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.
[ Vasquez reluctantly has to let go of Faraday to let his jacket fall, to finish yanking off his tie and ditch it with his shirt. As much as he approves, that still leave him half-naked and Faraday wearing too many clothes.
He growls under his breath, though he's far less efficient in getting Faraday's shirt unbuttoned. ]
¿Porque no estas desnudo?
[ He gets halfway through the buttons, but frustration and impatience get the better of him; he gives the fabric a sharp tug and—
[ For once, when Vasquez starts going off on him in Spanish, Faraday just snorts out a laugh. ]
Darlin, I have no idea what you're sayin'.
[ Although maybe he can get the gist of it, considering the way Vasquez is working at the buttons of Faraday's shirt. Cursing the fastenings, maybe.
He hears the way the threads snap, the way a couple of buttons pop off and bounce away, and Faraday just laughs again, giddy with the rush of all of this – the high of a mission successfully completed, surviving yet another assignment, getting out without a single bullet fired.
Finally getting at Vasquez after practically years of dreaming about it.
The shirt is just a shirt, really; high quality and tailored, admittedly, but completely mundane. Faraday isn't too fussed. The suit though, specially made with material designed to absorb high impacts to render it bulletproof, is a different matter entirely.
He obligingly shrugs out of his shirt, throwing it to the floor. ]
[ There's— a different sort of charm hearing that endearment in this moment. They're not putting on a show anymore; they're not trying to convince anyone else.
Faraday is just calling him that.
But he does has the right of it; Vasquez is impatient. He can't appreciate Faraday in the dark, not really, but his hands immediately seek purchase on skin. Vasquez doesn't leave them in one place, can't help how greedily he touches Faraday, like he has to memorize it all in this moment.
(Who knows what the fuck this actually means or what it is. With that uncertainty and the tomorrow that will never be guaranteed, of course Vasquez is greedy.)
Vasquez just chuckles breathlessly, licking his lips as his palms skirt up Faraday's chest. ]
[ Of course not, he wants to say. God, I wanted to jump you the second I fuckin' saw you.
But he keeps the words caged in – mostly because he doesn't like the idea of dropping his cards on the table like that.
Instead of a proper answer, he breathes out a laugh.
He runs his hands along Vasquez's bared skin, fingers splayed wide to touch as much of him as he can, feeling the way he tenses beneath Faraday's touch. He hooks a couple of fingers into the waistband of Vasquez's slacks and tugs him toward the bed. ]
[ Vasquez doesn't need any convincing to follow Faraday, and he catches the switch for the lights next to the bed on the way. He wants to at least see Faraday like this. It's new, different, and he can't help that he's been wondering how his partner would look wound up, enjoying himself.
(Wondering for fucking ages.)
Vasquez lets Faraday pull him along until they hit the bed. One hand on Faraday's face, the other giving his shoulder a pointed nudge, Vasquez leans in for another heated kiss as he tries to encourage Faraday to take a seat. Part of him feels like he has to take what he can get right now, before something ruins this.
Their life, their work, Faraday's good goddamn sense? Vasquez is worried anything could break this spell. ]
[ For once, Faraday follows directions well, taking a seat on the bed. He pointedly keeps one hand curled around the back of Vasquez's neck, though, pulling him down with him – like letting even one second pass without touching Vasquez might be liable to let reality come crashing back in.
Possibly even literally.
With his free hand, he works at the buckle of Vasquez's belt. He bites at Vasquez's lips; slow and gentle aren't exactly words in his vocabulary. ]
[ Vasquez leans over Faraday as he finally sits, meeting that searing kiss with the same eager need. Faraday's teeth scrape over Vasquez's lips, and Vasquez growls into the kiss, shoving down his slacks once Faraday has dealt with his belt. ]
Tell me what you want, cariño.
[ Vasquez murmurs against his mouth, before biting Faraday right back. He nibbles at Faraday's lip, soothing away the sting with a swipe of his tongue. ]
[ He hisses in a breath, letting out a quick appreciative sound at the sting.
Good, he thinks.
Once Vasquez's slacks are dealt with, Faraday pauses long enough to appreciate the outline of his cock through his boxers.
God. Shit. Yes.
And when Vasquez makes that generous offer— ]
Fuck me.
[ —Faraday doesn't hesitate. He's known exactly what he's wanted since day goddamn one.
His bite is a little harder this time – challenging, rather than teasing – and he palms the curve of Vasquez's cock through the thin material of his boxers. ]
Vasquez growls with approval, low and deep in his chest, though it dissolves into a shuddering little groan as Faraday finds his cock. He knows those rough hands by heart; they've pulled each other physically out of all manner of bullshit, and he knows how Faraday holds his gun, his drinks, his cards. He knows those hands, and now, they're teasing him in the exact way he's fantasized on quiet nights he hasn't found someone else to warm his bed. ]
Oh, you'll be feeling it, guerito. I can promise that.
[ Vasquez wants to remember this as much as he wants to leave his mark on Faraday – in more than one way.
He slides a hand up, knotting his fingers in Faraday's hair with an immovable grip, dragging him into another searing kiss. He licks into his partner's mouth, taking and taking to meet that challenge he so easily recognizes. Somehow, even like this, they're competing each other, pushing just to see the other push back.
Vasquez only breaks away when he needs to breathe, and he pants against Faraday's lips, incrementally loosening his grip. ]
Get your pants off.
[ And with another nip, he reluctantly releases Faraday, stepping back to go investigate their med kit. There should be medical grade lube in there, and maybe it's not the sexiest thing, but it's far better than other alternatives right now. ]
[ He fucking groans into the kiss, at the tight grip Vasquez has in his hair, at the demanding way he takes and takes and takes. Not that Faraday makes it all that easy on him – biting at his lip, licking into Vasquez's mouth, cupping Vasquez's erection with a firm grip.
God. Fucking shit. This is gonna be a good goddamn night.
Miraculously once again, he doesn't have to be told twice, and as Vasquez backs off, Faraday toes off his shoes and makes quick work of his slacks, kicking them off to the floor.
He settles back on the edge of the bed, trying desperately not to think about how this is obviously just for tonight. This is just about letting off steam. Things got heavy, and— yeah. Faraday is goddamn good at what he does, and not all of that is professional. They wound each other up, and this is just—
This is stress relief. That's all.
And that's fine. He can content himself with one night. Lord knows he has before.
He can't have waited more than a couple seconds before he calls out impatiently, ]
The hell's the hold up? I'm about to die from old age, here.
[ As soon as Faraday releases him, Vasquez draws away to properly strip his slacks and untie shoes. Once abandoned in a messy pile, he finds where they've stashed the medkit with everything else, digging through it until he retrieves a small plastic bottle.
Vasquez straightens up, shoving his boxers down for one less thing to worry about. He kicks them from around his ankles, but before he even has a chance to turn back to Faraday, the other man is hollering at him.
He snorts out a laugh, glancing over at the bed. ]
And I thought I was impatient, hm?
[ He joins Faraday again, leaning down and curling his fingers under Faraday's chin. ]
Maybe the more you complain, the longer this takes. Sounds fair, I think.
[ Faraday takes in the sight of Vasquez as he approaches. He's seen the other man shirtless, sure, has probably seen him in his skivvies at least a handful of times, but seeing Vasquez fully stripped down, seeing every inch of that warm skin on display—
Holy goddamn hell. His fantasies can't hold a goddamn candle to reality.
He's nearly distracted by taking in the sight of the other man, but he obligingly tips his chin back to look up at Vasquez at his touch.
And promptly rolls his eyes, with all the petulance of a teenager acting so above it all. ]
You gonna just stand around all day, or are we gonna fuck?
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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?
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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He growls under his breath, though he's far less efficient in getting Faraday's shirt unbuttoned. ]
¿Porque no estas desnudo?
[ He gets halfway through the buttons, but frustration and impatience get the better of him; he gives the fabric a sharp tug and—
—the buttons pop right off.
Whoops. ]
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Darlin, I have no idea what you're sayin'.
[ Although maybe he can get the gist of it, considering the way Vasquez is working at the buttons of Faraday's shirt. Cursing the fastenings, maybe.
He hears the way the threads snap, the way a couple of buttons pop off and bounce away, and Faraday just laughs again, giddy with the rush of all of this – the high of a mission successfully completed, surviving yet another assignment, getting out without a single bullet fired.
Finally getting at Vasquez after practically years of dreaming about it.
The shirt is just a shirt, really; high quality and tailored, admittedly, but completely mundane. Faraday isn't too fussed. The suit though, specially made with material designed to absorb high impacts to render it bulletproof, is a different matter entirely.
He obligingly shrugs out of his shirt, throwing it to the floor. ]
Impatient.
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Faraday is just calling him that.
But he does has the right of it; Vasquez is impatient. He can't appreciate Faraday in the dark, not really, but his hands immediately seek purchase on skin. Vasquez doesn't leave them in one place, can't help how greedily he touches Faraday, like he has to memorize it all in this moment.
(Who knows what the fuck this actually means or what it is. With that uncertainty and the tomorrow that will never be guaranteed, of course Vasquez is greedy.)
Vasquez just chuckles breathlessly, licking his lips as his palms skirt up Faraday's chest. ]
Pretty much.
[ Impatient? Hell yes. ]
Seemed like I'm not the only one.
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But he keeps the words caged in – mostly because he doesn't like the idea of dropping his cards on the table like that.
Instead of a proper answer, he breathes out a laugh.
He runs his hands along Vasquez's bared skin, fingers splayed wide to touch as much of him as he can, feeling the way he tenses beneath Faraday's touch. He hooks a couple of fingers into the waistband of Vasquez's slacks and tugs him toward the bed. ]
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(Wondering for fucking ages.)
Vasquez lets Faraday pull him along until they hit the bed. One hand on Faraday's face, the other giving his shoulder a pointed nudge, Vasquez leans in for another heated kiss as he tries to encourage Faraday to take a seat. Part of him feels like he has to take what he can get right now, before something ruins this.
Their life, their work, Faraday's good goddamn sense? Vasquez is worried anything could break this spell. ]
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Possibly even literally.
With his free hand, he works at the buckle of Vasquez's belt. He bites at Vasquez's lips; slow and gentle aren't exactly words in his vocabulary. ]
Come on.
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Tell me what you want, cariño.
[ Vasquez murmurs against his mouth, before biting Faraday right back. He nibbles at Faraday's lip, soothing away the sting with a swipe of his tongue. ]
Let me give it to you.
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Good, he thinks.
Once Vasquez's slacks are dealt with, Faraday pauses long enough to appreciate the outline of his cock through his boxers.
God. Shit. Yes.
And when Vasquez makes that generous offer— ]
Fuck me.
[ —Faraday doesn't hesitate. He's known exactly what he's wanted since day goddamn one.
His bite is a little harder this time – challenging, rather than teasing – and he palms the curve of Vasquez's cock through the thin material of his boxers. ]
I wanna feel it in the morning.
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Vasquez growls with approval, low and deep in his chest, though it dissolves into a shuddering little groan as Faraday finds his cock. He knows those rough hands by heart; they've pulled each other physically out of all manner of bullshit, and he knows how Faraday holds his gun, his drinks, his cards. He knows those hands, and now, they're teasing him in the exact way he's fantasized on quiet nights he hasn't found someone else to warm his bed. ]
Oh, you'll be feeling it, guerito. I can promise that.
[ Vasquez wants to remember this as much as he wants to leave his mark on Faraday – in more than one way.
He slides a hand up, knotting his fingers in Faraday's hair with an immovable grip, dragging him into another searing kiss. He licks into his partner's mouth, taking and taking to meet that challenge he so easily recognizes. Somehow, even like this, they're competing each other, pushing just to see the other push back.
Vasquez only breaks away when he needs to breathe, and he pants against Faraday's lips, incrementally loosening his grip. ]
Get your pants off.
[ And with another nip, he reluctantly releases Faraday, stepping back to go investigate their med kit. There should be medical grade lube in there, and maybe it's not the sexiest thing, but it's far better than other alternatives right now. ]
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God. Fucking shit. This is gonna be a good goddamn night.
Miraculously once again, he doesn't have to be told twice, and as Vasquez backs off, Faraday toes off his shoes and makes quick work of his slacks, kicking them off to the floor.
He settles back on the edge of the bed, trying desperately not to think about how this is obviously just for tonight. This is just about letting off steam. Things got heavy, and— yeah. Faraday is goddamn good at what he does, and not all of that is professional. They wound each other up, and this is just—
This is stress relief. That's all.
And that's fine. He can content himself with one night. Lord knows he has before.
He can't have waited more than a couple seconds before he calls out impatiently, ]
The hell's the hold up? I'm about to die from old age, here.
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Vasquez straightens up, shoving his boxers down for one less thing to worry about. He kicks them from around his ankles, but before he even has a chance to turn back to Faraday, the other man is hollering at him.
He snorts out a laugh, glancing over at the bed. ]
And I thought I was impatient, hm?
[ He joins Faraday again, leaning down and curling his fingers under Faraday's chin. ]
Maybe the more you complain, the longer this takes. Sounds fair, I think.
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Holy goddamn hell. His fantasies can't hold a goddamn candle to reality.
He's nearly distracted by taking in the sight of the other man, but he obligingly tips his chin back to look up at Vasquez at his touch.
And promptly rolls his eyes, with all the petulance of a teenager acting so above it all. ]
You gonna just stand around all day, or are we gonna fuck?
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