[ 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, ]
[ Faraday flashes Vasquez a grin before putting on that teasing, breathy voice. ]
Oh, sweetheart, I thought you'd never ask.
[ He thinks it over for a second. Ideally, he figures, they'd want to put a highly dangerous biochemical weapon in a low-traffic area – even if that low traffic area does pose as something of a fire hazard, with liquor and lighters and lit cigars free for the taking.
If it is nearby, they certainly have a great deal of faith in its containment.
He doesn't nod this time to show Vasquez his intentions; instead, he trusts the other man to wander behind him as he heads to one of the exits leading out of the smoking room.
Small as the space is, he doubts they'll be unnoticed if they attempt one of the doors. At best, they'll be shooed away by a polite waiter or waitress. At worst, it'll mark them as clearly not belonging here. Best not to chance it, Faraday figures.
Statesman taught him a great deal, obviously, but he lived a pretty interesting life before Chisolm recruited him. He's always had clever hands, has always had a good instinct for distraction.
They pass by a guest laughing boisterously – a little too drunk on expensive liquor, Faraday figures – with his hands occupied by a full tumbler and a cigar.
Quick and calm and smooth as anything, Faraday slips his lit cigar into the man's trouser pocket.
It should take a few moments for the man to notice his pants on fire, Faraday figures. ]
[ Vasquez is far from the first person to flatter Faraday's skills, but there are some fields where Faraday just excels. Violence? Vasquez has that down. Sleight of hand? Not his strong suit.
So much so that he doesn't even realize Faraday has ditched his cigar until Vasquez prepares to leave his cigar in a nearby ashtray so it can extinguish itself. He looks over to Faraday, intending to gesture to the ashtray, and—
There's no cigar in his hand.
Confusion furrows Vasquez's brow momentarily, but a very brief glance around shows a slow trail of smoke starting to drift from a man's pocket.
Vasquez absolutely does not grin, but it's impossibly close. He abandons his cigar just as the first quizzical noise comes from the group of men behind them. ]
A fair bit of flailing, too, though Faraday misses it by taking them into the first door he reaches. He ushers in Vasquez first before shutting it firmly behind them. Ahead of them is another hallway – Spartan and plain and lit with cheap, bright, bulbs that cast everything in an unflattering light, which tells Faraday that this area isn't meant for guests. A good sign, he figures, though it's just as possible that this just leads to the waitstaff's break room.
The commotion from the lounge is muffled, now, though no less urgent, and Faraday hisses in a breath through his teeth. ]
God dang it, I'm good.
[ He still keeps his voice low, just to be safe, before he grins brightly at Vasquez. ]
[ Once the door is finally closed behind them, Vasquez allows himself to snicker. He manages not to burst into full-on laughter, and after a moment, he clears his throat, composes himself. He readjusts his jacket with a grin. ]
Sí, cariño.
[ Vasquez sweeps his arm out, gesturing to the hall ahead of them. ]
[ Faraday leads the way down the hall, passing by a few open rooms &ndash cleaning supplies, store rooms, a couple of bathrooms.
He stops up short when he hears a quiet, unassuming sneeze, accompanied by a polite, bless you. Faraday slows to a crawl, trusting Vasquez to do the same, before he slowly peeks around the corner.
Down a ways, two men stand on either side of a door, both dressed in nondescript, slightly ill-fitting black suits. They seem disinterested but alert. Faraday taps on the frame of his glasses, zooming in, switching the view.
Oh, those men are definitely armed. His glasses helpfully point out the pistols in shoulder holster beneath the men's jackets.
Faraday jerks his head, guiding Vasquez back the way they came to get them out of earshot. ]
The quiet sneeze makes Vasquez freeze. There's no sign that they've been noticed, at least, and he continues at Faraday's creeping pace. When they reach the doorway, instead of taking a peek for himself, Vasquez taps into Faraday's visual feed on his glasses to see through Faraday's eyes.
Those guards are clearly guarding something, even if they're hanging around with the kind of boredom that indicates they're not expecting someone to bust in.
Their mistake.
He shuffles back with Faraday, switching back his HUD once they're far enough to whisper. ]
Distraction or sedation, guero?
[ They have no idea how long it will take to get into the other room; if they're lucky, it's been left unlocked with the posted guards instead. If they're slightly less lucky, the lock is pickable or hackable.
If their luck is horrible, it's impossibly sealed and they're fucked.
[ But, as Faraday turns to his watch, Vasquez does the same. He twists a few dials, and with the correct setting, he offers a short nod.
They've done this so many times together that the beat between moving is all Vasquez needs.
With practiced, perfect ease, Vasquez rounds the corner with his watch at the ready. Before the guards can even properly react or open their mouths, they collapse into heaps with darts in their necks. There's no hitch in the precision, in the way he moves opposite Faraday, because he knows exactly how his partner fits into their rhythm.
They may wreck shit, but they also know what the hell they're doing. ]
[ Faraday only waits a bare breath to let Vasquez move around him, but after that, they move in tandem, a well-oiled machine. That goes beyond training, he thinks; most of the Statesman agents work well together as a rule, but there's a lot to be said for chemistry.
The two men drop like sacks of potatoes, and Faraday continues on toward the door.
Ah. A touchpad lock beside the door.
He changes the settings on his watch again, switching to Hack. ]
[ The watch beeps pleasantly, announcing the lock has been hacked, and the touchpad echoes the noise. The door clicks and Faraday jerks his head toward it. ]
[ He carefully pushes open the door to yet another hall, though at the end of that hall is a thick steel door. Faraday pauses, listening, but he doesn't hear any voices or further movement.
He creeps forward, quickly testing the door. Unlocked, it seems; they must have put a great deal of faith in the two guardsmen outside, or else put a lot of trust in their would-be customers not trying to take a gander at the lot a little too early. After a quick pause to ensure Vasquez is still at the ready, he pushes the door open. ]
Oh, thank fuck.
[ This murmured beneath his breath.
Because inside the storage room, aside from shelves lining the walls containing various tools and equipment, is a heavy metal crate with yet another keypad lock – practically screaming for attention with how carefully unremarkable it is. ]
[ This, as he's plucking a small, plastic bag from the inside of his jacket.
Their normal bugs work well, attaching to clothing like little burs, but there was always the chance they'd be noticed – or worse, that they'd fall off. For this, they needed something practically undetectable, and Faraday frees the tracker – flat and tiny.
("This is expensive, Faraday," he was told, over and over and over. "Keep track of it. We're only shippin' you two out with one of these."
For once, he seems to have taken the warnings to heart.)
He kneels down, adhering the tracker to a low point on one of the crate's faces – harder to spot that way, though as he pulls his hand back, he admits it's almost impossible to spot even while he's looking straight at it.
He moves through the settings on his watch again – faster than tapping through on his glasses – and pulls up their tracking program. A red blip shows up on the radar, showing the tracker is active. ]
[ Vasquez keeps his eyes keenly fixed on the door, his ears waiting for any hint of footsteps or otherwise. Mercifully, applying the tracker isn't an arduous task, and once Faraday gives the all-clear, some of that alert tension eases out of Vasquez. ]
Then let's get going.
[ Like he said, the sooner they get free of this party, the sooner they can loosen these ties and finally shrug off the overly formal masks they've worn all night.
This time, Vasquez takes point heading back. The hall is still quiet, and when they return to the bodies of the guards, they haven't budged. They shouldn't be out for much longer, and they'll just wake up confused with some mild headaches.
Vasquez steps around a splayed leg, pausing to nudge an arm with his loafer.
Nope, still out.
Vasquez is still alert – both thanks to his training with Statesman and his life before – but he's also more at ease, knowing they've accomplished their goal for the night and that they won't have to go back and deal with insufferable smalltalk anymore.
He glances back at Faraday as they make their way down the hall towards the smoking lounge. He still keeps his voice low, because he's not an idiot. ]
What were you thinking for your drink—
[ But he stops short as the sound of a doorknob turns down the hall. ]
[ Faraday's far more relieved than he can express that they're basically done.
Sure, they probably need to do a little more mingling, just to avoid making too abrupt of an exit, but otherwise, they're home free. And once they're back, Faraday will spoil the hell out of Jack with as many treats and walks as that monstrous dog could possibly want.
One single door lies between them and veritable freedom, and even before Vasquez finishes his question, Faraday's grinning as he readies his response.
Bourbon, obviously—
But he freezes just as Vasquez does, eyes wide and mind kicking into fight mode.
Except throwing punches is not a smart move, here, and Faraday knows it. He battles down that instinct, mind abuzz with activity as he glances over at Vasquez.
Statesman taught him a lot, of course. He owes them a great deal for pulling him out of the steep nosedive his life had become. Some of the shit they taught him was legitimately insane, like how to take a man out using something as mundane as a drinking straw, but they didn't teach him everything.
But then again, there was a great deal of overlap between the training he gained from Statesman and from the hard knocks of his life. How to shoot a gun. How to charm the pants off someone. How to throw off suspicion. How to get out of trouble.
How to make things so wildly uncomfortable that folks will practically pay you to let them wash their hands of it.
When he catches Vasquez's eye, he doesn't say a word. No time for it, really. Instead, he cuts the other man a look that preemptively begs forgiveness – a rare move, considering Faraday is hardly ever sorry for anything.
(His stomach twists and flutters with the knowledge of what he's about to do, and fucking Christ, he does not need this right now.)
He grabs Vasquez by the lapel and shoves him against the wall, his other hand slapping against the wall as he nearly unbalances himself in his hurry – his clumsiness, though, has the happy consequence of forcing him all the more into Vasquez's space. He spares one last apologetic wince before he kisses Vasquez, and with the speed of a horny teenager whose parents have just left home for a couple of hours, he licks past the seam of Vasquez's lips.
For this to work, this needs to look convincing right the fuck now. And he hopes to God that Vasquez doesn't just immediately shoot him for crossing the line. ]
[ Vasquez can think on his feet, sure, but Faraday’s impulse is not Vasquez’s initial plan.
(He was about to drag Faraday into one of the bathrooms, but that would probably warrant immediate investigation.)
He’s spent more than enough time with Faraday to recognize that split-second look in his eyes – not to immediately divine his plan, but enough to realize this is going to cross a line or five. There’s no time to ask or strategize or do anything else, and the fact that it’s Faraday grabbing him is the only thing that keeps Vasquez from reacting on instinct.
For a moment, Vasquez isn’t sure if Faraday is going to punch him or—
Oh.
Faraday’s lips crash against Vasquez’s, and for another heartbeat, Vasquez’s mouth is completely slack with shock. He doesn’t return the kiss at first, but after his survival instinct catches up to his good sense, he ends up on the same page; he’s not going to retaliate and risk blowing their cover hard.
(Except he feels like his whole body lights up with Faraday pressed up against him, and his heart hammers in his ears, a flush running through him—)
Vasquez meets Faraday with the same heat, the same frantic attempt to look convincing. He grabs at Faraday’s shirt, untucking it from his slacks to find skin (to look better, to pass this off), and his palm skirts over Faraday’s waist. He finds a grip at the blade of his partner’s hip, yanking him closer, like they can even get closer.
From down the hall, a hesitant voice tries to pipe up: ]
Uh... excuse me?
[ Vasquez (willfully) ignores that first attempt to get their attention, instead groaning quietly into the kiss.
(He doesn’t want to stop? He doesn’t want to be interrupted, as irrational as that is, as much as he knows this is just part of their cover—) ]
Because if he were, maybe he'd be willing to admit that he's been wanting to do this for a while – except there are protocols in Statesman, and more importantly, he doesn't want to jeopardize an already good thing. Maybe he'd be willing to admit that he's spent a few lonely nights dreaming about something exactly like this.
Maybe he'd be willing to admit that after Cognac had brought him in to his first briefing, had said, "Mezcal, I'd like you to meet our brand new Agent Bourbon," and Vasquez had held out a hand for Faraday to shake, Faraday's first thought had been "Oh no. Oh God. Oh fuck."
And maybe he'd be willing to admit that the instant Vasquez gets on the same wavelength and starts kissing back instead of snapping Faraday's neck a full 180 degrees, his first thought is More.
But it's like Vasquez hears that private thought anyway, ramping up the intensity, knocking Faraday's wire-frame glasses slightly askew. Vasquez tastes like earthy smoke and good whiskey, and Faraday breathes down the smell of the other man's cologne again – something dark and spicy and intoxicating. Vasquez yanks at his shirt, running calloused hands over his bare skin, pulling him impossibly closer. And— fuck, all right, an urgent, shaky moan slips out of him before he can stop it. ]
Fuck, yes—
[ For the sake of a good show, he'll probably prevaricate later.
Except Vasquez is wordlessly echoing the sound, and God, what Faraday would give to hear that sound in a more private, more genuine setting. Hell, what wouldn't he give? That might be a much shorter list.
Someone lets out a slightly more forceful yet still timid "Gentlemen—?" The voice and the sound of footsteps are getting closer, but like Vasquez, Faraday pretends he doesn't hear.
More, his mind keeps chanting, even while he desperately tries to remind himself this isn't real. God Almighty, more, please—
He cups the nape of Vasquez' neck, fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. Tonight, Vasquez's curls are tamed for the sake of looking the part, but Faraday's pretty sure he's managing to make a mess, all the same. ]
Gentlemen!
[ The shrillness of it startles Faraday more than anything, and he jerks back, lips red and swollen and glasses still sitting crookedly on the bridge of his nose. He's panting for breath as he looks over to a waiter who refuses to make direct eye contact, opting instead to stare down at their shoes, and whose face is redder than a tomato. ]
Gentlemen, um. I'm so, so sorry to— to interrupt. But this area is, um. This is staff only. So if you could—
[ There’s a brief, delirious moment where Vasquez is left wondering if they just pretend like their unwelcome company doesn’t exist, the waiter will just disappear. Because Faraday is moaning into the kiss, and then there are fingers in Vasquez’s hair, and fuck, he doesn’t want this moment to end.
(He doesn’t? God, if he’d just be honest with himself, maybe that would be easier to admit. But he also knows what’s at risk, what they’re staring down professionally – and even personally, when Faraday is probably the closest thing Vasquez might come to calling someone a friend.
He can’t mess that up.)
The kiss is more intoxicating than any liquor they’d enjoyed tonight, and Vasquez would trade the finest whiskey in the world just to stay in this moment. He wants to let himself explore Faraday, get a proper sense of the goddamn tease he’s given himself by finally finding bare skin. He doesn’t want to stop, he doesn’t want to —
Finally, that near-shriek startles them apart. The more of a taste that he got, the more he started to forget they were trying to accomplish something (and, fuck, even just something that brief got to him), and he’s almost baffled by the interruption. He blinks at the poor, embarrassed waiter, actually letting his brain catch up to the rest of him.
... Oh, right.
Vasquez clears his throat, extracting his hand from under Faraday’s shirt. ]
Ah, lo siento.
[ Okay, they actually need to bolt now, to get out while they still can, but —
No, stop. Refocus.
He doesn’t allow himself much time for thought as he reaches for Faraday’s hand, curling their fingers together to lead him around the poor waiter so they can get back to the rest of the party – and maybe back to their room. He’s not especially worried about fixing his rumpled jacket or his hair, if only because it gives a slightly more reasonable explanation for why he and Faraday will be emerging from a “staff only” location.
That’s assuming the room has recovered from the literal “pants on fire” incident. ]
[ He doesn't startle, exactly, when Vasquez grabs his hand, when Vasquez pulls him back into the smoking lounge – though he had entirely expected Vasquez to break off like a man burned, to dash off like a man escaping jail time.
No. Right. Vasquez is better trained than that; he's been at this slightly longer than Faraday has, and Vasquez definitely knows the score. He wouldn't do anything to arouse more suspicion.
Vasquez drags him away so quickly that he only gets a moment to smooth back his hair with his free hand, to set his glasses properly on his face.
... his glasses.
... oh fuck, he's been transmitting this entire time.
His face goes beet red.
Only a handful of men glance up at Faraday and Vasquez's entrance, one or two of them snickering knowingly, and Faraday ignores them.
The smoking room is far more subdued, now. Stinking of smoke is the obvious consequence of all those lit cigars, but it also stinks of burnt hair. Alfred, the bastard who Faraday set alight, apparently, looks completely frazzled as he's tended to by what must be an on-cite medic. He sits on a couch surrounded by guests, only some of them trying to put on a guise of sympathy and compassion.
The others around Alfred just seem to find the entire thing hilarious, and Faraday doesn't blame them.
Out of the smoking room, back to Party 2.0, and they should probably try to set themselves to rights and mingle again before they leave. But with the waiter in the back area, there's no telling if he'll discover the two unconscious guards. And even if the waiter doesn't find the men, the men are liable to wake up soon and kick off a chain, alerting the others on staff that something must be amiss. They won't remember Faraday or Vasquez – and the waiter, mortified as he was, probably didn't get a good enough look at them – but they still shouldn't stick around.
More and more backtracking with Vasquez leading the way.
Faraday is still feeling a little queasy about how all that shit shook out – and about the video evidence of it, and about how Vasquez is sure to flay the skin off his bones for the overstep, and about how Vasquez is well within his rights to murder him, ditch the body, and return to the California branch of Statesman with an innocent shrug when they ask him what became of Faraday – that he doesn't seem to notice that Vasquez still has a firm hold on his hand. ]
[ Once they've made it back to the main ballroom, Vasquez finally reaches up for his glasses, shoving them away into his jacket pocket. Fuck, they'd had a live feed the whole time, hadn't they? That should— be explainable to Cognac later; Faraday made the most prudent (and effective) choice for the split second they had to decide. And the job got done, so covering their asses on their way out probably won't be an issue.
But—
Fuck, Vasquez still feels lightheaded. Everywhere Faraday touched him is still alive with nerves and a burning, simmering need demanding more.Calm down, he berates himself, trying to talk himself back from that precarious ledge. Faraday was only doing what he had to in order to get them out of there, unconventional as it may have been. They've just been messing with each other all night, like they always do, so it didn't— it wasn't—
It's so damn hard to get his head on straight, but he hasn't released Faraday's hand all the way through the next ballroom until they're finally in the elevator to take them back to their suite.
The doors slide closed, and Vasquez draws away, running a hand fitfully back through his mussed curls.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
Oh, sweetheart, I thought you'd never ask.
[ He thinks it over for a second. Ideally, he figures, they'd want to put a highly dangerous biochemical weapon in a low-traffic area – even if that low traffic area does pose as something of a fire hazard, with liquor and lighters and lit cigars free for the taking.
If it is nearby, they certainly have a great deal of faith in its containment.
He doesn't nod this time to show Vasquez his intentions; instead, he trusts the other man to wander behind him as he heads to one of the exits leading out of the smoking room.
Small as the space is, he doubts they'll be unnoticed if they attempt one of the doors. At best, they'll be shooed away by a polite waiter or waitress. At worst, it'll mark them as clearly not belonging here. Best not to chance it, Faraday figures.
Statesman taught him a great deal, obviously, but he lived a pretty interesting life before Chisolm recruited him. He's always had clever hands, has always had a good instinct for distraction.
They pass by a guest laughing boisterously – a little too drunk on expensive liquor, Faraday figures – with his hands occupied by a full tumbler and a cigar.
Quick and calm and smooth as anything, Faraday slips his lit cigar into the man's trouser pocket.
It should take a few moments for the man to notice his pants on fire, Faraday figures. ]
no subject
So much so that he doesn't even realize Faraday has ditched his cigar until Vasquez prepares to leave his cigar in a nearby ashtray so it can extinguish itself. He looks over to Faraday, intending to gesture to the ashtray, and—
There's no cigar in his hand.
Confusion furrows Vasquez's brow momentarily, but a very brief glance around shows a slow trail of smoke starting to drift from a man's pocket.
Vasquez absolutely does not grin, but it's impossibly close. He abandons his cigar just as the first quizzical noise comes from the group of men behind them. ]
Alfred, is that—
[ And then the shouting starts. ]
no subject
A fair bit of flailing, too, though Faraday misses it by taking them into the first door he reaches. He ushers in Vasquez first before shutting it firmly behind them. Ahead of them is another hallway – Spartan and plain and lit with cheap, bright, bulbs that cast everything in an unflattering light, which tells Faraday that this area isn't meant for guests. A good sign, he figures, though it's just as possible that this just leads to the waitstaff's break room.
The commotion from the lounge is muffled, now, though no less urgent, and Faraday hisses in a breath through his teeth. ]
God dang it, I'm good.
[ He still keeps his voice low, just to be safe, before he grins brightly at Vasquez. ]
Shall we, darlin'?
no subject
Sí, cariño.
[ Vasquez sweeps his arm out, gesturing to the hall ahead of them. ]
After you.
no subject
He stops up short when he hears a quiet, unassuming sneeze, accompanied by a polite, bless you. Faraday slows to a crawl, trusting Vasquez to do the same, before he slowly peeks around the corner.
Down a ways, two men stand on either side of a door, both dressed in nondescript, slightly ill-fitting black suits. They seem disinterested but alert. Faraday taps on the frame of his glasses, zooming in, switching the view.
Oh, those men are definitely armed. His glasses helpfully point out the pistols in shoulder holster beneath the men's jackets.
Faraday jerks his head, guiding Vasquez back the way they came to get them out of earshot. ]
Well. This seems promisin'.
no subject
And then—
The quiet sneeze makes Vasquez freeze. There's no sign that they've been noticed, at least, and he continues at Faraday's creeping pace. When they reach the doorway, instead of taking a peek for himself, Vasquez taps into Faraday's visual feed on his glasses to see through Faraday's eyes.
Those guards are clearly guarding something, even if they're hanging around with the kind of boredom that indicates they're not expecting someone to bust in.
Their mistake.
He shuffles back with Faraday, switching back his HUD once they're far enough to whisper. ]
Distraction or sedation, guero?
[ They have no idea how long it will take to get into the other room; if they're lucky, it's been left unlocked with the posted guards instead. If they're slightly less lucky, the lock is pickable or hackable.
If their luck is horrible, it's impossibly sealed and they're fucked.
That seems less likely. ]
no subject
[ This, as he's cycling through options on his watch, stopping on the Amnesia setting. ]
You take left. I got right.
no subject
[ But, as Faraday turns to his watch, Vasquez does the same. He twists a few dials, and with the correct setting, he offers a short nod.
They've done this so many times together that the beat between moving is all Vasquez needs.
With practiced, perfect ease, Vasquez rounds the corner with his watch at the ready. Before the guards can even properly react or open their mouths, they collapse into heaps with darts in their necks. There's no hitch in the precision, in the way he moves opposite Faraday, because he knows exactly how his partner fits into their rhythm.
They may wreck shit, but they also know what the hell they're doing. ]
no subject
The two men drop like sacks of potatoes, and Faraday continues on toward the door.
Ah. A touchpad lock beside the door.
He changes the settings on his watch again, switching to Hack. ]
I think we're gettin' warmer.
no subject
Maybe we can even end the night early, eh?
Get out of these stupid suits.
no subject
[ This, a little absently, as he's tracking the progress of the hack. ]
And don't think for a second this'll get you outta that drink you owe me.
no subject
Was that a compliment, cariño?
no subject
Then, simply, ]
No.
[ The watch beeps pleasantly, announcing the lock has been hacked, and the touchpad echoes the noise. The door clicks and Faraday jerks his head toward it. ]
C'mon.
[ Shorthand for cover me. ]
no subject
His grin only fades when the door opens, and he nods once, all business again. ]
Entendido.
[ He has his watch at the ready, and his (conveniently tiny) pistol in an inconspicuous shoulder holster within reach. ]
Right behind you.
no subject
He creeps forward, quickly testing the door. Unlocked, it seems; they must have put a great deal of faith in the two guardsmen outside, or else put a lot of trust in their would-be customers not trying to take a gander at the lot a little too early. After a quick pause to ensure Vasquez is still at the ready, he pushes the door open. ]
Oh, thank fuck.
[ This murmured beneath his breath.
Because inside the storage room, aside from shelves lining the walls containing various tools and equipment, is a heavy metal crate with yet another keypad lock – practically screaming for attention with how carefully unremarkable it is. ]
Was half-expecting this to be their wine cellar.
no subject
When they make it to the metal crate, he actually sighs with relief. ]
No kidding.
Tag it and we can get out of here.
[ Because there is absolutely no way they're moving the damn crate on their own. Getting it through the hotel unnoticed? Not likely.
They're also exposed here, with their only real exit strategy being the way they came. ]
no subject
[ This, as he's plucking a small, plastic bag from the inside of his jacket.
Their normal bugs work well, attaching to clothing like little burs, but there was always the chance they'd be noticed – or worse, that they'd fall off. For this, they needed something practically undetectable, and Faraday frees the tracker – flat and tiny.
("This is expensive, Faraday," he was told, over and over and over. "Keep track of it. We're only shippin' you two out with one of these."
For once, he seems to have taken the warnings to heart.)
He kneels down, adhering the tracker to a low point on one of the crate's faces – harder to spot that way, though as he pulls his hand back, he admits it's almost impossible to spot even while he's looking straight at it.
He moves through the settings on his watch again – faster than tapping through on his glasses – and pulls up their tracking program. A red blip shows up on the radar, showing the tracker is active. ]
We're good here.
no subject
Then let's get going.
[ Like he said, the sooner they get free of this party, the sooner they can loosen these ties and finally shrug off the overly formal masks they've worn all night.
This time, Vasquez takes point heading back. The hall is still quiet, and when they return to the bodies of the guards, they haven't budged. They shouldn't be out for much longer, and they'll just wake up confused with some mild headaches.
Vasquez steps around a splayed leg, pausing to nudge an arm with his loafer.
Nope, still out.
Vasquez is still alert – both thanks to his training with Statesman and his life before – but he's also more at ease, knowing they've accomplished their goal for the night and that they won't have to go back and deal with insufferable smalltalk anymore.
He glances back at Faraday as they make their way down the hall towards the smoking lounge. He still keeps his voice low, because he's not an idiot. ]
What were you thinking for your drink—
[ But he stops short as the sound of a doorknob turns down the hall. ]
no subject
Sure, they probably need to do a little more mingling, just to avoid making too abrupt of an exit, but otherwise, they're home free. And once they're back, Faraday will spoil the hell out of Jack with as many treats and walks as that monstrous dog could possibly want.
One single door lies between them and veritable freedom, and even before Vasquez finishes his question, Faraday's grinning as he readies his response.
Bourbon, obviously—
But he freezes just as Vasquez does, eyes wide and mind kicking into fight mode.
Except throwing punches is not a smart move, here, and Faraday knows it. He battles down that instinct, mind abuzz with activity as he glances over at Vasquez.
Statesman taught him a lot, of course. He owes them a great deal for pulling him out of the steep nosedive his life had become. Some of the shit they taught him was legitimately insane, like how to take a man out using something as mundane as a drinking straw, but they didn't teach him everything.
But then again, there was a great deal of overlap between the training he gained from Statesman and from the hard knocks of his life. How to shoot a gun. How to charm the pants off someone. How to throw off suspicion. How to get out of trouble.
How to make things so wildly uncomfortable that folks will practically pay you to let them wash their hands of it.
When he catches Vasquez's eye, he doesn't say a word. No time for it, really. Instead, he cuts the other man a look that preemptively begs forgiveness – a rare move, considering Faraday is hardly ever sorry for anything.
(His stomach twists and flutters with the knowledge of what he's about to do, and fucking Christ, he does not need this right now.)
He grabs Vasquez by the lapel and shoves him against the wall, his other hand slapping against the wall as he nearly unbalances himself in his hurry – his clumsiness, though, has the happy consequence of forcing him all the more into Vasquez's space. He spares one last apologetic wince before he kisses Vasquez, and with the speed of a horny teenager whose parents have just left home for a couple of hours, he licks past the seam of Vasquez's lips.
For this to work, this needs to look convincing right the fuck now. And he hopes to God that Vasquez doesn't just immediately shoot him for crossing the line. ]
no subject
(He was about to drag Faraday into one of the bathrooms, but that would probably warrant immediate investigation.)
He’s spent more than enough time with Faraday to recognize that split-second look in his eyes – not to immediately divine his plan, but enough to realize this is going to cross a line or five. There’s no time to ask or strategize or do anything else, and the fact that it’s Faraday grabbing him is the only thing that keeps Vasquez from reacting on instinct.
For a moment, Vasquez isn’t sure if Faraday is going to punch him or—
Oh.
Faraday’s lips crash against Vasquez’s, and for another heartbeat, Vasquez’s mouth is completely slack with shock. He doesn’t return the kiss at first, but after his survival instinct catches up to his good sense, he ends up on the same page; he’s not going to retaliate and risk blowing their cover hard.
(Except he feels like his whole body lights up with Faraday pressed up against him, and his heart hammers in his ears, a flush running through him—)
Vasquez meets Faraday with the same heat, the same frantic attempt to look convincing. He grabs at Faraday’s shirt, untucking it from his slacks to find skin (to look better, to pass this off), and his palm skirts over Faraday’s waist. He finds a grip at the blade of his partner’s hip, yanking him closer, like they can even get closer.
From down the hall, a hesitant voice tries to pipe up: ]
Uh... excuse me?
[ Vasquez (willfully) ignores that first attempt to get their attention, instead groaning quietly into the kiss.
(He doesn’t want to stop? He doesn’t want to be interrupted, as irrational as that is, as much as he knows this is just part of their cover—) ]
no subject
Because if he were, maybe he'd be willing to admit that he's been wanting to do this for a while – except there are protocols in Statesman, and more importantly, he doesn't want to jeopardize an already good thing. Maybe he'd be willing to admit that he's spent a few lonely nights dreaming about something exactly like this.
Maybe he'd be willing to admit that after Cognac had brought him in to his first briefing, had said, "Mezcal, I'd like you to meet our brand new Agent Bourbon," and Vasquez had held out a hand for Faraday to shake, Faraday's first thought had been "Oh no. Oh God. Oh fuck."
And maybe he'd be willing to admit that the instant Vasquez gets on the same wavelength and starts kissing back instead of snapping Faraday's neck a full 180 degrees, his first thought is More.
But it's like Vasquez hears that private thought anyway, ramping up the intensity, knocking Faraday's wire-frame glasses slightly askew. Vasquez tastes like earthy smoke and good whiskey, and Faraday breathes down the smell of the other man's cologne again – something dark and spicy and intoxicating. Vasquez yanks at his shirt, running calloused hands over his bare skin, pulling him impossibly closer. And— fuck, all right, an urgent, shaky moan slips out of him before he can stop it. ]
Fuck, yes—
[ For the sake of a good show, he'll probably prevaricate later.
Except Vasquez is wordlessly echoing the sound, and God, what Faraday would give to hear that sound in a more private, more genuine setting. Hell, what wouldn't he give? That might be a much shorter list.
Someone lets out a slightly more forceful yet still timid "Gentlemen—?" The voice and the sound of footsteps are getting closer, but like Vasquez, Faraday pretends he doesn't hear.
More, his mind keeps chanting, even while he desperately tries to remind himself this isn't real. God Almighty, more, please—
He cups the nape of Vasquez' neck, fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. Tonight, Vasquez's curls are tamed for the sake of looking the part, but Faraday's pretty sure he's managing to make a mess, all the same. ]
Gentlemen!
[ The shrillness of it startles Faraday more than anything, and he jerks back, lips red and swollen and glasses still sitting crookedly on the bridge of his nose. He's panting for breath as he looks over to a waiter who refuses to make direct eye contact, opting instead to stare down at their shoes, and whose face is redder than a tomato. ]
Gentlemen, um. I'm so, so sorry to— to interrupt. But this area is, um. This is staff only. So if you could—
no subject
(He doesn’t? God, if he’d just be honest with himself, maybe that would be easier to admit. But he also knows what’s at risk, what they’re staring down professionally – and even personally, when Faraday is probably the closest thing Vasquez might come to calling someone a friend.
He can’t mess that up.)
The kiss is more intoxicating than any liquor they’d enjoyed tonight, and Vasquez would trade the finest whiskey in the world just to stay in this moment. He wants to let himself explore Faraday, get a proper sense of the goddamn tease he’s given himself by finally finding bare skin. He doesn’t want to stop, he doesn’t want to —
Finally, that near-shriek startles them apart. The more of a taste that he got, the more he started to forget they were trying to accomplish something (and, fuck, even just something that brief got to him), and he’s almost baffled by the interruption. He blinks at the poor, embarrassed waiter, actually letting his brain catch up to the rest of him.
... Oh, right.
Vasquez clears his throat, extracting his hand from under Faraday’s shirt. ]
Ah, lo siento.
[ Okay, they actually need to bolt now, to get out while they still can, but —
No, stop. Refocus.
He doesn’t allow himself much time for thought as he reaches for Faraday’s hand, curling their fingers together to lead him around the poor waiter so they can get back to the rest of the party – and maybe back to their room. He’s not especially worried about fixing his rumpled jacket or his hair, if only because it gives a slightly more reasonable explanation for why he and Faraday will be emerging from a “staff only” location.
That’s assuming the room has recovered from the literal “pants on fire” incident. ]
no subject
No. Right. Vasquez is better trained than that; he's been at this slightly longer than Faraday has, and Vasquez definitely knows the score. He wouldn't do anything to arouse more suspicion.
Vasquez drags him away so quickly that he only gets a moment to smooth back his hair with his free hand, to set his glasses properly on his face.
... his glasses.
... oh fuck, he's been transmitting this entire time.
His face goes beet red.
Only a handful of men glance up at Faraday and Vasquez's entrance, one or two of them snickering knowingly, and Faraday ignores them.
The smoking room is far more subdued, now. Stinking of smoke is the obvious consequence of all those lit cigars, but it also stinks of burnt hair. Alfred, the bastard who Faraday set alight, apparently, looks completely frazzled as he's tended to by what must be an on-cite medic. He sits on a couch surrounded by guests, only some of them trying to put on a guise of sympathy and compassion.
The others around Alfred just seem to find the entire thing hilarious, and Faraday doesn't blame them.
Out of the smoking room, back to Party 2.0, and they should probably try to set themselves to rights and mingle again before they leave. But with the waiter in the back area, there's no telling if he'll discover the two unconscious guards. And even if the waiter doesn't find the men, the men are liable to wake up soon and kick off a chain, alerting the others on staff that something must be amiss. They won't remember Faraday or Vasquez – and the waiter, mortified as he was, probably didn't get a good enough look at them – but they still shouldn't stick around.
More and more backtracking with Vasquez leading the way.
Faraday is still feeling a little queasy about how all that shit shook out – and about the video evidence of it, and about how Vasquez is sure to flay the skin off his bones for the overstep, and about how Vasquez is well within his rights to murder him, ditch the body, and return to the California branch of Statesman with an innocent shrug when they ask him what became of Faraday – that he doesn't seem to notice that Vasquez still has a firm hold on his hand. ]
no subject
But—
Fuck, Vasquez still feels lightheaded. Everywhere Faraday touched him is still alive with nerves and a burning, simmering need demanding more. Calm down, he berates himself, trying to talk himself back from that precarious ledge. Faraday was only doing what he had to in order to get them out of there, unconventional as it may have been. They've just been messing with each other all night, like they always do, so it didn't— it wasn't—
It's so damn hard to get his head on straight, but he hasn't released Faraday's hand all the way through the next ballroom until they're finally in the elevator to take them back to their suite.
The doors slide closed, and Vasquez draws away, running a hand fitfully back through his mussed curls.
Fuck, consíguelo. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)