[ After he was cleaned up, after his wounds were tended to, after someone had the bright idea to keep him modest by dressing him in loose-fitting clothing, Faraday looked—
Well.
He looked like he got hit by a train and dragged halfway across the country. He looked like he got trampled by a stampede of horses. There was more of him covered by bruises than not, to say nothing of the bullet wounds.
He looked like a man who miraculously survived a war.
With as taxed as his body was, he somehow managed to sleep through each painful transformation, signalling the end and start of day. It was on the second night that his change finally roused him, and he woke, screaming and panicking when it took him entirely by surprise. He didn't know where he was, and he couldn't remember what had happened, and he could hear voices nearby, knew they were too close. Someone would find him, someone would see him, someone would lodge a silver bullet in his skull while he was in the throes of the change, vulnerable and exposed, and—
The bandages fell away, and Faraday lurched, trying to find an expedient exit in his panic. It was only when Vasquez restrained him, speaking to him in an urgent but gentle voice, that the wolf finally calmed, sinking to the ground.
Vasquez told him what happened. Rose Creek was saved, and the able-bodied were still holding vigil over the corpses. (Which explained the overwhelming stench of rot and death.) One more night, Sam had explained, and if none of them woke, then the bodies would be safe to burn or bury.
No one, it seemed, has decided what would happen if someone did wake. Luckily, no one had to make that decision.
Horne was gone, as were Billy and Goody, and Faraday was only a little surprised by how gutted he was by the news. Seven days were more than enough to inspire loyalty and friendship, even out of a man who made it a point to keep to himself, and Faraday had mourned their loss.
In the first week or so after the battle, Faraday had trouble staying awake as his body repaired itself, as he healed from wounds that should have killed him. Would have killed him, if Vasquez hadn't found him and dug out the silver. Faraday should thank him but it was difficult to be grateful for much, when his body throbbed like an open wound, when he couldn't manage to keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes when his transformations dragged him into the waking world.
By the second week, Faraday knew he was on the mend, but he was nowhere close to fighting shape, and nowhere near well enough to make himself useful in the repairs around town, in the cleanup of blood and viscera. But he was well enough to feel useless, to feel like he should be doing more.
By the third week, he's still exhausted, still aching, but he's awake more often than not. He wonders why he hasn't bounced back from these wounds nearly as quickly as the ones Vasquez had inflicted on him before the battle. Sam stares at him when he asks it aloud – not quite like Faraday is an idiot, but something close – and lets out a small hum.
"The silver," the Hunter explains. "It does something to you. Interacts badly with your condition."
Oh. That makes sense.
"Setting that reason aside," Sam continues patiently, "there's also the fact you nearly got yourself killed. Your body is probably doin' its best to remind you to never do that again."
These days, Faraday can manage to hobble around with the help of a crutch, but he can't get too far before he's exhausted. He's getting better by the day, he knows, but—
Next week is the full moon. With him being in the condition he is, he has no idea what that means for him or the wolf. Maybe this time, the shed might actually contain it.
Or maybe this time, the pain from these injuries will drive the wolf into a feral, panicked frenzy and make things so much worse.
He doesn't need the laudanum nearly so keenly anymore, and it's best saved for the men slogging through their healing the slow way, who don't have the benefit of a wolf's curse to speed it along. What that means for Faraday, though, is that he has to go about things the usual way. The tried and true way.
He sets out from his room early in the afternoon – mostly because he knows the state that he's in, and he knows his journey will take some time. He's not sure if Vasquez is still dozing in his room, odd schedule that the vampire keeps, but Faraday isn't trying to avoid him, necessarily. Neither is he making a secret of where he's headed, and while he earns a handful of disapproving looks, most of the townsfolk hold their tongues.
He takes his time, surveying the work completed so far, letting himself be carried away in conversation when some of the townsfolk see him, trying his best to weather the offers of sincere prayers and blessings from God. Someone takes pity on him and helps him to his destination.
Faraday, it seems, has returned to his roots. To tradition.
He plans on getting completely smashed to deal with the pain of the change.
A couple hours before sundown, Faraday is still seated at a table in the saloon, weaving his usual hokum – stories he's heard over card tables, rumors and mysteries he's heard on the road, or tales of some of the ridiculous situations he's gotten himself into.
He's a good way into his cups by the time Vasquez arrives. The men he had been playing poker with are taking their leave after a thorough, good-natured trouncing, returning to the thousands of tasks that need doing around the town. When the vampire steps through the swinging batwing doors, Faraday looks up from shuffling his cards to flash him a crooked grin, cheeks only a little flushed. Faraday had always handled his liquor well, even before he was bitten. He's not sure if it's the curse or just years of practice, but his tolerance is practically legendary, at this point. ]
Vasquez! There you are.
[ The consonants are less sharp than they should be, the words running together a little, but he's not so far gone just yet. He riffles the cards with some difficulty, his right arm weaker thanks to the bullet he had taken. He arranges the cards back into a neat deck before setting it aside on the table. ]
At first blush, there's nothing tying him to Rose Creek; the battle is won, the job is done, and he owes them all nothing. He's free to return to his life of wandering, with the promise that Chisolm will never follow his trail again.
But he stays.
Mostly, he stays in Faraday's room, keeping watch over the gambler as he weathers the worst of silver's ruin, there to wrangle the wolf until he can breathe again. After the first night, it's easier – less calming the raging panic and need to escape, and more sitting up with the wolf, burning time and cigars in equal measure. Fairly fortunate that Faraday sleeps the day away, too, because it often means Vasquez is free to doze off in a chair set in the corner, awake again at night for the wolf bearing its wounds.
The second week sees Vasquez dividing his time between Faraday and helping the town rebuild and clean the remanants of their bloody battle. Again, nothing that he owes them, but something he offers without anyone bothering to ask.
(Emma still casts wary looks his way when she sees him out in the streets, nailing up board or scrubbing down a porch. After near fourteen days, by Vasquez's count, the widow seems to have eased down her prickly walls that were all Vasquez had seen, leading up to the fight.
For the first time, he sees her smile at him – a true, genuine smile – and he's almost certain he imagined it.
But he reminds himself that hardened hearts are rarely born to be so, and Mrs. Cullen must find peace now that she's found righteousness.
He's glad for her.)
The full moon is approaching, and it's the first time Vasquez is— concerned for Faraday's state. The gambler is healing well enough, all things considered, but after seeing the sort of mindless rage Faraday had succumbed to at the last moon...
Vasquez is wary.
But Faraday is also a grown man, and Vasquez is not his nursemaid. It's not his job to see that Faraday is dealing with his condition, and given how long Faraday has juggled it and how concerned he is for the wellfare of the mortals he might affect, Vasquez assumes the werewolf knows what he's doing.
Vasquez does not, however, assume he'd find Faraday at the saloon in the late afternoon.
He's just finished hauling lumber back to the town, so he's a little bit of a mess when he follows the sound of a familiar voice through the street. (Not awful, really, but his shirt is smeared with soil and there's surely bark caught in his curls – as one would expect from carrying a whole damned tree around.) Vasquez walks through the batwing doors, stepping aside as Faraday's fellow card-players are shuffling their way out. He meets Faraday's grin with a cocked brow, amusement playing at the corner of his eyes as he surveys the scene.
Faraday, it seems, has been having a good time.
As he's called over, he offers a shrug, a little smirk – "No need to ask twice." He pulls a chair out for himself across from Faraday, settling down and resting his elbows on the table. ]
I hope you did not embarrass your friends too badly when you beat them, perro.
[ Because he's assuming Faraday knocked their boots off with the hands they got in. ]
[ Faraday shrugs lightly, plastering a look of complete innocence on his face. ]
What's there to be embarrassed about? It was a friendly game. Didn't even put money on the table.
[ He pauses as he gestures for another empty glass for Vasquez. The bottle of whiskey nearby is a fresh one, it seems. It's hard to say if Faraday had similarly shared his earlier bottle with the men who just left, or if he had drained it on his own.
Then, a stage whisper, ]
Confidentially speaking, though, it was an awful showing, and they should feel embarrassed.
[ Once the clean glass is brought over, Faraday pours out a generous share. ]
[ Vasquez barks out a short laugh, thoroughly unsurprised by what Faraday "confides" in him. He watches as Faraday fills his glass from a fresh bottle, curious about what that might imply about how much Faraday has managed to pour down his throat in however long he's been at the saloon.
Vasquez accepts the whiskey, lifting his glass in a short salute before he takes a sip. ]
I brought in new lumber, but I think my fellow workers were a little overwhelmed by the task ahead with a whole tree. They found something else to do.
Oh— [ And his tone is light, unconcerned. ] Couple hours, give or take.
You brought in a whole tree?
[ Given what Vasquez is, Faraday isn't entirely surprised, but it's still impressive enough.
He reaches over with his good arm – bad arm he takes care to keep pressed close to his side – and though the stretch pulls awkwardly at the partially-healed gash on his side, he still manages it. ]
Explains why you've got this, then.
[ And Faraday plucks a piece of bark from Vasquez's hair. It's not unlike one of his more common tricks of producing a card or a coin from thin air, and Faraday offers the detritus with a flourish. ]
[ He reaches over, freeing yet another piece of bark from Vasquez's hair before, very maturely, flicking it at Vasquez's chest. ]
Quit callin' me that.
[ It's practically by instinct that he says it, these days; it feels more like a well-practiced call and response than anything, and any annoyance he might express for the nickname is more for show than anything. ]
You're makin' me regret sharin' that whiskey with you, now.
[ Vasquez is so used to hearing that complaint that he barely even registers it as such – and it certainly doesn't affect what he goes about calling Faraday.
The bark falls into his lap, and while still sipping at his whiskey, Vasquez picks up the bit of the debris and flicks it right back at Faraday.
Clearly, the epitome of maturity. ]
Looks to me like you've already gone through plenty on your own, eh?
Not nearly as much as I'd need to put up with the likes of you.
[ And even that particular barb is dulled, cast with a fondness Faraday is largely unconscious of – or at least, a fondness that Faraday doesn't feel the need to acknowledge. Exchanging these little verbal jabs in the same way young boys might shove at each other—
It's just— easy.
With all the damage he's taken, with all the scars the battle has surely left him with, both physical and mental – the time he's spent with someone who understands what it's like being a monster, knows what it's like to hide among folks who would fear and despise them if they knew the truth, has surely spoiled him.
And in the late hours between night and morning, when Vasquez is giving Faraday the gift of his time – even if that gift is filled with friendly insults, not all of it in English, made all the more annoying because Faraday can't properly respond – the idea of returning to his old, solitary life fills Faraday with a peculiar, breath-stealing, heart-stopping dread.
Which is why he does his best to avoid thinking on it during slightly more reasonable hours. ]
His own glass, predictably, is mostly empty, save for a mouthful that he quickly downs. He pauses to appreciate the sharp burn of the alcohol as it travels down his throat, as the familiar warmth of it sparks and blooms through his belly. He sighs, pouring himself another glass. ]
And I got a while yet 'fore I'm as corned as I need to be, anyhow.
[ Vasquez huffs out a breath of a laugh, and under the table, he gives Faraday's ankle a light nudge – a shadow of the reprimanding kick that it might usually be, if he weren't still paying deference to how Faraday is healing.
He shifts in his seat, leaning on one elbow as he makes himself more comfortable. He watches Faraday askance more than he properly faces the gambler; his gaze flicks around the saloon, watching the door, the exits, as a matter of habit. He gives the appearance of lounging, but it's the long-learned casual way of his existence: relaxing, while prepared for conflict, ready to leave before it brews.
But, as Faraday works on his next glass—
The first mention of tonight's moon. ]
This how you usually deal with tu lobo? Drain whiskey until you can't walk?
[ A light hum of agreement in lieu of a proper answer – mostly because he's preoccupied with taking another pull from his glass.
The moon is a little more than three-fourths full, tonight; he can feel it in his bones, somehow, even without checking the sky or the helpful charting in an almanac. There's something a little rougher about the change when the moon brightens – like the wolf knows its time is coming, and it's eager to get the hell out.
He sighs again as the whiskey burns down his throat. ]
Don't got the laudanum anymore to help with it. Gotta use my old tricks.
[ He pauses, thoughtful, glancing down at his glass. He sloshes the white whiskey around.
It's probably the alcohol in his system that makes him more honest, but he offers quietly, ]
Not as well as it used to.
[ Still, Faraday is apparently game to keep trying, and he refills his glass. His hands have always been steady, even with the unhelpful addition of booze in his system, and manages the pour without wasting a drop.
In a tone of voice that seems to have completely forgotten the flagging of his mood from only seconds ago, ]
That's a more somber, realistic response, and the sincerity of it startles the smirk off of Vasquez's face. He can't imagine how daunting it would truly be lose what little control one has over an otherwise uncontrollable situation.
He covers his own surprise by taking a longer pull from his glass. ]
Maybe drunk it will be easier to wrestle your wolf down, no?
[ ... Implying that Vasquez will be there to do the wrestling.
For some reason, it hasn't even occurred to him that he might not be. ]
[ That manages to startle a laugh from him, and the corner of his mouth tugs upward in a reluctant smile. ]
Could do.
[ His smile dims a fraction as he glances toward a window to gauge the dimming of the light. He doesn't really need to do it, considering he can judge the time of day by the way the curse prowls in his chest, rising closer and closer to the surface. But it's habit, by now. Like knowing that five and seven make twelve, but still dutifully adding them together, just to be sure.
Still plenty of time, though, he thinks. Plenty of time before night properly falls, and plenty of time, he hopes, to get properly drunk to dull the pain of his partially-healed wounds and the change. ]
I'd have to be awfully drunk, though, for one of these farmers to manage keepin' the wolf down.
[ Because unlike Vasquez, Faraday assumes nothing.
The vampire had made it abundantly clear how little he enjoyed the experience of "dog-sitting," as he had so kindly put it.
In a few more nights, Faraday figures he'll be on his own; he doubts the man is looking for a repeat experience. ]
[ Vasquez's eyes follow Faraday's, and for the moment, he seems to be taking in the same time, measuring for himself. He doesn't have that feeling to gauge the way that Faraday does, but he's spent enough time at the werewolf's side to begin approximating when to expect Faraday will trade flesh for fur.
They've got a little time left.
However, with the mention of the citizens of Rose Creek, Vasquez just offers a surprised, derisive snort. ]
I didn't mean the farmers, perrito. You would have to be unconscious for one of them to manage you.
I think just a little dizzy, and I can handle you fine.
[ Faraday's brow furrows a little, his gaze sliding back to Vasquez. He's quiet for a second, trying, for once, to pick his words – not an easy thing, normally, made all the more difficult with the whiskey in his gut.
Eventually, ]
You sure you want to go for a second round? You didn't have the easiest time with it.
[ Which is one hell of an understatement.
What he means is, "The wolf tried to maul you and eat you, not necessarily in that order, and I wouldn't blame you in the slightest if you wanted to stick a silver collar around it, tie it to a post, and call it a night." ]
[ Vasquez can see Faraday picking things apart for a moment, and he's honestly a little baffled by how readily Faraday had expected Vasquez to wash his hands of the wolf.
... Well, considering he'd ended the night covered in his own blood, it's probably a fair assumption, but— ]
I told you before: it'll take more than un perrito to kill me.
[ And he finishes his glass of whiskey, nudging it back across the table to Faraday for a refill. ]
[ Vasquez accepts his glass back with a little nod, pulling it close to swirl the liquid inside. Faraday's words don't dissuade him, by any means, and it seems like a fair warning.
But: ]
I'll ask Sam for the chain. That seemed to work a bit.
At the worst, maybe I just bite you.
[ This, he says with a sharp grin, though his words carry the lilt of a tease. ]
Oh, right, sure. Let's just add more holes to this mess.
[ A couple weeks ago, the words would have been cast bitterly. Now, though, either from the definite signs of healing and progress or from the whiskey evening out his mood, his tone matches Vasquez's – sharp but light, all the same. ]
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this is messy like it always is gomen
Well.
He looked like he got hit by a train and dragged halfway across the country. He looked like he got trampled by a stampede of horses. There was more of him covered by bruises than not, to say nothing of the bullet wounds.
He looked like a man who miraculously survived a war.
With as taxed as his body was, he somehow managed to sleep through each painful transformation, signalling the end and start of day. It was on the second night that his change finally roused him, and he woke, screaming and panicking when it took him entirely by surprise. He didn't know where he was, and he couldn't remember what had happened, and he could hear voices nearby, knew they were too close. Someone would find him, someone would see him, someone would lodge a silver bullet in his skull while he was in the throes of the change, vulnerable and exposed, and—
The bandages fell away, and Faraday lurched, trying to find an expedient exit in his panic. It was only when Vasquez restrained him, speaking to him in an urgent but gentle voice, that the wolf finally calmed, sinking to the ground.
Vasquez told him what happened. Rose Creek was saved, and the able-bodied were still holding vigil over the corpses. (Which explained the overwhelming stench of rot and death.) One more night, Sam had explained, and if none of them woke, then the bodies would be safe to burn or bury.
No one, it seemed, has decided what would happen if someone did wake. Luckily, no one had to make that decision.
Horne was gone, as were Billy and Goody, and Faraday was only a little surprised by how gutted he was by the news. Seven days were more than enough to inspire loyalty and friendship, even out of a man who made it a point to keep to himself, and Faraday had mourned their loss.
In the first week or so after the battle, Faraday had trouble staying awake as his body repaired itself, as he healed from wounds that should have killed him. Would have killed him, if Vasquez hadn't found him and dug out the silver. Faraday should thank him but it was difficult to be grateful for much, when his body throbbed like an open wound, when he couldn't manage to keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes when his transformations dragged him into the waking world.
By the second week, Faraday knew he was on the mend, but he was nowhere close to fighting shape, and nowhere near well enough to make himself useful in the repairs around town, in the cleanup of blood and viscera. But he was well enough to feel useless, to feel like he should be doing more.
By the third week, he's still exhausted, still aching, but he's awake more often than not. He wonders why he hasn't bounced back from these wounds nearly as quickly as the ones Vasquez had inflicted on him before the battle. Sam stares at him when he asks it aloud – not quite like Faraday is an idiot, but something close – and lets out a small hum.
"The silver," the Hunter explains. "It does something to you. Interacts badly with your condition."
Oh. That makes sense.
"Setting that reason aside," Sam continues patiently, "there's also the fact you nearly got yourself killed. Your body is probably doin' its best to remind you to never do that again."
These days, Faraday can manage to hobble around with the help of a crutch, but he can't get too far before he's exhausted. He's getting better by the day, he knows, but—
Next week is the full moon. With him being in the condition he is, he has no idea what that means for him or the wolf. Maybe this time, the shed might actually contain it.
Or maybe this time, the pain from these injuries will drive the wolf into a feral, panicked frenzy and make things so much worse.
He doesn't need the laudanum nearly so keenly anymore, and it's best saved for the men slogging through their healing the slow way, who don't have the benefit of a wolf's curse to speed it along. What that means for Faraday, though, is that he has to go about things the usual way. The tried and true way.
He sets out from his room early in the afternoon – mostly because he knows the state that he's in, and he knows his journey will take some time. He's not sure if Vasquez is still dozing in his room, odd schedule that the vampire keeps, but Faraday isn't trying to avoid him, necessarily. Neither is he making a secret of where he's headed, and while he earns a handful of disapproving looks, most of the townsfolk hold their tongues.
He takes his time, surveying the work completed so far, letting himself be carried away in conversation when some of the townsfolk see him, trying his best to weather the offers of sincere prayers and blessings from God. Someone takes pity on him and helps him to his destination.
Faraday, it seems, has returned to his roots. To tradition.
He plans on getting completely smashed to deal with the pain of the change.
A couple hours before sundown, Faraday is still seated at a table in the saloon, weaving his usual hokum – stories he's heard over card tables, rumors and mysteries he's heard on the road, or tales of some of the ridiculous situations he's gotten himself into.
He's a good way into his cups by the time Vasquez arrives. The men he had been playing poker with are taking their leave after a thorough, good-natured trouncing, returning to the thousands of tasks that need doing around the town. When the vampire steps through the swinging batwing doors, Faraday looks up from shuffling his cards to flash him a crooked grin, cheeks only a little flushed. Faraday had always handled his liquor well, even before he was bitten. He's not sure if it's the curse or just years of practice, but his tolerance is practically legendary, at this point. ]
Vasquez! There you are.
[ The consonants are less sharp than they should be, the words running together a little, but he's not so far gone just yet. He riffles the cards with some difficulty, his right arm weaker thanks to the bullet he had taken. He arranges the cards back into a neat deck before setting it aside on the table. ]
C'mere. Have a drink with me.
ok but same tho
At first blush, there's nothing tying him to Rose Creek; the battle is won, the job is done, and he owes them all nothing. He's free to return to his life of wandering, with the promise that Chisolm will never follow his trail again.
But he stays.
Mostly, he stays in Faraday's room, keeping watch over the gambler as he weathers the worst of silver's ruin, there to wrangle the wolf until he can breathe again. After the first night, it's easier – less calming the raging panic and need to escape, and more sitting up with the wolf, burning time and cigars in equal measure. Fairly fortunate that Faraday sleeps the day away, too, because it often means Vasquez is free to doze off in a chair set in the corner, awake again at night for the wolf bearing its wounds.
The second week sees Vasquez dividing his time between Faraday and helping the town rebuild and clean the remanants of their bloody battle. Again, nothing that he owes them, but something he offers without anyone bothering to ask.
(Emma still casts wary looks his way when she sees him out in the streets, nailing up board or scrubbing down a porch. After near fourteen days, by Vasquez's count, the widow seems to have eased down her prickly walls that were all Vasquez had seen, leading up to the fight.
For the first time, he sees her smile at him – a true, genuine smile – and he's almost certain he imagined it.
But he reminds himself that hardened hearts are rarely born to be so, and Mrs. Cullen must find peace now that she's found righteousness.
He's glad for her.)
The full moon is approaching, and it's the first time Vasquez is— concerned for Faraday's state. The gambler is healing well enough, all things considered, but after seeing the sort of mindless rage Faraday had succumbed to at the last moon...
Vasquez is wary.
But Faraday is also a grown man, and Vasquez is not his nursemaid. It's not his job to see that Faraday is dealing with his condition, and given how long Faraday has juggled it and how concerned he is for the wellfare of the mortals he might affect, Vasquez assumes the werewolf knows what he's doing.
Vasquez does not, however, assume he'd find Faraday at the saloon in the late afternoon.
He's just finished hauling lumber back to the town, so he's a little bit of a mess when he follows the sound of a familiar voice through the street. (Not awful, really, but his shirt is smeared with soil and there's surely bark caught in his curls – as one would expect from carrying a whole damned tree around.) Vasquez walks through the batwing doors, stepping aside as Faraday's fellow card-players are shuffling their way out. He meets Faraday's grin with a cocked brow, amusement playing at the corner of his eyes as he surveys the scene.
Faraday, it seems, has been having a good time.
As he's called over, he offers a shrug, a little smirk – "No need to ask twice." He pulls a chair out for himself across from Faraday, settling down and resting his elbows on the table. ]
I hope you did not embarrass your friends too badly when you beat them, perro.
[ Because he's assuming Faraday knocked their boots off with the hands they got in. ]
no subject
What's there to be embarrassed about? It was a friendly game. Didn't even put money on the table.
[ He pauses as he gestures for another empty glass for Vasquez. The bottle of whiskey nearby is a fresh one, it seems. It's hard to say if Faraday had similarly shared his earlier bottle with the men who just left, or if he had drained it on his own.
Then, a stage whisper, ]
Confidentially speaking, though, it was an awful showing, and they should feel embarrassed.
[ Once the clean glass is brought over, Faraday pours out a generous share. ]
Takin' a break for the evenin'?
no subject
Vasquez accepts the whiskey, lifting his glass in a short salute before he takes a sip. ]
I brought in new lumber, but I think my fellow workers were a little overwhelmed by the task ahead with a whole tree. They found something else to do.
[ He flashes Faraday a grin around his glass. ]
And you? How long you been in here?
no subject
You brought in a whole tree?
[ Given what Vasquez is, Faraday isn't entirely surprised, but it's still impressive enough.
He reaches over with his good arm – bad arm he takes care to keep pressed close to his side – and though the stretch pulls awkwardly at the partially-healed gash on his side, he still manages it. ]
Explains why you've got this, then.
[ And Faraday plucks a piece of bark from Vasquez's hair. It's not unlike one of his more common tricks of producing a card or a coin from thin air, and Faraday offers the detritus with a flourish. ]
no subject
(He's oddly comforted by the gambler's presence, far more than he's left on high alert.)
Vasquez's brows go up as he sips at his whiskey. ]
And I am sure there's more than just that.
[ He reaches back to ruffle his hand through his own hair, dislodging a few stray bits of bark and soil. ]
no subject
Good Lord, Vas. What'd you do, wrestle the poor tree into submission?
no subject
[ He demonstratively gestures to the side of his shirt that is considerably dirtier. ]
That meant my hair rubbed against the trunk.
no subject
Quit callin' me that.
[ It's practically by instinct that he says it, these days; it feels more like a well-practiced call and response than anything, and any annoyance he might express for the nickname is more for show than anything. ]
You're makin' me regret sharin' that whiskey with you, now.
no subject
The bark falls into his lap, and while still sipping at his whiskey, Vasquez picks up the bit of the debris and flicks it right back at Faraday.
Clearly, the epitome of maturity. ]
Looks to me like you've already gone through plenty on your own, eh?
no subject
[ And even that particular barb is dulled, cast with a fondness Faraday is largely unconscious of – or at least, a fondness that Faraday doesn't feel the need to acknowledge. Exchanging these little verbal jabs in the same way young boys might shove at each other—
It's just— easy.
With all the damage he's taken, with all the scars the battle has surely left him with, both physical and mental – the time he's spent with someone who understands what it's like being a monster, knows what it's like to hide among folks who would fear and despise them if they knew the truth, has surely spoiled him.
And in the late hours between night and morning, when Vasquez is giving Faraday the gift of his time – even if that gift is filled with friendly insults, not all of it in English, made all the more annoying because Faraday can't properly respond – the idea of returning to his old, solitary life fills Faraday with a peculiar, breath-stealing, heart-stopping dread.
Which is why he does his best to avoid thinking on it during slightly more reasonable hours. ]
His own glass, predictably, is mostly empty, save for a mouthful that he quickly downs. He pauses to appreciate the sharp burn of the alcohol as it travels down his throat, as the familiar warmth of it sparks and blooms through his belly. He sighs, pouring himself another glass. ]
And I got a while yet 'fore I'm as corned as I need to be, anyhow.
no subject
He shifts in his seat, leaning on one elbow as he makes himself more comfortable. He watches Faraday askance more than he properly faces the gambler; his gaze flicks around the saloon, watching the door, the exits, as a matter of habit. He gives the appearance of lounging, but it's the long-learned casual way of his existence: relaxing, while prepared for conflict, ready to leave before it brews.
But, as Faraday works on his next glass—
The first mention of tonight's moon. ]
This how you usually deal with tu lobo? Drain whiskey until you can't walk?
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[ A light hum of agreement in lieu of a proper answer – mostly because he's preoccupied with taking another pull from his glass.
The moon is a little more than three-fourths full, tonight; he can feel it in his bones, somehow, even without checking the sky or the helpful charting in an almanac. There's something a little rougher about the change when the moon brightens – like the wolf knows its time is coming, and it's eager to get the hell out.
He sighs again as the whiskey burns down his throat. ]
Don't got the laudanum anymore to help with it. Gotta use my old tricks.
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[ Vasquez is momentarily preoccupied with imagining Faraday's wolf stumbling around, perhaps running into a tree.
... That sounds hilarious, if he's entirely honest. ]
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It's probably the alcohol in his system that makes him more honest, but he offers quietly, ]
Not as well as it used to.
[ Still, Faraday is apparently game to keep trying, and he refills his glass. His hands have always been steady, even with the unhelpful addition of booze in his system, and manages the pour without wasting a drop.
In a tone of voice that seems to have completely forgotten the flagging of his mood from only seconds ago, ]
Reckon it's better than nothin', right?
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That's a more somber, realistic response, and the sincerity of it startles the smirk off of Vasquez's face. He can't imagine how daunting it would truly be lose what little control one has over an otherwise uncontrollable situation.
He covers his own surprise by taking a longer pull from his glass. ]
Maybe drunk it will be easier to wrestle your wolf down, no?
[ ... Implying that Vasquez will be there to do the wrestling.
For some reason, it hasn't even occurred to him that he might not be. ]
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Could do.
[ His smile dims a fraction as he glances toward a window to gauge the dimming of the light. He doesn't really need to do it, considering he can judge the time of day by the way the curse prowls in his chest, rising closer and closer to the surface. But it's habit, by now. Like knowing that five and seven make twelve, but still dutifully adding them together, just to be sure.
Still plenty of time, though, he thinks. Plenty of time before night properly falls, and plenty of time, he hopes, to get properly drunk to dull the pain of his partially-healed wounds and the change. ]
I'd have to be awfully drunk, though, for one of these farmers to manage keepin' the wolf down.
[ Because unlike Vasquez, Faraday assumes nothing.
The vampire had made it abundantly clear how little he enjoyed the experience of "dog-sitting," as he had so kindly put it.
In a few more nights, Faraday figures he'll be on his own; he doubts the man is looking for a repeat experience. ]
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They've got a little time left.
However, with the mention of the citizens of Rose Creek, Vasquez just offers a surprised, derisive snort. ]
I didn't mean the farmers, perrito. You would have to be unconscious for one of them to manage you.
I think just a little dizzy, and I can handle you fine.
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Eventually, ]
You sure you want to go for a second round? You didn't have the easiest time with it.
[ Which is one hell of an understatement.
What he means is, "The wolf tried to maul you and eat you, not necessarily in that order, and I wouldn't blame you in the slightest if you wanted to stick a silver collar around it, tie it to a post, and call it a night." ]
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... Well, considering he'd ended the night covered in his own blood, it's probably a fair assumption, but— ]
I told you before: it'll take more than un perrito to kill me.
[ And he finishes his glass of whiskey, nudging it back across the table to Faraday for a refill. ]
And if you're drunk, it will be all the easier.
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It's practically muscle memory – when Vasquez pushes his glass back over, Faraday picks up the bottle and pours out a generous share.
As he's pushing the glass back over, ]
I dunno how it's gonna be, this time.
[ Granted, he barely knows how it'll be any time, but this instance has a lot more variables than he's ever had to contend with before. ]
I've got no way of knowing if all this—
[ An honest warning, and he punctuates it by gesturing to himself, encompassing the partially-healed wounds and fading bruises. ]
—will calm it down, or just piss it the hell off.
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But: ]
I'll ask Sam for the chain. That seemed to work a bit.
At the worst, maybe I just bite you.
[ This, he says with a sharp grin, though his words carry the lilt of a tease. ]
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[ A couple weeks ago, the words would have been cast bitterly. Now, though, either from the definite signs of healing and progress or from the whiskey evening out his mood, his tone matches Vasquez's – sharp but light, all the same. ]
Lord knows I could use a couple more.
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[ And Vasquez says this loftily. ]
Who knows, maybe I could heal the rest of the others.
[ He gives a vague gesture at... all of Faraday with his glass. ]
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Then, with an all too obvious effort to keep his expression solemn, ]
You mean, with your magic vampire spit.
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