[ 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.
[ The silence between them is weighty and awkward in a way it rarely ever is. Sure, the silence can be charged – with nerves, with anticipation, with that frenetic dangerous energy that comes before a shoot-out – but it’s never this weird.
It’s only when Vasquez finally pulls back that he realizes the other man still had a hold on Faraday’s hand. Faraday makes a similar tactical retreat, rocking a little to one side to make space. He flexes his fingers anxiously. He pulls his glasses off, slipping them back into his breast pocket, and tries not to think about how he’s going to explain that particular point in the feed to their handlers. Good Lord, he’s not looking forward to Switchel giving him shit once they’re back. He’s gonna have to tear the peach fuzz off that dumb bastard’s face to shut him the hell up.
Sam, at least, will be forgiving and discreet, at least, but— clandestine organization as they are, no one can keep their goddamn mouths shut. Scuttlebutt still moves fast.
Then again, that’s all assuming Faraday survives the trip back.
“Did you hear about Bourbon?” he imagines. “Yeah. Mezcal chucked him out of their airplane at height. God rest his soul. Anyway, did you pick your candidate yet?”
He takes a rallying breath, tongue darting out to nervously wet his lips (and he tastes cigar smoke and good whiskey and lingering traces of wine and—)
When he speaks, his tone is uncharacteristically uncertain, a little experimental – like testing his weight on thin, cracking ice. ]
[ Vasquez finally turns back to Faraday when his partner speaks. He rubs at his jaw (clean shaven, for the occasion) as he considers the hesitation in Faraday's tone, his nervous posture.
He should tell Faraday that they can just pretend this never happened. He should reassure him that they're fine, that this is no big deal, that it means nothing—
But looking at Faraday with his shirt still untucked, his face flushed, the noticeable swell of well-kissed lips—
Fuck it.
Vasquez closes the short distance between them allowed by the elevator, crowding into Faraday's space. The logical part of him insisting they should bury this is won over by the heat suffusing his veins, the fluttering in his chest that's accompanied every time he's touched Faraday tonight. And he knows – knows – that Faraday could knock him unconscious in a heartbeat, and he wouldn't blame his partner even a little for giving him a pair of black eyes.
But god, he just wants to give in to that moment they'd found in the hall, and how fucking good and easy it had been, and he can't—
Vasquez isn't thinking straight, but right now, he doesn't care.
He reaches up, curling rough palms around Faraday's jaw as he leans in to steal a kiss. ]
[ Vasquez moves so quickly that Faraday just knows the man intends to beat him black and blue even before they reach the privacy of their hotel room.
And that's fine. Faraday just braces himself for the fist that's guaranteed to meet his face. After all, Faraday just did a little dance over about a half dozen lines for the sake of maintaining their cover. Sure, it worked, and Vasquez was clever enough to play along, but the man couldn't possibly have been happy about it.
But Vasquez doesn't punch him. He brackets Faraday's face instead, and Faraday thinks a little faintly, "Oh. He's just gonna snap my neck."
Well. Faraday had a good run.
It takes a breath for Faraday to realize what's actually happening, and when Vasquez kisses him again, far more chaste than what they got up to just a handful of minutes prior,, Faraday lets out a muffled, surprised noise, eyes wide and entire body rigid. Instinctively, he grabs hold of the other man's lapel, but he doesn't do anything with it.
For a heartbeat, anyway.
He should push Vasquez off. He should remind him that this is complicated and will muddy things up. But Faraday has never been particularly good with restraint, is even worse when it means getting something he wants.
And good God, he wants. Has wanted for-fucking-goddamn-ever.
So he grabs both sides of Vasquez's jacket and yanks the other man closer with a low, desperate growl. ]
[ Vasquez accepts that he probably caught Faraday off guard (reasonably), but the shocked noise and the way Faraday grabs his jacket tells him he fucked up. Rationally, logically, his brain is shouting at him that Faraday was maintaining their cover, don't be an idiot, don't fuck this up—
But before Vasquez has a chance to end the kiss and apologize (or just accept the walloping he probably deserves), Faraday pulls him closer. The noise caught between their mouths sounds fucking good, and Vasquez rumbles with approval, happily going where he's led. He presses Faraday back against the elevator wall, flush against him through the too-goddamn-many layers of clothing between them. But in this moment, he doesn't care; the only thing that matters is the desperately satisfying lock of their lips.
Where they are doesn't matter. What this will mean later doesn't matter. None of it – just the fact that he's finally kissing Faraday.
There's something possessive in the way his hands curl more firmly at the hinges of Faraday's jaw, one palm sliding back to the nape of his neck, to the mussed hair he finds. His lips press to Faraday's, again and again, harsh breathing caught between them as Vasquez finally gives up on trying to rein back this want that's been building for years.
Faraday is his partner. His coworker. His brother-in-arms. His friend.
But the weight of it all is lost to the animal need Vasquez thought he'd buried deep. ]
[ It's sharp and hungry and intense that makes his pulse pound in his ears. God, he knew Vasquez would be good at this – or maybe that was just his overactive imagination at work – but knowing and experiencing are two ridiculously different beasts. ]
God—
Fuck—
[ He pants it out in those brief pauses when they come up for air. A little shamefully, he had been half-hard during that brief round in the staff-only hallway, hoping desperately Vasquez wouldn't notice, but he had flagged a little when reality came crashing back in. Now, though, now that this is all above board – in a manner of speaking – now that he knows this isn't for work or maintaining a cover or any other thin excuses—
He just wants. ]
Vas—
[ The elevator chimes, blithely announcing their floor like it's breaking a spell.
Faraday tightens his grip, reluctant to let Vasquez pull away. ]
[ The elevator is still public space, but Vasquez does not care. He can feel the curve of Faraday's cock through their slacks, a breathy sound caught in Vasquez's throat as he grinds his hips forward, giving them both a tease of friction. It's not enough, not even remotely, but it's satisfying because it's Faraday, because Vasquez can feel how much he wants this.
The elevator comes to a stop, and Vasquez only lets the kiss break to catch his breath. He rests his forehead against Faraday's, still cupping his face and gripping his hair.
In between panting gasps, ]
—our room, cariño.
[ Because Vasquez really can't start ripping Faraday's clothes off here, as much as he may desperately want to. ]
[ He nods tightly, but for a brief second, he's still reluctant to move, reluctant to let Vasquez have that bare bit of breathing room to get his head on straight, to really think about what's going on.
All that pent up adrenaline from a thwarted fight. That's all this is. When that waiter came in, they both had been running on instinct, had switched into fight mode while their training helped them to maintain their heads. Maybe Vasquez had been ready to throw down before Faraday had presented that alternative, and now he's just burning off all that pent up energy.
Statesman agents know all about using various means to various ends.
It says a great fucking deal about Faraday and how desperate he is for this and how long he's wanted Vasquez that he decides he's fine with that.
Before the elevator doors can close, he yanks them both out, practically charging down the hall, still with a fistful of Vasquez's suit in hand. His free hand produces the card key from his pocket, and he applauds himself in getting the door to unlock on the first try. ]
[ Vasquez manages not to stumble down the hall after Faraday as he's yanked along. He feels lightheaded, buzzing and warm, already itching to get his hands back on Faraday.
He rocks impatiently on his heel, waiting for Faraday to get the door open, and mercifully, he hears the high-pitched beep to signify its unlock. Vasquez reaches around Faraday for the doorknob, impatiently crowding them both over the threshold so he can kick the door shut with his loafer.
The room is dark, but Vasquez doesn't bother reaching for the lightswitch. He drags Faraday in by his shirt, pushing at his jacket to shove it down his arms. They can worry about being able to see after they've made some progress with stripping – because, fuck, Vasquez really wants to appreciate seeing Faraday like this. ]
[ Vasquez shoves them both in, yanks Faraday around to face him, and fuck, hell, Faraday shouldn't be as turned on by being manhandled as he is, but it sends sharp heat lancing down his spine.
Faraday is quick to return the favor, shoving Vasquez's jacket away, grabbing hold of the other man's tie to pull him in close again, to crush another hungry kiss against the Vasquez's lips. He loosens the knot at Vasquez's throat to get at the buttons of his collar, to undo them with dexterous efficiency.
God above, they're really doing this. This is actually happening.
But, hell, maybe not. Considering the business they're in, he expects the universe to fuck them over, some how. Expects someone to come crashing in through their window, or for a wall to explode inward, or for HQ to call them and inform them of an impending catastrophe.
Or, worse yet, for Vasquez to finally come to his senses and realize what an awful fucking idea this is.
![[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
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
It’s only when Vasquez finally pulls back that he realizes the other man still had a hold on Faraday’s hand. Faraday makes a similar tactical retreat, rocking a little to one side to make space. He flexes his fingers anxiously. He pulls his glasses off, slipping them back into his breast pocket, and tries not to think about how he’s going to explain that particular point in the feed to their handlers. Good Lord, he’s not looking forward to Switchel giving him shit once they’re back. He’s gonna have to tear the peach fuzz off that dumb bastard’s face to shut him the hell up.
Sam, at least, will be forgiving and discreet, at least, but— clandestine organization as they are, no one can keep their goddamn mouths shut. Scuttlebutt still moves fast.
Then again, that’s all assuming Faraday survives the trip back.
“Did you hear about Bourbon?” he imagines. “Yeah. Mezcal chucked him out of their airplane at height. God rest his soul. Anyway, did you pick your candidate yet?”
He takes a rallying breath, tongue darting out to nervously wet his lips (and he tastes cigar smoke and good whiskey and lingering traces of wine and—)
When he speaks, his tone is uncharacteristically uncertain, a little experimental – like testing his weight on thin, cracking ice. ]
Close one, huh?
no subject
He should tell Faraday that they can just pretend this never happened. He should reassure him that they're fine, that this is no big deal, that it means nothing—
But looking at Faraday with his shirt still untucked, his face flushed, the noticeable swell of well-kissed lips—
Fuck it.
Vasquez closes the short distance between them allowed by the elevator, crowding into Faraday's space. The logical part of him insisting they should bury this is won over by the heat suffusing his veins, the fluttering in his chest that's accompanied every time he's touched Faraday tonight. And he knows – knows – that Faraday could knock him unconscious in a heartbeat, and he wouldn't blame his partner even a little for giving him a pair of black eyes.
But god, he just wants to give in to that moment they'd found in the hall, and how fucking good and easy it had been, and he can't—
Vasquez isn't thinking straight, but right now, he doesn't care.
He reaches up, curling rough palms around Faraday's jaw as he leans in to steal a kiss. ]
no subject
And that's fine. Faraday just braces himself for the fist that's guaranteed to meet his face. After all, Faraday just did a little dance over about a half dozen lines for the sake of maintaining their cover. Sure, it worked, and Vasquez was clever enough to play along, but the man couldn't possibly have been happy about it.
But Vasquez doesn't punch him. He brackets Faraday's face instead, and Faraday thinks a little faintly, "Oh. He's just gonna snap my neck."
Well. Faraday had a good run.
It takes a breath for Faraday to realize what's actually happening, and when Vasquez kisses him again, far more chaste than what they got up to just a handful of minutes prior,, Faraday lets out a muffled, surprised noise, eyes wide and entire body rigid. Instinctively, he grabs hold of the other man's lapel, but he doesn't do anything with it.
For a heartbeat, anyway.
He should push Vasquez off. He should remind him that this is complicated and will muddy things up. But Faraday has never been particularly good with restraint, is even worse when it means getting something he wants.
And good God, he wants. Has wanted for-fucking-goddamn-ever.
So he grabs both sides of Vasquez's jacket and yanks the other man closer with a low, desperate growl. ]
no subject
But before Vasquez has a chance to end the kiss and apologize (or just accept the walloping he probably deserves), Faraday pulls him closer. The noise caught between their mouths sounds fucking good, and Vasquez rumbles with approval, happily going where he's led. He presses Faraday back against the elevator wall, flush against him through the too-goddamn-many layers of clothing between them. But in this moment, he doesn't care; the only thing that matters is the desperately satisfying lock of their lips.
Where they are doesn't matter. What this will mean later doesn't matter. None of it – just the fact that he's finally kissing Faraday.
There's something possessive in the way his hands curl more firmly at the hinges of Faraday's jaw, one palm sliding back to the nape of his neck, to the mussed hair he finds. His lips press to Faraday's, again and again, harsh breathing caught between them as Vasquez finally gives up on trying to rein back this want that's been building for years.
Faraday is his partner. His coworker. His brother-in-arms. His friend.
But the weight of it all is lost to the animal need Vasquez thought he'd buried deep. ]
no subject
God—
Fuck—
[ He pants it out in those brief pauses when they come up for air. A little shamefully, he had been half-hard during that brief round in the staff-only hallway, hoping desperately Vasquez wouldn't notice, but he had flagged a little when reality came crashing back in. Now, though, now that this is all above board – in a manner of speaking – now that he knows this isn't for work or maintaining a cover or any other thin excuses—
He just wants. ]
Vas—
[ The elevator chimes, blithely announcing their floor like it's breaking a spell.
Faraday tightens his grip, reluctant to let Vasquez pull away. ]
no subject
The elevator comes to a stop, and Vasquez only lets the kiss break to catch his breath. He rests his forehead against Faraday's, still cupping his face and gripping his hair.
In between panting gasps, ]
—our room, cariño.
[ Because Vasquez really can't start ripping Faraday's clothes off here, as much as he may desperately want to. ]
no subject
All that pent up adrenaline from a thwarted fight. That's all this is. When that waiter came in, they both had been running on instinct, had switched into fight mode while their training helped them to maintain their heads. Maybe Vasquez had been ready to throw down before Faraday had presented that alternative, and now he's just burning off all that pent up energy.
Statesman agents know all about using various means to various ends.
It says a great fucking deal about Faraday and how desperate he is for this and how long he's wanted Vasquez that he decides he's fine with that.
Before the elevator doors can close, he yanks them both out, practically charging down the hall, still with a fistful of Vasquez's suit in hand. His free hand produces the card key from his pocket, and he applauds himself in getting the door to unlock on the first try. ]
no subject
He rocks impatiently on his heel, waiting for Faraday to get the door open, and mercifully, he hears the high-pitched beep to signify its unlock. Vasquez reaches around Faraday for the doorknob, impatiently crowding them both over the threshold so he can kick the door shut with his loafer.
The room is dark, but Vasquez doesn't bother reaching for the lightswitch. He drags Faraday in by his shirt, pushing at his jacket to shove it down his arms. They can worry about being able to see after they've made some progress with stripping – because, fuck, Vasquez really wants to appreciate seeing Faraday like this. ]
no subject
Faraday is quick to return the favor, shoving Vasquez's jacket away, grabbing hold of the other man's tie to pull him in close again, to crush another hungry kiss against the Vasquez's lips. He loosens the knot at Vasquez's throat to get at the buttons of his collar, to undo them with dexterous efficiency.
God above, they're really doing this. This is actually happening.
But, hell, maybe not. Considering the business they're in, he expects the universe to fuck them over, some how. Expects someone to come crashing in through their window, or for a wall to explode inward, or for HQ to call them and inform them of an impending catastrophe.
Or, worse yet, for Vasquez to finally come to his senses and realize what an awful fucking idea this is.
All the more reason to beat the clock. ]
(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)