[ The silence between them is weighty and awkward in a way it rarely ever is. Sure, the silence can be charged – with nerves, with anticipation, with that frenetic dangerous energy that comes before a shoot-out – but it’s never this weird.
It’s only when Vasquez finally pulls back that he realizes the other man still had a hold on Faraday’s hand. Faraday makes a similar tactical retreat, rocking a little to one side to make space. He flexes his fingers anxiously. He pulls his glasses off, slipping them back into his breast pocket, and tries not to think about how he’s going to explain that particular point in the feed to their handlers. Good Lord, he’s not looking forward to Switchel giving him shit once they’re back. He’s gonna have to tear the peach fuzz off that dumb bastard’s face to shut him the hell up.
Sam, at least, will be forgiving and discreet, at least, but— clandestine organization as they are, no one can keep their goddamn mouths shut. Scuttlebutt still moves fast.
Then again, that’s all assuming Faraday survives the trip back.
“Did you hear about Bourbon?” he imagines. “Yeah. Mezcal chucked him out of their airplane at height. God rest his soul. Anyway, did you pick your candidate yet?”
He takes a rallying breath, tongue darting out to nervously wet his lips (and he tastes cigar smoke and good whiskey and lingering traces of wine and—)
When he speaks, his tone is uncharacteristically uncertain, a little experimental – like testing his weight on thin, cracking ice. ]
no subject
It’s only when Vasquez finally pulls back that he realizes the other man still had a hold on Faraday’s hand. Faraday makes a similar tactical retreat, rocking a little to one side to make space. He flexes his fingers anxiously. He pulls his glasses off, slipping them back into his breast pocket, and tries not to think about how he’s going to explain that particular point in the feed to their handlers. Good Lord, he’s not looking forward to Switchel giving him shit once they’re back. He’s gonna have to tear the peach fuzz off that dumb bastard’s face to shut him the hell up.
Sam, at least, will be forgiving and discreet, at least, but— clandestine organization as they are, no one can keep their goddamn mouths shut. Scuttlebutt still moves fast.
Then again, that’s all assuming Faraday survives the trip back.
“Did you hear about Bourbon?” he imagines. “Yeah. Mezcal chucked him out of their airplane at height. God rest his soul. Anyway, did you pick your candidate yet?”
He takes a rallying breath, tongue darting out to nervously wet his lips (and he tastes cigar smoke and good whiskey and lingering traces of wine and—)
When he speaks, his tone is uncharacteristically uncertain, a little experimental – like testing his weight on thin, cracking ice. ]
Close one, huh?