Because if he were, maybe he'd be willing to admit that he's been wanting to do this for a while – except there are protocols in Statesman, and more importantly, he doesn't want to jeopardize an already good thing. Maybe he'd be willing to admit that he's spent a few lonely nights dreaming about something exactly like this.
Maybe he'd be willing to admit that after Cognac had brought him in to his first briefing, had said, "Mezcal, I'd like you to meet our brand new Agent Bourbon," and Vasquez had held out a hand for Faraday to shake, Faraday's first thought had been "Oh no. Oh God. Oh fuck."
And maybe he'd be willing to admit that the instant Vasquez gets on the same wavelength and starts kissing back instead of snapping Faraday's neck a full 180 degrees, his first thought is More.
But it's like Vasquez hears that private thought anyway, ramping up the intensity, knocking Faraday's wire-frame glasses slightly askew. Vasquez tastes like earthy smoke and good whiskey, and Faraday breathes down the smell of the other man's cologne again – something dark and spicy and intoxicating. Vasquez yanks at his shirt, running calloused hands over his bare skin, pulling him impossibly closer. And— fuck, all right, an urgent, shaky moan slips out of him before he can stop it. ]
Fuck, yes—
[ For the sake of a good show, he'll probably prevaricate later.
Except Vasquez is wordlessly echoing the sound, and God, what Faraday would give to hear that sound in a more private, more genuine setting. Hell, what wouldn't he give? That might be a much shorter list.
Someone lets out a slightly more forceful yet still timid "Gentlemen—?" The voice and the sound of footsteps are getting closer, but like Vasquez, Faraday pretends he doesn't hear.
More, his mind keeps chanting, even while he desperately tries to remind himself this isn't real. God Almighty, more, please—
He cups the nape of Vasquez' neck, fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. Tonight, Vasquez's curls are tamed for the sake of looking the part, but Faraday's pretty sure he's managing to make a mess, all the same. ]
Gentlemen!
[ The shrillness of it startles Faraday more than anything, and he jerks back, lips red and swollen and glasses still sitting crookedly on the bridge of his nose. He's panting for breath as he looks over to a waiter who refuses to make direct eye contact, opting instead to stare down at their shoes, and whose face is redder than a tomato. ]
Gentlemen, um. I'm so, so sorry to— to interrupt. But this area is, um. This is staff only. So if you could—
no subject
Because if he were, maybe he'd be willing to admit that he's been wanting to do this for a while – except there are protocols in Statesman, and more importantly, he doesn't want to jeopardize an already good thing. Maybe he'd be willing to admit that he's spent a few lonely nights dreaming about something exactly like this.
Maybe he'd be willing to admit that after Cognac had brought him in to his first briefing, had said, "Mezcal, I'd like you to meet our brand new Agent Bourbon," and Vasquez had held out a hand for Faraday to shake, Faraday's first thought had been "Oh no. Oh God. Oh fuck."
And maybe he'd be willing to admit that the instant Vasquez gets on the same wavelength and starts kissing back instead of snapping Faraday's neck a full 180 degrees, his first thought is More.
But it's like Vasquez hears that private thought anyway, ramping up the intensity, knocking Faraday's wire-frame glasses slightly askew. Vasquez tastes like earthy smoke and good whiskey, and Faraday breathes down the smell of the other man's cologne again – something dark and spicy and intoxicating. Vasquez yanks at his shirt, running calloused hands over his bare skin, pulling him impossibly closer. And— fuck, all right, an urgent, shaky moan slips out of him before he can stop it. ]
Fuck, yes—
[ For the sake of a good show, he'll probably prevaricate later.
Except Vasquez is wordlessly echoing the sound, and God, what Faraday would give to hear that sound in a more private, more genuine setting. Hell, what wouldn't he give? That might be a much shorter list.
Someone lets out a slightly more forceful yet still timid "Gentlemen—?" The voice and the sound of footsteps are getting closer, but like Vasquez, Faraday pretends he doesn't hear.
More, his mind keeps chanting, even while he desperately tries to remind himself this isn't real. God Almighty, more, please—
He cups the nape of Vasquez' neck, fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. Tonight, Vasquez's curls are tamed for the sake of looking the part, but Faraday's pretty sure he's managing to make a mess, all the same. ]
Gentlemen!
[ The shrillness of it startles Faraday more than anything, and he jerks back, lips red and swollen and glasses still sitting crookedly on the bridge of his nose. He's panting for breath as he looks over to a waiter who refuses to make direct eye contact, opting instead to stare down at their shoes, and whose face is redder than a tomato. ]
Gentlemen, um. I'm so, so sorry to— to interrupt. But this area is, um. This is staff only. So if you could—