[ 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. ]
[ Faraday is the first to crack, snorting out a laugh. ]
'Course. You can kiss it all better, like a doting momma.
[ But when Vasquez continues, makes mention of "feeding," Faraday sobers a little. They've never really discussed Vasquez's dietary habits – Faraday figures the less he knew, the better – but he's gotta figure that Vasquez doesn't use his magic vampire spit when he's killing rabbits or raccoons.
No, he's gotta figure that's specifically a trick he reserves for mortals – or, in Faraday's case, mortal adjacent. ]
You do that often, then?
[ And unlike that first day, when Faraday had poked and prodded and derisively called Vasquez a bloodsucker at every given opportunity, Faraday sounds genuinely – if cautiously – curious. ]
Heal folks when you bite 'em. You don't just drain 'em dry?
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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'?
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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?
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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. ]
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Good Lord, Vas. What'd you do, wrestle the poor tree into submission?
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[ He demonstratively gestures to the side of his shirt that is considerably dirtier. ]
That meant my hair rubbed against the trunk.
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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?
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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." ]
no subject
... 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
Then, with an all too obvious effort to keep his expression solemn, ]
You mean, with your magic vampire spit.
no subject
Yes, my "magic vampire spit."
[ But, on a more genuinely thoughtful note, he offers a shrug. ]
I don't know what it does; I've only used it when I feed.
no subject
'Course. You can kiss it all better, like a doting momma.
[ But when Vasquez continues, makes mention of "feeding," Faraday sobers a little. They've never really discussed Vasquez's dietary habits – Faraday figures the less he knew, the better – but he's gotta figure that Vasquez doesn't use his magic vampire spit when he's killing rabbits or raccoons.
No, he's gotta figure that's specifically a trick he reserves for mortals – or, in Faraday's case, mortal adjacent. ]
You do that often, then?
[ And unlike that first day, when Faraday had poked and prodded and derisively called Vasquez a bloodsucker at every given opportunity, Faraday sounds genuinely – if cautiously – curious. ]
Heal folks when you bite 'em. You don't just drain 'em dry?
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