shoulder, speaking again to Maximiliano. ]
Ah, mi pareja no habla Español.
[ Maximiliano turns his attention to Faraday, finally, blinking at him before bursting out in another deep laugh. ]
My apologies, my apologies. English for you, then.