[ He fakes a sort of breathiness, a hand pressed to his chest and eyelashes fluttering. ]
Don't make promises you don't intend to keep.
[ He flashes him another bright, devilish grin before turning to lead the way.
Faraday makes it a point to not make a beeline for the the venue Vasquez had headed toward earlier, instead taking a wandering sort of route. Keeping an eye out for the livelier clusters of guests, Faraday slips the two of them in, every now and again, offering a few introductions. It helps, obviously, to offer the appearance of networking, rather than flit in and out and making it all too obvious that they're merely crashing the party.
He offers his fake name, Dave Nolan. His training helps him control the twang of his accent, though he lets some of it show through.
But once all of that is finally out of the way, he starts moving toward the hall where Vasquez found the Welshman. ]
"The hound walks at midnight."
[ He whispers it dramatically, once they're away from the crowd. ]
[ There are situations where Vasquez is content to let Faraday take point. Vasquez is not nearly as much of a "people person" as Faraday, and while his training means he's perfectly proficient with schmoozing when he needs to, Vasquez doesn't prefer it. He smiles and laughs, shakes hands as needed, but otherwise allows Faraday to lead them through the crowds until they finally head for the hall Vasquez had found before.
He offers a hum of agreement, whispering back. ]
Must be.
[ He can't imagine another reason for it to sound so ridiculous. ]
Something to do with the time or just to know who is involved?
[ The easier answer, considering the hotel is huge. At least heading toward the auction is a more concrete destination than stumbling around going, "I dunno, did we try this way yet?" ]
Unless you've got any more concrete ideas on where they might be keeping this shit.
Oh, darlin', it's only the best for the light of my life, the apple of my eye.
[ He forces himself to sober a handful of paces before they make the final turn. The same guard is still there, just as alert and cautious as ever. Faraday doesn't recall from Vasquez's feed whether the two men offered the guard any sort of pass phrase to be admitted, so Faraday's making a bet that there isn't one. For lack of anything better, Faraday walks forward with confidence.
It's the easiest thing in the world – act like you belong, and everyone will assume that you do.
He pauses in front of the guard, lips pressed into a faintly disapproving line, an expectant quality to his gaze. The guard sizes him up before nodding curtly, though politely, and rapping a knuckle against the door behind him. The door opens, and the man steps aside. ]
[ The guard doesn't give them issues, and the easy confidence that Vasquez and Faraday radiate makes up for the expectation of further proof. To the guard's credit, Vasquez doubts anyone is coming to bother him unless they're supposed to be there.
As they're admitted into the other room, they're greeted with a much more lavish offering. The servers are dressed all in black, and they move seamlessly around the smaller throng of people (more than Vasquez expected to be present; a depressingly large group, considering the product up for buy). They bear trays of elegant appetizers, but also varied drinks with small, metal tents explaining what they offer – liquor Vasquez knows costs thousands by the bottle.
Vasquez leans close to Faraday's ear again, humor in his voice. ]
Maybe I won't be buying that drink for you, cariño.
[ Faraday manages to keep the surprise off his face when they reach Party 2.0, maintaining that facade of mild, polite interest and faint boredom.
With his glasses still transmitting, he scans the crowd. They'll have to run the recording through some facial recognition software later, but even without it, Faraday thinks he recognizes at least a few faces from grainy photos and surveillance footage.
They're probably in the right place, which might be some consolation. Or, at the very least, the rich and sadistic have a shared interest in partner-swap parties.
It's necessity, of course, for Vasquez to keep leaning into Faraday's space, for the man to keep up the appearance of offering sweet nothings or lurid offerings, but focused as Faraday is, this time, Vasquez catches him by surprise. He tenses rather than jumps when Vasquez's breath brushes against his skin, when he catches the scent of cologne.
The way his stomach flutters makes him think a single, but vehement, Fuck.
A waiter drifts past with a tray of ridiculously priced Scotch, and Faraday uses the second to recompose himself as he's plucking up a Glencairn glass. ]
Don't be goin' back on your promise now, babe.
[ He sips at his glass, pausing before letting an appreciative, Shit, that's good. ]
Probably the right place, at least.
[ This, with a subtle nod to a far corner. A balding man sits at a table, surrounded by what appears to be standing guards.
Bartholomew Bogue. A slippery bastard who's been on Statesman's radar for years. ]
[ Vasquez feels Faraday tense, but he largely chalks it up to catching him by surprise; he feels the weight of his own tension in the room, and it's hard not to be on edge right now.
Fortunately for the both of them, actively concealing that is a matter of practice.
Vasquez's brows rise as a tray passes labeled "Michter," and he catches a glass of his own before the waiter disappears again. His smile is more genuine when Faraday relishes his new drink; even by their standards, this is still a treat. Vasquez contents himself with sipping his bourbon, eyes finally landing on Bogue.
He's not surprised. ]
We're in good company, it seems.
[ Maybe if they get the chance, they can drop a tracker on Bogue, too.
(Not one of the internal ones.)
He rests his hand absently at Faraday's back as he sips his drink, trying to keep up that effortless appearance of romance. ]
[ He keeps himself from tensing again when Vasquez touches him again, which is a point in Faraday's favor, he thinks. He examines the contents of his glass a little thoughtfully, though he has to struggle to keep his disgust from his face when Vasquez makes that suggestion. ]
Sounds fun.
[ In much the same way that a visit to the dentist for a root canal would be fun.
He doesn't knock the drink back for liquid courage, like he might have with some cheaper offering, but he does, at least, take another sip of it.
And won't it be exciting to introduce them to mi amante.
[ And naturally as anything, he curls his arm around Faraday's waist, finally directing them towards a set of faces. It's easy to insinuate themselves into the conversation, though Vasquez is almost surprised no one so much as blinks twice at the familiar way he and Faraday stand and introduce each other. Vasquez has to wonder if it's a matter of business, of wealth; money speaks louder than any tastes or proclivities.
Mingling gives them the chance to put names to faces, to get a better look at the auction attendees: a room of almost exclusively men, from all corners of the globe.
At some point, they come across a man with black hair and a husky voice – made all the deeper, surely, by the cigar between his fingers. He stops in the middle of passing Faraday and Vasquez, pausing as Vasquez waves off a joke with a click of his tongue and a grin. Vasquez is suddenly very aware of him when he notices the man stop mid-step, and then a broad palm rests on Vasquez's shoulder.
It takes so much self-restraint not to swing on instinct.
Just as Vasquez is turning to ask the man what he wants, the gentleman offers, ]
Tu acento – Michoacan, sí?
[ That actually manages to throw Vasquez for a loop. He blinks at the man for a heartbeat, but his confusion and wariness is pushed aside by a brilliant grin (even if his mind is setting off alarm bells). ]
¿Sí, y usted?
[ The man's broad face splits in a smile. ]
Bogotá, mi amigo. Tan poca gente que habla Español aquí.
[ Bogotá—
Oh. ]
No lo se, no lo se. [ He sticks his hand out to the man, who pops his cigar between his lips to shake. ] Alejandro.
Maximiliano, amigo.
[ Maximiliano Rojas. Big in the Columbian cartels. Very big.
Vasquez rests his hand on Faraday's shoulder, speaking again to Maximiliano. ]
Ah, mi pareja no habla Español.
[ Maximiliano turns his attention to Faraday, finally, blinking at him before bursting out in another deep laugh. ]
My apologies, my apologies. English for you, then.
[ Mingling is certainly more Faraday's strong suit than Vasquez's, being a gregarious son of a bitch in general, but even Faraday starts getting tired of it, after a while.
He may be sociable, and he may enjoy being the center of attention with a good story or joke, but Faraday is, in his heart of hearts, a surly bastard. He gets tired of the small talk real quick – especially when his conversational partners are the type who wouldn't look at him twice if it weren't for the well-tailored suit he's wearing on the company dime.
The only relief he has from it, really, is the snide remarks he makes under his breath as they're drifting from group to group – comments about the thick, stinking cloud of someone's eau de toilette, or the shameful way someone is trying to conceal their receding hairline with a poor comb-over— but they're interrupted.
Faraday forces himself to remain relaxed – but the blank-faced confusion, at least, he doesn't have to feign. He looks first to Vasquez, and it's a testament to how long they've worked together that he can see the faintest shadow of tension in his smile. Faraday's reasonably sure their new acquaintance won't be able to spot it, especially considering the man continues on in that bright, delighted way of his.
God. One of these days he seriously has to learn Spanish.
He definitely recognizes the exchanging of names, at least – and the name "Maximiliano" nags at him. When the attention turns to him, Faraday blinks then forces a slightly awkward smile as he holds out his hand. ]
Dave Nolan.
[ He's still keeping his accent mostly wrangled. ]
I'm hoping all of that was good. I haven't the faintest idea what either of you just said.
[ Maximiliano shakes Faraday's hand with a firm grip. ]
Your friend, I recognized his accent. I'm sure Spanish sounds all the same to your ear, but it is very different. Especially, you see, I am from Columbia, not Mexico.
[ He gestures to Vasquez with his cigar; Vasquez lifts his glass in acknowledgement. ]
Come! Have a cigar with me, my new friends. The smoking lounge is through here.
[ Maximiliano points to a door at the back – his apparent initial trajectory.
[ Faraday returns Vasquez's glance with a light shrug. ]
I don't see why not.
[ It seems they still have time to kill before the auction; chances are, they can use this time to pick up some more incriminating evidence, if all the assholes in here think they're among like-minded individuals. ]
[ Vasquez offers a little salute with his drink. ]
Liderar el camino.
[ Maximiliano's broad grin splits his face, and he lifts his cigar. ]
¡Vamanos!
[ Vasquez doesn't attach himself to Faraday again, but he keeps close as they follow their new "friend" into the waiting smoking lounge. They're greeted by a heady plume of cigar smoke, and Vasquez would be lying if he tried to claim it wasn't pleasant.
The scent alone is enough to indicate exactly how expensive those cigars are.
His gaze flicks to Faraday again – a look that says, "not bad."
However, Vasquez is still tense; Mexico is a big country, Michoacán a big state, but there's a lot of crossover with the Mexican and Columbian cartels. That's not a crossover Vasquez wants to revisit.
They only make it a few steps inside before they're approached by a waitress with a humidor. She opens the lid, beaming at them. ]
Can I offer you a cigar, sirs?
[ Vasquez offers her a quiet "gracias", reaching in to select a Cuban he recognizes. ]
[ You know, Faraday really is trying to quit – he has a box of expired nicotine patches collecting dust in his medicine cabinet to prove it.
Still, his expertise is more in cigarettes than cigars, which is why he merely copies Vasquez's selection, a little absentmindedly. He scans the room again, the pace idle and slow for the best results on the recording, before he offers the woman a small smile of gratitude and a wink.
She smiles prettily in that polite, patient way that shows she's endured the exact same gesture from dozens of other men tonight before drifting away.
Faraday leans over to Vasquez. ]
Everything all right?
[ Because the guy seems tenser than before for reasons Faraday's not entirely sure he knows or understands. ]
[ On a small table nearby, a few elegant punch cutters are lined up for use. Vasquez selects one, only pausing when Faraday leans in to speak.
Ah.
He manages not to sigh, and he returns to piercing the cap of his cigar, before offering the stamp to Faraday. ]
Talk later.
[ This is surely not the time nor place, but the fact that Faraday noticed reminds Vasquez that he needs to be more cognizant of his posture, of his public demeanor. A small comfort comes because he's sure Faraday may have been the only one to notice, so far. ]
[ He tries to keep the frown off his face, masking it by taking the proffered punch cutter and preparing his cigar. Acknowledging the issue with a "Talk later" is a better assurance than dismissing it offhand with an "I'm fine" could ever be, ironically enough. And as much as Faraday's natural inclination is to push and poke and prod, he knows now isn't the time. ]
Later, then.
[ He returns the cutter to its proper place. For a blink, he hesitates before reaching over and resting his hand over Vasquez's upper arm, squeezing lightly.
Whatever it is, Faraday wants to say, we'll be fine. ]
[ The contact, minor as it is (especially when Vasquez and Faraday have been antagonizing each other through the evening) feels more genuine. He manages to push through the awkward hesitation that bubbles to the surface, just reaching up to rest his hand over Faraday's.
Honestly, it's nothing, given all the other liberties Vasquez has taken, but he drops his hand again, reaching into his pocket for his personal lighter.
(There's a gas aerosol that can be activated to turn it into a tiny flamethrower, but it also happens to double as a lighter.)
He flicks the gold cap open, putting his cigar between his lips and holding the flame up until it smolders to life. He takes a few short puffs, then holds up the lighter for Faraday's. Vasquez's eyes scan the smoking lounge, taking in the layout. There are two other exits, though Vasquez has no clue in the world where they lead. Maximiliano has fallen back into conversation with a few other men in Spanish, apparently content to let Faraday and Vasquez get settled. ]
[ Faraday leans forward when Vasquez offers a light.
(He should really quit, he thinks again.)
Quietly, ]
Your new friend seems familiar.
[ That is, Faraday hasn't forgotten that little nagging at the back of his head, the one that reminds him that the man was important, in some way. Or maybe Faraday is misremembering.
The tip lights up as the tobacco starts to burn, and he inspects it a little critically, blowing gently on it to even out the rosette. ]
Do we need to keep an eye on him, or is it back to business as normal?
[ Vasquez moves with Faraday across the room, taking in the faces in the small lounge. Other than Rojas, he's pretty confident he recognizes someone from the Russian mob, a big face in the IRA, and... the CEO of a Fortune 500?
Not ideal. ]
You want to see if we can slip away? Here or back in the other room?
[ He inhales slowly from his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment longer.
Just for appearances, even though he's comfortably convinced no one can hear them, ]
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no subject
Vasquez smothers a snort, managing to keep his tone light but low. ]
A corner seems more accessible, don’t you think? And that means I can get my hands on you sooner.
[ And that is once again to fuck with Faraday. ]
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[ He fakes a sort of breathiness, a hand pressed to his chest and eyelashes fluttering. ]
Don't make promises you don't intend to keep.
[ He flashes him another bright, devilish grin before turning to lead the way.
Faraday makes it a point to not make a beeline for the the venue Vasquez had headed toward earlier, instead taking a wandering sort of route. Keeping an eye out for the livelier clusters of guests, Faraday slips the two of them in, every now and again, offering a few introductions. It helps, obviously, to offer the appearance of networking, rather than flit in and out and making it all too obvious that they're merely crashing the party.
He offers his fake name, Dave Nolan. His training helps him control the twang of his accent, though he lets some of it show through.
But once all of that is finally out of the way, he starts moving toward the hall where Vasquez found the Welshman. ]
"The hound walks at midnight."
[ He whispers it dramatically, once they're away from the crowd. ]
Seems to be some kinda passcode.
no subject
He offers a hum of agreement, whispering back. ]
Must be.
[ He can't imagine another reason for it to sound so ridiculous. ]
Something to do with the time or just to know who is involved?
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[ Though Faraday's guess is as good as anyone's, if he's honest. ]
Seemed like they expected to kick things off earlier, but you know how it is at these things – everyone's always fashionably late.
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[ Since it means they have a better chance of getting their hands on the gas before it gets shipped out. ]
You want to try looking for where they're keeping it or see if we can get closer to the auction?
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[ The easier answer, considering the hotel is huge. At least heading toward the auction is a more concrete destination than stumbling around going, "I dunno, did we try this way yet?" ]
Unless you've got any more concrete ideas on where they might be keeping this shit.
no subject
[ The auction will also give them the benefit of recording the potential players involved in the buy, and that can only be for the agency's benefit. ]
Buy me a deadly weapon instead of art, eh?
[ He flashes Faraday a grin, but he tries to tame it as they near the hall. ]
Nothing more romantic than that.
no subject
Oh, darlin', it's only the best for the light of my life, the apple of my eye.
[ He forces himself to sober a handful of paces before they make the final turn. The same guard is still there, just as alert and cautious as ever. Faraday doesn't recall from Vasquez's feed whether the two men offered the guard any sort of pass phrase to be admitted, so Faraday's making a bet that there isn't one. For lack of anything better, Faraday walks forward with confidence.
It's the easiest thing in the world – act like you belong, and everyone will assume that you do.
He pauses in front of the guard, lips pressed into a faintly disapproving line, an expectant quality to his gaze. The guard sizes him up before nodding curtly, though politely, and rapping a knuckle against the door behind him. The door opens, and the man steps aside. ]
no subject
As they're admitted into the other room, they're greeted with a much more lavish offering. The servers are dressed all in black, and they move seamlessly around the smaller throng of people (more than Vasquez expected to be present; a depressingly large group, considering the product up for buy). They bear trays of elegant appetizers, but also varied drinks with small, metal tents explaining what they offer – liquor Vasquez knows costs thousands by the bottle.
Vasquez leans close to Faraday's ear again, humor in his voice. ]
Maybe I won't be buying that drink for you, cariño.
no subject
With his glasses still transmitting, he scans the crowd. They'll have to run the recording through some facial recognition software later, but even without it, Faraday thinks he recognizes at least a few faces from grainy photos and surveillance footage.
They're probably in the right place, which might be some consolation. Or, at the very least, the rich and sadistic have a shared interest in partner-swap parties.
It's necessity, of course, for Vasquez to keep leaning into Faraday's space, for the man to keep up the appearance of offering sweet nothings or lurid offerings, but focused as Faraday is, this time, Vasquez catches him by surprise. He tenses rather than jumps when Vasquez's breath brushes against his skin, when he catches the scent of cologne.
The way his stomach flutters makes him think a single, but vehement, Fuck.
A waiter drifts past with a tray of ridiculously priced Scotch, and Faraday uses the second to recompose himself as he's plucking up a Glencairn glass. ]
Don't be goin' back on your promise now, babe.
[ He sips at his glass, pausing before letting an appreciative, Shit, that's good. ]
Probably the right place, at least.
[ This, with a subtle nod to a far corner. A balding man sits at a table, surrounded by what appears to be standing guards.
Bartholomew Bogue. A slippery bastard who's been on Statesman's radar for years. ]
no subject
Fortunately for the both of them, actively concealing that is a matter of practice.
Vasquez's brows rise as a tray passes labeled "Michter," and he catches a glass of his own before the waiter disappears again. His smile is more genuine when Faraday relishes his new drink; even by their standards, this is still a treat. Vasquez contents himself with sipping his bourbon, eyes finally landing on Bogue.
He's not surprised. ]
We're in good company, it seems.
[ Maybe if they get the chance, they can drop a tracker on Bogue, too.
(Not one of the internal ones.)
He rests his hand absently at Faraday's back as he sips his drink, trying to keep up that effortless appearance of romance. ]
What do you think? Go make friends?
no subject
Sounds fun.
[ In much the same way that a visit to the dentist for a root canal would be fun.
He doesn't knock the drink back for liquid courage, like he might have with some cheaper offering, but he does, at least, take another sip of it.
A little teasingly, ]
You may yet find your elusive Roberto or David.
no subject
[ And naturally as anything, he curls his arm around Faraday's waist, finally directing them towards a set of faces. It's easy to insinuate themselves into the conversation, though Vasquez is almost surprised no one so much as blinks twice at the familiar way he and Faraday stand and introduce each other. Vasquez has to wonder if it's a matter of business, of wealth; money speaks louder than any tastes or proclivities.
Mingling gives them the chance to put names to faces, to get a better look at the auction attendees: a room of almost exclusively men, from all corners of the globe.
At some point, they come across a man with black hair and a husky voice – made all the deeper, surely, by the cigar between his fingers. He stops in the middle of passing Faraday and Vasquez, pausing as Vasquez waves off a joke with a click of his tongue and a grin. Vasquez is suddenly very aware of him when he notices the man stop mid-step, and then a broad palm rests on Vasquez's shoulder.
It takes so much self-restraint not to swing on instinct.
Just as Vasquez is turning to ask the man what he wants, the gentleman offers, ]
Tu acento – Michoacan, sí?
[ That actually manages to throw Vasquez for a loop. He blinks at the man for a heartbeat, but his confusion and wariness is pushed aside by a brilliant grin (even if his mind is setting off alarm bells). ]
¿Sí, y usted?
[ The man's broad face splits in a smile. ]
Bogotá, mi amigo. Tan poca gente que habla Español aquí.
[ Bogotá—
Oh. ]
No lo se, no lo se. [ He sticks his hand out to the man, who pops his cigar between his lips to shake. ] Alejandro.
Maximiliano, amigo.
[ Maximiliano Rojas. Big in the Columbian cartels. Very big.
Vasquez rests his hand on Faraday's shoulder, speaking again to Maximiliano. ]
Ah, mi pareja no habla Español.
[ Maximiliano turns his attention to Faraday, finally, blinking at him before bursting out in another deep laugh. ]
My apologies, my apologies. English for you, then.
no subject
He may be sociable, and he may enjoy being the center of attention with a good story or joke, but Faraday is, in his heart of hearts, a surly bastard. He gets tired of the small talk real quick – especially when his conversational partners are the type who wouldn't look at him twice if it weren't for the well-tailored suit he's wearing on the company dime.
The only relief he has from it, really, is the snide remarks he makes under his breath as they're drifting from group to group – comments about the thick, stinking cloud of someone's eau de toilette, or the shameful way someone is trying to conceal their receding hairline with a poor comb-over— but they're interrupted.
Faraday forces himself to remain relaxed – but the blank-faced confusion, at least, he doesn't have to feign. He looks first to Vasquez, and it's a testament to how long they've worked together that he can see the faintest shadow of tension in his smile. Faraday's reasonably sure their new acquaintance won't be able to spot it, especially considering the man continues on in that bright, delighted way of his.
God. One of these days he seriously has to learn Spanish.
He definitely recognizes the exchanging of names, at least – and the name "Maximiliano" nags at him. When the attention turns to him, Faraday blinks then forces a slightly awkward smile as he holds out his hand. ]
Dave Nolan.
[ He's still keeping his accent mostly wrangled. ]
I'm hoping all of that was good. I haven't the faintest idea what either of you just said.
no subject
Your friend, I recognized his accent. I'm sure Spanish sounds all the same to your ear, but it is very different. Especially, you see, I am from Columbia, not Mexico.
[ He gestures to Vasquez with his cigar; Vasquez lifts his glass in acknowledgement. ]
Come! Have a cigar with me, my new friends. The smoking lounge is through here.
[ Maximiliano points to a door at the back – his apparent initial trajectory.
Vasquez glances at Faraday, eyebrow quirked. ]
no subject
I don't see why not.
[ It seems they still have time to kill before the auction; chances are, they can use this time to pick up some more incriminating evidence, if all the assholes in here think they're among like-minded individuals. ]
no subject
Liderar el camino.
[ Maximiliano's broad grin splits his face, and he lifts his cigar. ]
¡Vamanos!
[ Vasquez doesn't attach himself to Faraday again, but he keeps close as they follow their new "friend" into the waiting smoking lounge. They're greeted by a heady plume of cigar smoke, and Vasquez would be lying if he tried to claim it wasn't pleasant.
The scent alone is enough to indicate exactly how expensive those cigars are.
His gaze flicks to Faraday again – a look that says, "not bad."
However, Vasquez is still tense; Mexico is a big country, Michoacán a big state, but there's a lot of crossover with the Mexican and Columbian cartels. That's not a crossover Vasquez wants to revisit.
They only make it a few steps inside before they're approached by a waitress with a humidor. She opens the lid, beaming at them. ]
Can I offer you a cigar, sirs?
[ Vasquez offers her a quiet "gracias", reaching in to select a Cuban he recognizes. ]
no subject
Still, his expertise is more in cigarettes than cigars, which is why he merely copies Vasquez's selection, a little absentmindedly. He scans the room again, the pace idle and slow for the best results on the recording, before he offers the woman a small smile of gratitude and a wink.
She smiles prettily in that polite, patient way that shows she's endured the exact same gesture from dozens of other men tonight before drifting away.
Faraday leans over to Vasquez. ]
Everything all right?
[ Because the guy seems tenser than before for reasons Faraday's not entirely sure he knows or understands. ]
no subject
Ah.
He manages not to sigh, and he returns to piercing the cap of his cigar, before offering the stamp to Faraday. ]
Talk later.
[ This is surely not the time nor place, but the fact that Faraday noticed reminds Vasquez that he needs to be more cognizant of his posture, of his public demeanor. A small comfort comes because he's sure Faraday may have been the only one to notice, so far. ]
no subject
Later, then.
[ He returns the cutter to its proper place. For a blink, he hesitates before reaching over and resting his hand over Vasquez's upper arm, squeezing lightly.
Whatever it is, Faraday wants to say, we'll be fine. ]
no subject
Honestly, it's nothing, given all the other liberties Vasquez has taken, but he drops his hand again, reaching into his pocket for his personal lighter.
(There's a gas aerosol that can be activated to turn it into a tiny flamethrower, but it also happens to double as a lighter.)
He flicks the gold cap open, putting his cigar between his lips and holding the flame up until it smolders to life. He takes a few short puffs, then holds up the lighter for Faraday's. Vasquez's eyes scan the smoking lounge, taking in the layout. There are two other exits, though Vasquez has no clue in the world where they lead. Maximiliano has fallen back into conversation with a few other men in Spanish, apparently content to let Faraday and Vasquez get settled. ]
no subject
(He should really quit, he thinks again.)
Quietly, ]
Your new friend seems familiar.
[ That is, Faraday hasn't forgotten that little nagging at the back of his head, the one that reminds him that the man was important, in some way. Or maybe Faraday is misremembering.
The tip lights up as the tobacco starts to burn, and he inspects it a little critically, blowing gently on it to even out the rosette. ]
Do we need to keep an eye on him, or is it back to business as normal?
no subject
He gives a low, absent hum as he takes a few slow draws from the cigar. ]
I think he's here for the same reason of everyone else.
[ Though considering the kind of devastation Rojas could cause with the nerve gas...
It makes Vasquez's blood run cold.
He's seen the death that follows the cartels, knows it personally, but that's probably why he feels more sensitive to it. ]
What do you think of those doors?
[ He speaks quietly around an exhalation of smoke, pulling his cigar back between two fingers. ]
no subject
Dining rooms? [ Quiet as ever, between puffs on the cigar. ] Broom closets? Fire escapes, maybe?
[ It doesn't seem as though anyone is coming or leaving from them – at least, not at the moment. ]
Private rooms for quick tête-à-têtes?
[ A quick nod to Vasquez as he wanders further into the room, circling the edge like he's finding them a comfortable spot. ]
No guards. No foot traffic, either.
no subject
Not ideal. ]
You want to see if we can slip away? Here or back in the other room?
[ He inhales slowly from his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment longer.
Just for appearances, even though he's comfortably convinced no one can hear them, ]
Maybe have our own tête-à-tête.
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