[ He wants to grumble, "Speak English," but the words are stolen from him when another wave hits him, sending him to his knees. His hand is still twisted into the fabric of Vasquez's shirt, but Faraday feels Vasquez's grip on his elbow, providing him an anchor. He flashes Vasquez a grateful look, his eyes that familiar shade of gold. ]
Step back.
[ A warning, rather than a desperate command, and even in that brief statement, Faraday's voice shifts from human to something strange. His breathing sharpens, grows ragged, as he forces himself to release the vampire's shirt, wrapping both arms around himself.
It's never pretty, the transformation. It's never easy, either, even with all the years of forced practice. His health being what it is, these days, doesn't help in the slightest, but it seems the whiskey certainly does.
His bones crack and shift beneath his skin, his muscles and tendons stretching and lengthening – but his shouts and groans aren't quite as sharp as when he first stopped taking the laudanum. He's certainly not quiet, because short of being fully unconscious for it, the change will never be anything but agonizing – but he's quieter, which is— something.
Not much, but something.
And when the transformation is over, when the last rays of daylight have been snuffed out, he collapses, a heap of fur struggling to catch his breath. He aches like he's roused all those faded bruises, like he's torn open all those wounds again, even if a logical corner of his brain knows that physically, he's probably fine. ]
[ Vasquez doesn't move, doesn't leave Faraday's side until his fingers finally release Vasquez's shirt. He finally heeds that warning, taking a few steps away to give Faraday the room he needs for the brutal transformation. Having witnessed it so many times, watching Faraday, hearing and seeing what it does to the man's body, Vasquez is still amazed that Faraday can tolerate it.
Not like the gambler has much of a choice.
When the wolf lies where Faraday used to be, Vasquez moves forward again, kneeling down with him. ]
All right, perro?
[ Without even thinking about it, he reaches out to rest a hand on the top of Faraday's head – not really petting, but offering the point of contact again. ]
[ His breathing is rough, but slowly, it starts to even out as he gets his bearings.
When Vasquez touches him, Faraday lifts his head, looking at him a little blearily. At his question, Faraday lets out a low rumble.
Seems so.
It's awkward, it's slow, but he tries to maneuver himself upright. His shoulder and hind leg throb in time with his heartbeat, even with the whiskey dulling the sharpness, and he tries to put as little weight on them as possible – which means mostly balancing on two legs.
[ Vasquez drops his hand as Faraday tries to stand, instead keeping his palms up to brace Faraday as he tries to stand. He can see how awkward it is for the wolf to get up, and he offers a wry smile. ]
You'd think it might be easier with the four legs, eh?
[ Faraday chuckles a little, though in this form, it comes out more like a few quick puffs of air.
He carefully tests his weight on his front leg, and while it still aches, it's manageable. He knows without trying that putting too much weight on his hind leg is liable to send him straight to the ground again, so he doesn't attempt it.
He's steady on his feet, for the most part, aside from a slight, telltale sway from the liquor, but he looks up at Vasquez expectantly, like he's asking, Where to? ]
[ Faraday seems to steady, and Vasquez takes that as reassurance enough, climbing up to his feet. Even like this, Vasquez can still read that anticipatory look in Faraday's eyes, and he cocks an eyebrow at him. ]
I don't know where you think you're going like this, my friend. We try to get anywhere farther than here, and I doubt your legs will hold you long.
[ Faraday's eyes narrow, and if he could, he would immediately start arguing. Clearly he's not physically in a fantastic state, but he could surely manage to wander, at the very least.
In lieu of words, Faraday lets out a low, annoyed growl.
The question interrupts him, and unsurprisingly, Faraday had been preoccupied with drinking that eating fell by the wayside. The last time he had any proper food was probably around midday.
[ Apparently the response is agreeable enough for Faraday, because he starts heading in that direction without further prompting.
His gait is awkward, and while his front leg is reluctantly holding his weight for the time being, he's still favoring it. His hind leg, however, is another matter entirely, and he keeps it lifted, close to his body. ]
[ Vasquez doesn't drastically change his pace, if only because he doesn't want Faraday feeling that he's being accommodated.
(Even if he is.)
Vasquez leads the way into the woods, and though Rose Creek isn't a rowdy or loud place to be, there's always a sense of peace that comes being away from structures and the latent thundering of a host of hearts. He pauses in the treeline, closing his eyes as he turns his face up to the stars.
After a beat, he glances over at Faraday with a wry smile. ]
[ Faraday, for once, is content to follow, limping along in Vasquez’s wake. The other man doesn’t get too far ahead, but neither does he make any obvious pauses in an attempt to let Faraday catch up – and both things do wonders for Faraday’s sense of pride.
Secretly, that’s what he appreciates about Vasquez. The vampire doesn’t cut him those worried looks, doesn’t wear those pitying moues when he thinks Faraday isn’t looking, doesn’t treat him like he’s thin, delicate porcelain, liable to crack at the slightest touch. He hangs around, of course, but his company is far from smothering – and racked with pain as Faraday might have been in those early days, he was at least aware enough to catch that familiar scent close by. Cigar smoke and sweat, gun oil and death, and something warm and familiar and earthy. Sun-warmed dust and stone.
(a small feeling. something that took in the scent and concluded, ally)
He lifts his head at the question and seems to give it some thought.
Eventually, he cocks his head one way then the other in a gesture that’s probably meant to be a shrug.
[ As it turns out, wolves can, in fact, petulantly glare – or at the very least, Faraday’s wolf can.
And so he does, and he accompanies it with a low, exasperated growl.
Annoying bastard.
He halfheartedly snaps at Vasquez’s hat, too, once he doffs it, just to prove a point. Even with Vasquez doing him a favor – by offering his time, by keeping Faraday company, by not treating Faraday like a goddamn invalid incapable of taking even three steps under his own power – Faraday apparently has no qualms with petty acts of retribution.
[ "Charm," indeed, and Vasquez pauses long enough to kick a small twig back in Faraday's direction.
So there.
Vasquez disappears into the woods, silence replacing the fall of boots on grass. Hunting comes as naturally to him as breathing, and for all that the caminante de sangre and their gifts are made for elegance, they're also predators. (Another facet of the duality of Tezcatlipoca, Vasquez would guess.) He can hear the animals of the forest, breath and heartbeats, those asleep and the ones who wander in the dark.
Hooves draw his attention, and he slows, quiets, until his only point of focus is the deer. The moment is quick, the death – painless; the animal doesn't even realize something's happen before its neck is snapped and its body goes limp.
Vasquez catches the buck before it hits the bed of leaves beneath them.
Nothing if not efficient, Vasquez returns to Faraday in under twenty minutes to present dinner. He pulls the deer off of his shoulder, dropping it without ceremony onto the grass. ]
[ It's not that Faraday is impatient, though he certainly has the capacity for it, on bad days.
Still, twenty minutes is a long time to spend on his own, especially considering Faraday's hardly a minute to himself since his charge on the Gatling gun. Faraday flops down on the ground, head resting on his paws. Thanks to the whiskey from earlier, he's pleasantly drifting in that warm haze, though it makes the world tilt sideways. He shuts his eyes against it as he waits.
He doesn't quite fall asleep, though, as much as he looks it, because when he hears Vasquez returning, he opens an eye to watch him approach with the carcass.
Like a barn cat killin' a rat and droppin' it at your feet, he thinks, and he snickers to himself as he moves to stand. ]
[ Well, that's too oblique for Vasquez to pick out, though he swears those little huffs are laughter of some kind. He gives the corpse a nudge with his boot in Faraday's direction with a wrinkle in his nose. ]
[ Complainin'? this wide-eyed, innocent look asks, though it's belied by a mischievous glint. Who would be so callous as to be complainin'?
He snickers again as he gets to his feet with the same gracelessness of before, limping over to nose at the deer. He doesn't smell fresh blood, doesn't spot any open wound, but a quick inspection of the head shows the queer angle that signals a broken neck.
Being what he is, Faraday's gotten used to following the wolf's instincts – which includes not being particularly picky about the state of his meals. Part of him admits that there's a certain convenience to it all, to killing an animal and tearing into it, rather than needing to clean and carve out the finest parts, but he would never say as much out loud.
Still, it's telling that there's no hesitation when he rips open the deer's belly with his fangs, or when he starts tearing out its organs. ]
[ Vasquez is far from the position of being put off by the complete mess Faraday makes of the deer. He leaves the wolf to it, going to fetch his hat and giving it a good dusting-off before he sets it back on his head.
As Faraday makes short work of the carcass, Vasquez reaches into his pocket, producing a cigarillo and a match. ]
You ought to jump in the river tonight, you know.
[ He lights his smoke, taking a few short puffs as it starts to burn. ]
[ As he's tearing into the deer, he offers up a quick, unconcerned snort.
He pulls back to cut Vasquez a stony-eyed look, his tongue darting out to lick at the bloody mess on his lips and nose.
I know what I'm doing, muchacho.
... but there's something thoughtful about the pause that comes afterward, like Faraday is giving the suggestion its due consideration. There's good sense in the idea, but Faraday isn't about to admit that, even if he could.
Better not to let Vasquez be smug about it, and Faraday returns to his meal.
Once he's had his fill, he sits back on his hind legs, canted onto his good hip to keep weight off the healing wound. ]
[ Faraday shoots Vasquez an equally unimpressed glare at that remarkable feat of maturity, snorting out a breath. He licks his lips again, getting rid of the worst of the blood, before carefully maneuvering himself up to his feet.
He lets out a low, exasperated groan, as if to ask, Why are you here, again? ]
[ The wolf offers another low rumble, clearly unconvinced by that particular assessment.
... Never mind that he's limping his way over to Vasquez, his hind leg still held up to avoid putting weight on it. It's the principle of the thing, and Faraday never likes being told he can't do something. ]
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no subject
Step back.
[ A warning, rather than a desperate command, and even in that brief statement, Faraday's voice shifts from human to something strange. His breathing sharpens, grows ragged, as he forces himself to release the vampire's shirt, wrapping both arms around himself.
It's never pretty, the transformation. It's never easy, either, even with all the years of forced practice. His health being what it is, these days, doesn't help in the slightest, but it seems the whiskey certainly does.
His bones crack and shift beneath his skin, his muscles and tendons stretching and lengthening – but his shouts and groans aren't quite as sharp as when he first stopped taking the laudanum. He's certainly not quiet, because short of being fully unconscious for it, the change will never be anything but agonizing – but he's quieter, which is— something.
Not much, but something.
And when the transformation is over, when the last rays of daylight have been snuffed out, he collapses, a heap of fur struggling to catch his breath. He aches like he's roused all those faded bruises, like he's torn open all those wounds again, even if a logical corner of his brain knows that physically, he's probably fine. ]
no subject
Not like the gambler has much of a choice.
When the wolf lies where Faraday used to be, Vasquez moves forward again, kneeling down with him. ]
All right, perro?
[ Without even thinking about it, he reaches out to rest a hand on the top of Faraday's head – not really petting, but offering the point of contact again. ]
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When Vasquez touches him, Faraday lifts his head, looking at him a little blearily. At his question, Faraday lets out a low rumble.
Seems so.
It's awkward, it's slow, but he tries to maneuver himself upright. His shoulder and hind leg throb in time with his heartbeat, even with the whiskey dulling the sharpness, and he tries to put as little weight on them as possible – which means mostly balancing on two legs.
It's not ideal. ]
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You'd think it might be easier with the four legs, eh?
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He carefully tests his weight on his front leg, and while it still aches, it's manageable. He knows without trying that putting too much weight on his hind leg is liable to send him straight to the ground again, so he doesn't attempt it.
He's steady on his feet, for the most part, aside from a slight, telltale sway from the liquor, but he looks up at Vasquez expectantly, like he's asking, Where to? ]
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I don't know where you think you're going like this, my friend. We try to get anywhere farther than here, and I doubt your legs will hold you long.
[ A brief beat of pause, and then, ]
Ah, but have you eaten yet?
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In lieu of words, Faraday lets out a low, annoyed growl.
The question interrupts him, and unsurprisingly, Faraday had been preoccupied with drinking that eating fell by the wayside. The last time he had any proper food was probably around midday.
He gives a quick shake of his head. ]
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[ He nods out to the woods beyond Rose Creek, where he knows they're likelier to find a rabbit or a deer.
... Vasquez expects to do the catching for now, but he's not bothered. ]
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His gait is awkward, and while his front leg is reluctantly holding his weight for the time being, he's still favoring it. His hind leg, however, is another matter entirely, and he keeps it lifted, close to his body. ]
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(Even if he is.)
Vasquez leads the way into the woods, and though Rose Creek isn't a rowdy or loud place to be, there's always a sense of peace that comes being away from structures and the latent thundering of a host of hearts. He pauses in the treeline, closing his eyes as he turns his face up to the stars.
After a beat, he glances over at Faraday with a wry smile. ]
So, perro. A rabbit? A buck?
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Secretly, that’s what he appreciates about Vasquez. The vampire doesn’t cut him those worried looks, doesn’t wear those pitying moues when he thinks Faraday isn’t looking, doesn’t treat him like he’s thin, delicate porcelain, liable to crack at the slightest touch. He hangs around, of course, but his company is far from smothering – and racked with pain as Faraday might have been in those early days, he was at least aware enough to catch that familiar scent close by. Cigar smoke and sweat, gun oil and death, and something warm and familiar and earthy. Sun-warmed dust and stone.
(a small feeling. something that took in the scent and concluded, ally)
He lifts his head at the question and seems to give it some thought.
Eventually, he cocks his head one way then the other in a gesture that’s probably meant to be a shrug.
I’m not picky. ]
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(He'd taunt Faraday sometimes, say he preferred fewer words out of the gambler's mouth – but it's only to get a rise out of him.)
Vasquez hums, plucking off his hat. ]
Then stay here and try to keep it down. Wouldn't want to scare away dinner, eh?
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And so he does, and he accompanies it with a low, exasperated growl.
Annoying bastard.
He halfheartedly snaps at Vasquez’s hat, too, once he doffs it, just to prove a point. Even with Vasquez doing him a favor – by offering his time, by keeping Faraday company, by not treating Faraday like a goddamn invalid incapable of taking even three steps under his own power – Faraday apparently has no qualms with petty acts of retribution.
Part of his charm. ]
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So there.
Vasquez disappears into the woods, silence replacing the fall of boots on grass. Hunting comes as naturally to him as breathing, and for all that the caminante de sangre and their gifts are made for elegance, they're also predators. (Another facet of the duality of Tezcatlipoca, Vasquez would guess.) He can hear the animals of the forest, breath and heartbeats, those asleep and the ones who wander in the dark.
Hooves draw his attention, and he slows, quiets, until his only point of focus is the deer. The moment is quick, the death – painless; the animal doesn't even realize something's happen before its neck is snapped and its body goes limp.
Vasquez catches the buck before it hits the bed of leaves beneath them.
Nothing if not efficient, Vasquez returns to Faraday in under twenty minutes to present dinner. He pulls the deer off of his shoulder, dropping it without ceremony onto the grass. ]
Que aproveche, perrito.
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Still, twenty minutes is a long time to spend on his own, especially considering Faraday's hardly a minute to himself since his charge on the Gatling gun. Faraday flops down on the ground, head resting on his paws. Thanks to the whiskey from earlier, he's pleasantly drifting in that warm haze, though it makes the world tilt sideways. He shuts his eyes against it as he waits.
He doesn't quite fall asleep, though, as much as he looks it, because when he hears Vasquez returning, he opens an eye to watch him approach with the carcass.
Like a barn cat killin' a rat and droppin' it at your feet, he thinks, and he snickers to himself as he moves to stand. ]
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Better not be complaining over there.
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He snickers again as he gets to his feet with the same gracelessness of before, limping over to nose at the deer. He doesn't smell fresh blood, doesn't spot any open wound, but a quick inspection of the head shows the queer angle that signals a broken neck.
Being what he is, Faraday's gotten used to following the wolf's instincts – which includes not being particularly picky about the state of his meals. Part of him admits that there's a certain convenience to it all, to killing an animal and tearing into it, rather than needing to clean and carve out the finest parts, but he would never say as much out loud.
Still, it's telling that there's no hesitation when he rips open the deer's belly with his fangs, or when he starts tearing out its organs. ]
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As Faraday makes short work of the carcass, Vasquez reaches into his pocket, producing a cigarillo and a match. ]
You ought to jump in the river tonight, you know.
[ He lights his smoke, taking a few short puffs as it starts to burn. ]
Mm, less you have to wash off in the morning.
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He pulls back to cut Vasquez a stony-eyed look, his tongue darting out to lick at the bloody mess on his lips and nose.
I know what I'm doing, muchacho.
... but there's something thoughtful about the pause that comes afterward, like Faraday is giving the suggestion its due consideration. There's good sense in the idea, but Faraday isn't about to admit that, even if he could.
Better not to let Vasquez be smug about it, and Faraday returns to his meal.
Once he's had his fill, he sits back on his hind legs, canted onto his good hip to keep weight off the healing wound. ]
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Whatever you say.
Or don't, in this case.
Vasquez smokes his way through the cigar, finally smudging out the butt on a tree. He flicks the ashes into the woods. ]
Fat and happy now, hm?
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I will literally bite you, this look says. ]
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Centuries old, and his response is still to huck a small bit of bark in Faraday's direction. ]
Don't start with that look, perrito.
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He lets out a low, exasperated groan, as if to ask, Why are you here, again? ]
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[ Vasquez is obviously convinced that Faraday wouldn't have managed much hunting in his condition. ]
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... Never mind that he's limping his way over to Vasquez, his hind leg still held up to avoid putting weight on it. It's the principle of the thing, and Faraday never likes being told he can't do something. ]
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