[ The leaving was always inevitable; the only question remaining was "when?" For all that Vasquez exists in immortal uncertainty, following little more than the winds roiling across the desert, he isn't preoccupied with the time he has left in Rose Creek.
Vasquez's "when" depends on one thing:
Faraday.
Red Harvest is gone; Sam follows soon after. Sam gives Vasquez his silver chain without needing to be asked, and Vasquez can only offer a small smile of gratitude (grace is not, unfortunately, his strong suit). Funny, how Sam doesn't try to convince either of them that their plans might have explosive potential, given what they both are; he doesn't question it for a heartbeat, like it just makes sense that they're determined to be tied together – at least for a little while.
Like Vasquez said, they wander together.
For how long? Who knows. Vasquez has all the time in the world, and maybe it leaves itself dependent on how long Faraday can tolerate him, how long they can both take the verbal swipes and unreliable moods. Despite how they grate on each other, how they regularly make points of how obnoxious they find one another, Vasquez is in no rush to part ways.
For once, he doesn't travel in silence – and he finds he likes it that way.
The next full moon isn't as much of a challenge. Or, at least, Vasquez has learned to keep more of his distance when he doesn't smell any humans close enough that the wolf poses a risk. As the night wears on, the wolf inevitably turns its attention on Vasquez, and once again, they come at each other with teeth and claws.
The difference now is that Faraday isn't barely holding himself together with stitches and a crutch. With that in mind, Vasquez is less shy about making up for the damage the wolf does; he gets his teeth in the beast, and he drinks until he feels his own wounds healing over, while the wolf seems to lose a flicker of its fire with the anemia.
A decent compromise.
He's still exhausted in the morning, but he looks less like he's being held together with bare ligaments.
It's easier – sort of.
For better or for worse, the price on Vasquez's head is intended to be collected by Hunters – capital "H." His "wanted" posters bear a stark warning – DO NOT APPROACH – to warn away any mortals who fancy his bounty. Unfortunately, that does mean that his face, poor likeness or no, is broadcast on paper as a bloodsucker, to be given a wide berth. Vasquez has to keep a low profile, if for no other reason than to avoid a panic.
Luckily for Vasquez, Faraday is incredibly good at keeping all eyes on him. Vasquez doesn't leave him to poke through towns on his own, but people care less about the moody Mexican when the gregarious man at his elbow tells the best jokes.
Vasquez doesn't partake in Faraday's card games, but he's happy enough to sit at a nearby table, sipping at a drink and smiling to himself whenever Faraday pulls an especially tall tale out of his pocket. Part of it is making sure trouble isn't stirred up over sore losers, that no one reaches for a gun when Faraday just happens to have been a better player.
It's an easy rhythm, a comfortable routine.
Of course that means it can't last for long.
It's time for them to be leaving town before sunset, and Vasquez leaves Faraday to finish up at his table. He goes to ready their horses, get them saddled and set to depart (his stallion is no trouble, and Jack has finally become reasonably tolerant of him).
He's in the middle of getting Jack's bridle in place when something feels— off. Like a shiver that rolls up his spine, sets his hair on end.
Vasquez leaves Jack to the stable hand with a quick reassurance that he'll be right back, to keep an eye on their rides for a moment. Stepping out of the livery, he listens for Faraday's voice, tries to sniff him out, only to realize the werewolf isn't in the saloon or anywhere within sight.
Mierda.
Vasquez quickly leaves the stable behind, following the prominent scent of the wolf that always seems to cling to Faraday's skin. He makes it past the edge of town, and across the fields, he sees a familiar tall figure – surrounded by two men.
Something cold and bitter rises in Vasquez's chest, his lip curling away from his teeth. It's not hard to make out Faraday with his hands up with a pair of guns pointed right at him, and that cold edge turns icy and sharp.
He doesn't even stop to consider his next step.
Vasquez advances through the field, calling out in half a snarl, ]
i mean. hard same.
Vasquez's "when" depends on one thing:
Faraday.
Red Harvest is gone; Sam follows soon after. Sam gives Vasquez his silver chain without needing to be asked, and Vasquez can only offer a small smile of gratitude (grace is not, unfortunately, his strong suit). Funny, how Sam doesn't try to convince either of them that their plans might have explosive potential, given what they both are; he doesn't question it for a heartbeat, like it just makes sense that they're determined to be tied together – at least for a little while.
Like Vasquez said, they wander together.
For how long? Who knows. Vasquez has all the time in the world, and maybe it leaves itself dependent on how long Faraday can tolerate him, how long they can both take the verbal swipes and unreliable moods. Despite how they grate on each other, how they regularly make points of how obnoxious they find one another, Vasquez is in no rush to part ways.
For once, he doesn't travel in silence – and he finds he likes it that way.
The next full moon isn't as much of a challenge. Or, at least, Vasquez has learned to keep more of his distance when he doesn't smell any humans close enough that the wolf poses a risk. As the night wears on, the wolf inevitably turns its attention on Vasquez, and once again, they come at each other with teeth and claws.
The difference now is that Faraday isn't barely holding himself together with stitches and a crutch. With that in mind, Vasquez is less shy about making up for the damage the wolf does; he gets his teeth in the beast, and he drinks until he feels his own wounds healing over, while the wolf seems to lose a flicker of its fire with the anemia.
A decent compromise.
He's still exhausted in the morning, but he looks less like he's being held together with bare ligaments.
It's easier – sort of.
For better or for worse, the price on Vasquez's head is intended to be collected by Hunters – capital "H." His "wanted" posters bear a stark warning – DO NOT APPROACH – to warn away any mortals who fancy his bounty. Unfortunately, that does mean that his face, poor likeness or no, is broadcast on paper as a bloodsucker, to be given a wide berth. Vasquez has to keep a low profile, if for no other reason than to avoid a panic.
Luckily for Vasquez, Faraday is incredibly good at keeping all eyes on him. Vasquez doesn't leave him to poke through towns on his own, but people care less about the moody Mexican when the gregarious man at his elbow tells the best jokes.
Vasquez doesn't partake in Faraday's card games, but he's happy enough to sit at a nearby table, sipping at a drink and smiling to himself whenever Faraday pulls an especially tall tale out of his pocket. Part of it is making sure trouble isn't stirred up over sore losers, that no one reaches for a gun when Faraday just happens to have been a better player.
It's an easy rhythm, a comfortable routine.
Of course that means it can't last for long.
It's time for them to be leaving town before sunset, and Vasquez leaves Faraday to finish up at his table. He goes to ready their horses, get them saddled and set to depart (his stallion is no trouble, and Jack has finally become reasonably tolerant of him).
He's in the middle of getting Jack's bridle in place when something feels— off. Like a shiver that rolls up his spine, sets his hair on end.
Vasquez leaves Jack to the stable hand with a quick reassurance that he'll be right back, to keep an eye on their rides for a moment. Stepping out of the livery, he listens for Faraday's voice, tries to sniff him out, only to realize the werewolf isn't in the saloon or anywhere within sight.
Mierda.
Vasquez quickly leaves the stable behind, following the prominent scent of the wolf that always seems to cling to Faraday's skin. He makes it past the edge of town, and across the fields, he sees a familiar tall figure – surrounded by two men.
Something cold and bitter rises in Vasquez's chest, his lip curling away from his teeth. It's not hard to make out Faraday with his hands up with a pair of guns pointed right at him, and that cold edge turns icy and sharp.
He doesn't even stop to consider his next step.
Vasquez advances through the field, calling out in half a snarl, ]
Ay, pendejos!
The hell you think you're doing?