[ 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.
[ He slouches back on the couch, head tipped back on the cushions. Coffee or no, it is still far too early for Faraday to be awake – but given the uncertainty of phase two of their assignment, it seems he's already committed to it. ]
If you've got your heart set on the carjackin' route.
Otherwise, we can see what we can do about swipin' it now.
[ It probably doesn't help Vasquez's observation that Faraday currently has his eyes shut. ]
It's six in the goddamn morning.
[ This, Faraday feels, is all the excuse he needs.
Because the other excuse is that he's still goddamn exhausted from Vasquez fucking him hard enough that the soreness will surely be lingering around for a couple of days.
Faraday, apparently, still doesn't want to be the one to broach the topic. ]
[ Faraday cracks open an eye, just in time to see Vasquez gesture to the bed.
He maintains his expression – not difficult to do, considering he's currently giving off an air of sleepiness – but he's probably quiet for a blink too long.
Faraday's not entirely sure what to do with that invitation.
So once again: he doesn't do anything.
Instead, he finishes off the rest of his coffee – probably counterproductive for anyone else, but like most folks in Statesman's employ, he's built up one hell of a tolerance to caffeine. He sets the empty mug and his glasses aside on the coffee table and reaches for the blanket wadded up on one side of the couch. ]
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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
[ While being prepared to get their asses in gear, obviously, but still. ]
no subject
If you've got your heart set on the carjackin' route.
Otherwise, we can see what we can do about swipin' it now.
no subject
[ Honestly, Vasquez doesn't blame him. ]
no subject
It's six in the goddamn morning.
[ This, Faraday feels, is all the excuse he needs.
Because the other excuse is that he's still goddamn exhausted from Vasquez fucking him hard enough that the soreness will surely be lingering around for a couple of days.
Faraday, apparently, still doesn't want to be the one to broach the topic. ]
no subject
You can go back to sleep, you know.
no subject
[ Good to know his sarcasm is still working, even this early in the morning. ]
no subject
[ By which he means Faraday stirred at the tiniest sign of movement. ]
no subject
You snore like you're sawin' wood. The sudden silence of it would wake anyone up.
no subject
Like I say – you can go back to sleep. I won't be snoring anymore.
[ Since he's awake now.
He doesn't even think about the fact that he's offering the bed up to Faraday, like it's nothing. ]
no subject
He maintains his expression – not difficult to do, considering he's currently giving off an air of sleepiness – but he's probably quiet for a blink too long.
Faraday's not entirely sure what to do with that invitation.
So once again: he doesn't do anything.
Instead, he finishes off the rest of his coffee – probably counterproductive for anyone else, but like most folks in Statesman's employ, he's built up one hell of a tolerance to caffeine. He sets the empty mug and his glasses aside on the coffee table and reaches for the blanket wadded up on one side of the couch. ]
Wake me if anything changes?
(no subject)