Faraday huffs out a breath – a sigh that tries to sound exasperated but mostly comes out affectionate, God damn his traitorous voice.
Well, maybe this is a blessing in disguise. He waits a few minutes, trying his best to ignore the warm, gentle brush of Vasquez's breath on his skin, to ignore the way sleep smooths out Vasquez's features – just long enough to ensure Vasquez is actually asleep, and not just sort of asleep.
He steels himself, willing his tired, shaky limbs to move as he slowly, carefully, tries to extricate himself from Vasquez's grasp. ]
Faraday's careful shifting, slow as it is, is enough for Vasquez to readjust how he's sprawled out. He rolls onto his stomach with an unflattering little snort of a snore, pillowing his head on one folded arm.
The other arm, however, winds around Faraday's ribs like a stubborn vine. ]
[ He stops when Vasquez snorts, worried that his movements woke the other man up.
He lets out a breath when Vasquez seems to readjust, but then the bastard just grabs hold of him again, and Faraday freezes.
Faraday grits out, ]
Goddamn barnacle.
[ before exhaling a defeated sigh, settling back into place.
Maybe later he'll be willing to admit to himself that he didn't try very hard at all. He's a goddamn spy, for crying out loud, trained in so many forms of close-quarters combat that he has an easier time of disarming a man than he does of remembering the street names on his way to work. He knows how to worm his way out of an opponent's stranglehold; escaping from a sleeping man is a cakewalk in comparison.
But Faraday isn't a very honest man, and he scrubs at his face, resigned.
He spends a few moments berating himself for this bit of selfish weakness before finally drifting off. ]
[ Despite not sharing a bed with anyone in ages, Vasquez still sleeps peacefully beside Faraday. He doesn't end up moving much, either, splayed out and eating up space on the mattress – but still with an arm slung around Faraday through the night.
He also snores, but since he never shares a bed, he never has to worry about bothering anyone.
Did he think about that before passing out?
Absolutely not.
Because of their work, however, he doesn't sleep long. His body is accustomed to waking before six am, and this is no exception: before the sun even starts to peek through the curtains, Vasquez is stirring.
With a sharp, slow inhale, Vasquez starts to open his eyes, initially disconcerted by the fact that his bed isn't empty. And— he's sore? Not wildly, but he still feels like he exerted himself far more than his body was prepared for.
And then the night filters back.
Vasquez tenses under the sheets, his fingers momentarily tightening on Faraday before he starts to draw his arm back. It's his turn to try not to disturb his partner as he starts to sit up. ]
[ Unlike Vasquez, Faraday is absolutely a light sleeper – a consequence, maybe, of a handful of years as a stupid teenager spent sleeping in alleys and doorways or on stoops
He's not sure what wakes him up – the shift in breathing, the rock of the bed, the tensing of Vasquez's grip – but wake up he does, sleepy-eyed but alert.
He blinks at the ceiling, then turns his head to see Vasquez, equally awake.
... God, he can't begin to process this.
So he makes, in his mind, what constitutes a wise decision: He doesn't.
Instead, he scrubs at his eyes, grumbles out, ]
What time is it?
[ Because whatever hour it is, it feels ungodly. ]
[ There's a weird beat of a moment where they both just stare at each other, and Vasquez feels his mind go inexplicably blank. Faraday is in this bed with him, covered in bruises and hickeys, and also incredibly naked.
Vasquez keenly remembers the night before, but that doesn't make this feel any less surreal.
Now that Faraday is awake, Vasquez pulls away properly, sitting up and ruffling a hand through his own messy hair. ]
[ Even with his hands still covering his eyes, Faraday still manages to twist his face into an expression of absolute disgust at that bit of news. ]
Jesus.
[ If Faraday can help it, he's never awake before the sun rises, unless he's coming at it from the wrong way.
But unfortunately for him, he's awake now, and he pushes himself to sit up, hissing a little when the soreness of his body makes itself known. It calls to mind the wild fucking night they just had, and— he might be starting to feel a little queasy again, with all the unspoken questions still lying between them.
Faraday refuses to call himself a coward – he just knows the value of a tactical retreat.
[ He grumbles something unintelligible before he sucks in a breath, holding it as he pushes himself to his feet to guard against the protest of his limbs.
God, he's sore, and if the circumstances were different, he'd feel more pleased by that.
As it is, he's hyper-aware of Vasquez at his back, of the cum dried on his stomach and down his legs, of the lingering hint of Vasquez's cologne on his own skin, and shit, he needs to get all this off him before he can even consider starting to think straight. ]
Oughta report back to HQ. Let 'em know the tracker's in place.
[ This, at least, feels deceptively routine. After all these years, Faraday has never gotten the hang of mornings; he hasn't got the faintest idea how Vasquez manages it.
He stumbles off into the bathroom after that, cranking the water as hot as he can stand as he starts to scrub off the mess. He examines himself – the suspiciously finger-shaped bruises on his hips, the scratch marks from Vasquez's nails on his thighs. The quiet sting of the bruises on his neck. The way his ass aches from the stretch and brutal treatment.
He lets his brow fall against the cool tile on the wall.
Jesus goddamn Christ.
Leave it to fucking Vasquez to exceed his every expectation. Part of Faraday wishes it had been awful, wishes that it had been more awkward fumbling instead of goddamn mind blowing – because it wouldn't put Faraday in the frankly naive position of wanting more but expecting absolutely nothing.
To his credit, he doesn't take any more time than he needs, drying himself off and keeping himself modest with a towel wrapped around his waist – stupid, maybe, considering Vasquez fucked his brains out last night, but it feels necessary to maintain that bit of distance.
He steps out of the bathroom, and a quick grunt stands in place of the actual words: All yours. ]
[ Honestly, it's a relief that Vasquez gets a moment of quiet to recompose himself. He doesn't get fully dressed, but he drags on a pair of sweats, going through the motions of getting coffee started. He fishes his glasses out of his jacket from where it had been dropped in the hall the night before, slipping the slender frames on to place a call to the agency.
It's a brief check-in, but it keeps everyone on the same page. He gets ahold of Switchel, and he informs Vasquez that the package hasn't moved from the night before – but the tracker is transmitting, so that's one hurdle down.
Mercifully, he doesn't bring up the... tactics of last night.
Vasquez plucks off his glasses as soon as he's finished, going to dig around in their bags for a bottle of ibuprofen; by then the coffee is done, and he can hear the water stop.
As Faraday steps out of the bathroom, Vasquez is pouring a mugful of the drink for the other man. He just offers a hum of acknowledgement, and he leaves the coffee and the medicine out. ]
I called in.
[ Just a quick update, before he's heading for the bathroom for himself. ]
[ He nods in acknowledgment, letting Vasquez step around him into the bathroom.
Once the door shuts behind him, Faraday lets out a slow breath, grabbing up the coffee. He pauses as he's drinking it, eyeing the bottle of pills a little dubiously.
But after a second of shifting his weight from one leg to another, he grunts out an aggravated sound and frees a couple of pills, swallowing them dry before chasing them with the coffee.
He returns to the living room, picking up the pieces of his suit from the floor and, after fishing his glasses out of his breast pocket, tossing them over the arm of the couch to be dealt with later. He rummages through his bag for a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of sweats, pulling them on a little hastily before plopping down on the couch. He pulls on his glasses, tapping the arm until he finds their tracking program.
The tracking chip is still in the building, it seems, though the auction was surely last night. Faraday frowns a little, sipping his coffee contemplatively. He hopes that just means the buyer wanted to enjoy the rest of the party without having to worry about fucking around with a biochemical weapon, and plans on moving the nerve gas today – and not that they switched containers.
Or, worse – that Faraday tagged the totally wrong crate. ]
[ Vasquez doesn't spend too long in the shower. Part of him wants to wait out whatever conversation is waiting on the horizon (which they need to have), but he's responsible enough to make quick work of washing his hair and the mess of cum, sweat, and lube left behind.
But— fuck. Just an emphatic fuck.
Vasquez steps out of the shower and dries himself off, tugging his sweats back on. He steps out of the bathroom, rubbing at his hair with the towel as he glances over towards Faraday and the couch.
... His first instinct is to toss the wet towel over Faraday's head, but he ignores the temptation.
[ Vasquez drops his towel on the bed, going over to the pot of coffee to pour his own helping. ]
We can wait until it's being moved.
[ He picks up his glasses, bringing them and his mug over to the couch. He takes a seat on the opposite side of Faraday, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. ]
[ He watches Vasquez move from the corner of his eye, though he keeps his gaze mostly fixed on the crude map and its blinking red dot. ]
Could be fewer guards to contend with now.
[ The thing with Faraday is, most folks think he's an idiot.
And, admittedly, he can be, more often than not.
Other times, when it matters, he has a good eye for alternatives – not to be argumentative or contrarian, but in an effort to cover all their bases. It meant he butt heads with some of the other agents, especially when they got a little too precious about their plans, but Cognac always seemed to appreciate it. ]
Waiting till it's on the move means we'd be dealin' with both the buyers' and the sellers' people.
Which would be a pro for trying to get it once the exchange is made. Could wait till they've got it nice and safe and loaded up and steal the transport.
![[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
... Well.
... ... Shit.
Faraday huffs out a breath – a sigh that tries to sound exasperated but mostly comes out affectionate, God damn his traitorous voice.
Well, maybe this is a blessing in disguise. He waits a few minutes, trying his best to ignore the warm, gentle brush of Vasquez's breath on his skin, to ignore the way sleep smooths out Vasquez's features – just long enough to ensure Vasquez is actually asleep, and not just sort of asleep.
He steels himself, willing his tired, shaky limbs to move as he slowly, carefully, tries to extricate himself from Vasquez's grasp. ]
no subject
Faraday's careful shifting, slow as it is, is enough for Vasquez to readjust how he's sprawled out. He rolls onto his stomach with an unflattering little snort of a snore, pillowing his head on one folded arm.
The other arm, however, winds around Faraday's ribs like a stubborn vine. ]
no subject
He lets out a breath when Vasquez seems to readjust, but then the bastard just grabs hold of him again, and Faraday freezes.
Faraday grits out, ]
Goddamn barnacle.
[ before exhaling a defeated sigh, settling back into place.
Maybe later he'll be willing to admit to himself that he didn't try very hard at all. He's a goddamn spy, for crying out loud, trained in so many forms of close-quarters combat that he has an easier time of disarming a man than he does of remembering the street names on his way to work. He knows how to worm his way out of an opponent's stranglehold; escaping from a sleeping man is a cakewalk in comparison.
But Faraday isn't a very honest man, and he scrubs at his face, resigned.
He spends a few moments berating himself for this bit of selfish weakness before finally drifting off. ]
no subject
He also snores, but since he never shares a bed, he never has to worry about bothering anyone.
Did he think about that before passing out?
Absolutely not.
Because of their work, however, he doesn't sleep long. His body is accustomed to waking before six am, and this is no exception: before the sun even starts to peek through the curtains, Vasquez is stirring.
With a sharp, slow inhale, Vasquez starts to open his eyes, initially disconcerted by the fact that his bed isn't empty. And— he's sore? Not wildly, but he still feels like he exerted himself far more than his body was prepared for.
And then the night filters back.
Vasquez tenses under the sheets, his fingers momentarily tightening on Faraday before he starts to draw his arm back. It's his turn to try not to disturb his partner as he starts to sit up. ]
no subject
He's not sure what wakes him up – the shift in breathing, the rock of the bed, the tensing of Vasquez's grip – but wake up he does, sleepy-eyed but alert.
He blinks at the ceiling, then turns his head to see Vasquez, equally awake.
... God, he can't begin to process this.
So he makes, in his mind, what constitutes a wise decision: He doesn't.
Instead, he scrubs at his eyes, grumbles out, ]
What time is it?
[ Because whatever hour it is, it feels ungodly. ]
no subject
Vasquez keenly remembers the night before, but that doesn't make this feel any less surreal.
Now that Faraday is awake, Vasquez pulls away properly, sitting up and ruffling a hand through his own messy hair. ]
Early.
[ He finally glances at the nightstand clock. ]
5:45.
no subject
Jesus.
[ If Faraday can help it, he's never awake before the sun rises, unless he's coming at it from the wrong way.
But unfortunately for him, he's awake now, and he pushes himself to sit up, hissing a little when the soreness of his body makes itself known. It calls to mind the wild fucking night they just had, and— he might be starting to feel a little queasy again, with all the unspoken questions still lying between them.
Faraday refuses to call himself a coward – he just knows the value of a tactical retreat.
Which is why he gruffly announces, ]
I need a shower.
no subject
The tiny flash of pride is overshadowed by the gaping unknown sitting between them. ]
Don't use all the hot water, eh?
[ Because Faraday is definitely not the only one who needs a good shower. ]
no subject
God, he's sore, and if the circumstances were different, he'd feel more pleased by that.
As it is, he's hyper-aware of Vasquez at his back, of the cum dried on his stomach and down his legs, of the lingering hint of Vasquez's cologne on his own skin, and shit, he needs to get all this off him before he can even consider starting to think straight. ]
Oughta report back to HQ. Let 'em know the tracker's in place.
no subject
[ Faraday looks like he could use the shower a little bit more right now. ]
You want coffee?
no subject
God, yes.
[ This, at least, feels deceptively routine. After all these years, Faraday has never gotten the hang of mornings; he hasn't got the faintest idea how Vasquez manages it.
He stumbles off into the bathroom after that, cranking the water as hot as he can stand as he starts to scrub off the mess. He examines himself – the suspiciously finger-shaped bruises on his hips, the scratch marks from Vasquez's nails on his thighs. The quiet sting of the bruises on his neck. The way his ass aches from the stretch and brutal treatment.
He lets his brow fall against the cool tile on the wall.
Jesus goddamn Christ.
Leave it to fucking Vasquez to exceed his every expectation. Part of Faraday wishes it had been awful, wishes that it had been more awkward fumbling instead of goddamn mind blowing – because it wouldn't put Faraday in the frankly naive position of wanting more but expecting absolutely nothing.
To his credit, he doesn't take any more time than he needs, drying himself off and keeping himself modest with a towel wrapped around his waist – stupid, maybe, considering Vasquez fucked his brains out last night, but it feels necessary to maintain that bit of distance.
He steps out of the bathroom, and a quick grunt stands in place of the actual words: All yours. ]
no subject
It's a brief check-in, but it keeps everyone on the same page. He gets ahold of Switchel, and he informs Vasquez that the package hasn't moved from the night before – but the tracker is transmitting, so that's one hurdle down.
Mercifully, he doesn't bring up the... tactics of last night.
Vasquez plucks off his glasses as soon as he's finished, going to dig around in their bags for a bottle of ibuprofen; by then the coffee is done, and he can hear the water stop.
As Faraday steps out of the bathroom, Vasquez is pouring a mugful of the drink for the other man. He just offers a hum of acknowledgement, and he leaves the coffee and the medicine out. ]
I called in.
[ Just a quick update, before he's heading for the bathroom for himself. ]
no subject
Once the door shuts behind him, Faraday lets out a slow breath, grabbing up the coffee. He pauses as he's drinking it, eyeing the bottle of pills a little dubiously.
But after a second of shifting his weight from one leg to another, he grunts out an aggravated sound and frees a couple of pills, swallowing them dry before chasing them with the coffee.
He returns to the living room, picking up the pieces of his suit from the floor and, after fishing his glasses out of his breast pocket, tossing them over the arm of the couch to be dealt with later. He rummages through his bag for a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of sweats, pulling them on a little hastily before plopping down on the couch. He pulls on his glasses, tapping the arm until he finds their tracking program.
The tracking chip is still in the building, it seems, though the auction was surely last night. Faraday frowns a little, sipping his coffee contemplatively. He hopes that just means the buyer wanted to enjoy the rest of the party without having to worry about fucking around with a biochemical weapon, and plans on moving the nerve gas today – and not that they switched containers.
Or, worse – that Faraday tagged the totally wrong crate. ]
no subject
But— fuck. Just an emphatic fuck.
Vasquez steps out of the shower and dries himself off, tugging his sweats back on. He steps out of the bathroom, rubbing at his hair with the towel as he glances over towards Faraday and the couch.
... His first instinct is to toss the wet towel over Faraday's head, but he ignores the temptation.
As he goes to fish out a shirt, ]
Anything?
no subject
[ Just to be sure, he runs a quick diagnostic on the chip, and when it all comes back green, he sips at his coffee again. ]
The winner probably didn't want a box of nerve gas in the trunk on the way home.
no subject
[ Vasquez drops his towel on the bed, going over to the pot of coffee to pour his own helping. ]
We can wait until it's being moved.
[ He picks up his glasses, bringing them and his mug over to the couch. He takes a seat on the opposite side of Faraday, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. ]
It will be easier retrieving it out in the open.
no subject
Could be fewer guards to contend with now.
[ The thing with Faraday is, most folks think he's an idiot.
And, admittedly, he can be, more often than not.
Other times, when it matters, he has a good eye for alternatives – not to be argumentative or contrarian, but in an effort to cover all their bases. It meant he butt heads with some of the other agents, especially when they got a little too precious about their plans, but Cognac always seemed to appreciate it. ]
Waiting till it's on the move means we'd be dealin' with both the buyers' and the sellers' people.
no subject
He gives a small hum of agreement as he starts to sip at his coffee. ]
A good point.
But the crate is huge and we can't carry it out on our own.
[ But does that mean... disguises? ]
no subject
Which would be a pro for trying to get it once the exchange is made. Could wait till they've got it nice and safe and loaded up and steal the transport.
no subject
So... a carjacking.
[ Does he look more excited about that than he should? Probably. ]
no subject
Should I be worried about how much you look like a kid on Christmas?
no subject
I have no idea what you are talking about, guerito. This is always how my face is.
no subject
[ Like he's humoring a child, though there's the faintest bit of amusement in his voice, too. ]
Just gonna remind you, if something goes wrong and we cause a shoot-out, we'd have an extremely dangerous chemical in our backseat.
no subject
[ He gives a dismissive flap of his hand. ]
We won't die in some stolen truck.
[ He grins around his mug. ]
Not flashy enough for you.
[ And it's— easy, bullshitting like this, giving each other grief, falling into their usual routine.
Like they didn't just fuck each others' brains out a few hours ago. ]
no subject
I dunno. I wouldn't mind it if they blew up like they do in movies.
[ He scrubs at his face, shifting his glasses up to his brow to rub the sleep from his eyes. ]
Still gotta figure out when and where the exchange is happening.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)