... Clearly, from the confusion that flashes across his face, he was expecting Vasquez to make yet another very good point to shut down Faraday's arguments.
Despite himself, despite the relatively level response from Vasquez, Faraday is still a little wary, reluctant to release his poor temper – mostly because Vasquez appears to be in the same mood.
Still, he manages to wrestle his voice back to something neutral. ]
You got fangs. You drink blood. Sounds sort of vampire-esque to me, Vasquez.
Just because one thing is like another does not make it the same. A horse is like a donkey, but you would never say it is a donkey, no?
[ He removes his hat to run a hand back through his hair, glancing again at Faraday. ]
I have fangs. I drink blood. I cannot make others like me. I cannot die from a stake through my chest. [ Certainly not through the heart he doesn't have. ]
For a few heartbeats, he's stunned into silence, frozen and staring.
If Vasquez is telling the truth – and Faraday doesn't have a good reason why he wouldn't be – that's— a big thing to admit. And if Faraday is entirely honest, he almost wishes he wasn't hearing this.
There's a giant goddamn weight that comes with knowing this, a huge responsibility, and Faraday hasn't got a single clue why Vasquez is trusting him with this. ]
You don't actually have to tell me.
[ — which is goddamn rich, he knows, considering the tantrum he just threw. ]
I was just tryin' to figure out if you could see your reflection in mirrors, is all.
[ ... Though saying it aloud makes him realize he can't remember the last time he told that name to someone. In Mexico, those who knew were already aware of what he was; he never said it.
But, as with the continued problem of Faraday's horrendous Spanish (or lack thereof), he knows he'll need to translate to give it meaning for the other man. ]
Then, slowly, in an effort to actually get the pronunciation as close to correct as possible, ]
Caminante de Sangre.
[ It's imperfect, but closer than his usual attempts at using Vasquez's mother tongue.
... which just goes to show that Faraday is putting in effort to get it wrong almost every other time.
He frowns a little, thinking over all this new information. Vasquez said he couldn't turn anyone, but that didn't necessarily mean that was true of others like him. ]
Have you always been what you are, or did you get turned?
[ Vasquez has to pause to actually think about his answer now. He measures time by the name he's taken, by the person he's become to fit the times, to keep surviving. ]
Three... [ Another pause and a grimace. ] ... hundred years?
[ Faraday is stunned into silence again before he chuckles to himself, the sound drawn out begrudgingly. ]
Goddamn. I was way off.
[ He unbuckles his gunbelt, setting it beside his saddlebags. Another glance at the sky, and he knows that he'll have to get a move on if he means to collect wood to get a fire going.
Still, his curiosity keeps him rooted to the spot. ]
[ Faraday still hasn't entirely let go of his poor mood from earlier, even if Vasquez seems to have taken his earlier complaints to heart. That's just the sort of man Faraday is, he'll grant – an ornery bastard who holds grudges.
It's why he cuts Vasquez a flat, annoyed look.
Sarcastically, ]
Of course not. I make it a habit to ask after shit I don't want to know aobut.
[ Harmless as it is, Faraday still offers a token grumble – you'll put someone's eye out that way, under his breath.
And at Vasquez's offer, Faraday huffs, exasperated. ]
I'm gonna be changed by then.
[ The sky is darkening, bit by bit – time enough to collect up what they need and start the fire, but not necessarily time enough for Vasquez to explain himself, if it's really as complicated as he says.
Even so, Faraday still gets to his feet, brushing himself off. ]
Just so we're clear, you aren't getting out of the telling just 'cause I can't talk.
[ Faraday has already started collecting up a few pieces of wood – a couple of branches, a couple smaller pieces to act as kindling.
It's the only reason why he has ammunition when Vasquez insults him – though considering the only thing Faraday throws is yet another twig rather than the larger branch in his arms, there's clearly no real intent behind it. ]
Good Lord, you're an annoying son of a bitch. You know that?
[ Though even as he says it, he sounds more relieved than annoyed, glad they've backed away from whatever jagged cliff they were headed toward. ]
[ A shadow of Vasquez's more triumphant grins tugs at his lips, but instead of chucking something back at Faraday, he just plucks up the twig tossed at him. ]
I think you've said so a few times before.
[ And Vasquez doesn't look the least bit offended.
(He's— relieved that things seem to have settled? He feels reassured, more markedly, that Faraday hadn't intended to speak to him as he had – or, at least, hadn't meant to imply what Vasquez took from the heated back-and-forth.
[ He's a little more settled, now that they're not actively at each other's throats, now that Vasquez isn't bristling with that strange, wounded air.
This thing between them may last a while longer yet, he thinks.
(Hopes, actually.)
He collects up the wood – easy enough to do, with it practically littering the ground around them – and he settles into the space between their bedrolls, arranging the wood before lighting the kindling at the center. He tosses the match into the catching flame before settling back on his bedroll.
He glances up at the darkening sky and starts tugging off his clothes. These days, he doesn't bother with too much modesty around Vasquez, at least when the sun begins to set or after the sun has risen. The man's already seen Faraday in the buff more than enough times, and he's certainly already seen Faraday at his lowest. There's not much room for shame anymore, as far as Faraday's body is concerned.
The scars from the fight are still red, relatively fresh, though they're not nearly so tender, these days. Punched-out holes on his bicep, his thigh, his back. A line bisecting the wolf's bite wrapped around his flank.
The transformation happens, as it always does, as the last few rays of daylight disappears. And the transformation, as it always does, hurts like goddamn hell – dragging out screams that turn to howls, leaving him an exhausted, panting pile of fur.
It takes him a little while to recover, but once he has, he stretches out, testing his limbs, before lifting his head and looking at Vasquez expectantly. ]
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... Clearly, from the confusion that flashes across his face, he was expecting Vasquez to make yet another very good point to shut down Faraday's arguments.
Despite himself, despite the relatively level response from Vasquez, Faraday is still a little wary, reluctant to release his poor temper – mostly because Vasquez appears to be in the same mood.
Still, he manages to wrestle his voice back to something neutral. ]
You got fangs. You drink blood. Sounds sort of vampire-esque to me, Vasquez.
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[ He removes his hat to run a hand back through his hair, glancing again at Faraday. ]
I have fangs. I drink blood. I cannot make others like me. I cannot die from a stake through my chest. [ Certainly not through the heart he doesn't have. ]
No somos lo mismo.
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He huffs out a breath – a short, reluctant laugh, if he's honest with himself, even if he tries to pass it off as an annoyed snort. ]
What about crossing running water? An aversion to garlic? An obsessive need to count shit?
[ It's very possible that Faraday is only asking to be an ass. ]
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No. No. And no.
[ He drops his hat with his saddlebag, kneeling down to get out his bedroll.
After a moment of sorting through things, he finally offers, ]
I can't heal from obsidian. Any wound made by it takes all my strength.
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For a few heartbeats, he's stunned into silence, frozen and staring.
If Vasquez is telling the truth – and Faraday doesn't have a good reason why he wouldn't be – that's— a big thing to admit. And if Faraday is entirely honest, he almost wishes he wasn't hearing this.
There's a giant goddamn weight that comes with knowing this, a huge responsibility, and Faraday hasn't got a single clue why Vasquez is trusting him with this. ]
You don't actually have to tell me.
[ — which is goddamn rich, he knows, considering the tantrum he just threw. ]
I was just tryin' to figure out if you could see your reflection in mirrors, is all.
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You were just throwing a fit because you say you know nothing about me. Now you know something.
[ A big something, considering what a significant weapon it is against Vasquez. ]
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... Vasquez makes a very fair point.
Faraday deeply wishes Vasquez would stop making fair points.
He grits his teeth in another effort to calm himself before he crouches down, starts readying his own gear for the night. ]
So you're not a vampire.
What are you, then?
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[ ... Though saying it aloud makes him realize he can't remember the last time he told that name to someone. In Mexico, those who knew were already aware of what he was; he never said it.
But, as with the continued problem of Faraday's horrendous Spanish (or lack thereof), he knows he'll need to translate to give it meaning for the other man. ]
It would mean... blood walker, in English.
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Then, slowly, in an effort to actually get the pronunciation as close to correct as possible, ]
Caminante de Sangre.
[ It's imperfect, but closer than his usual attempts at using Vasquez's mother tongue.
... which just goes to show that Faraday is putting in effort to get it wrong almost every other time.
He frowns a little, thinking over all this new information. Vasquez said he couldn't turn anyone, but that didn't necessarily mean that was true of others like him. ]
Have you always been what you are, or did you get turned?
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[ A long time ago. ]
But I have been this longer than I was ever human.
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And how long ago might that have been?
[ And this might be closer to their usual banter, because Faraday has been trying for weeks to get the other man to fess up on his age.
He's old, that much Faraday can tell, from the frequent, faraway look in the other man's eyes. ]
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Three... [ Another pause and a grimace. ] ... hundred years?
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Bullshit.
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Why would I lie about that?
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Instead, the man just looks honestly bewildered, and Faraday's smile falters. ]
You bein' serious?
You're three hundred years old. Three-zero-zero.
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[ He’s seen the rise and fall of empires, the fading of lives and the overhaul of culture.
He’s just plain old. ]
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Goddamn. I was way off.
[ He unbuckles his gunbelt, setting it beside his saddlebags. Another glance at the sky, and he knows that he'll have to get a move on if he means to collect wood to get a fire going.
Still, his curiosity keeps him rooted to the spot. ]
How'd it happen?
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You really want to know?
[ Because it’s not pretty. It’s even fairly fantastical, and he wouldn’t be shocked if Faraday was reasonably incredulous.
But it doesn’t make the event any less true. ]
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It's why he cuts Vasquez a flat, annoyed look.
Sarcastically, ]
Of course not. I make it a habit to ask after shit I don't want to know aobut.
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It’s complicated, perro.
[ Endlessly so. ]
Let’s finish the fire, and then I’ll tell you all of it.
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And at Vasquez's offer, Faraday huffs, exasperated. ]
I'm gonna be changed by then.
[ The sky is darkening, bit by bit – time enough to collect up what they need and start the fire, but not necessarily time enough for Vasquez to explain himself, if it's really as complicated as he says.
Even so, Faraday still gets to his feet, brushing himself off. ]
Just so we're clear, you aren't getting out of the telling just 'cause I can't talk.
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[ Not with words, but Vasquez thinks he might be getting better at understanding Faraday in the other form.
Vasquez pushes himself up, nodding towards the errant bits of dried wood littering the clearing. ]
And maybe it's better you can't add anything stupid while I try to do the telling.
[ Despite the disparaging words, Vasquez casts them with more of their usual bantering tone.
It's a tease, rather than an insult. ]
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It's the only reason why he has ammunition when Vasquez insults him – though considering the only thing Faraday throws is yet another twig rather than the larger branch in his arms, there's clearly no real intent behind it. ]
Good Lord, you're an annoying son of a bitch. You know that?
[ Though even as he says it, he sounds more relieved than annoyed, glad they've backed away from whatever jagged cliff they were headed toward. ]
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I think you've said so a few times before.
[ And Vasquez doesn't look the least bit offended.
(He's— relieved that things seem to have settled? He feels reassured, more markedly, that Faraday hadn't intended to speak to him as he had – or, at least, hadn't meant to imply what Vasquez took from the heated back-and-forth.
For now, that's good enough.) ]
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This thing between them may last a while longer yet, he thinks.
(Hopes, actually.)
He collects up the wood – easy enough to do, with it practically littering the ground around them – and he settles into the space between their bedrolls, arranging the wood before lighting the kindling at the center. He tosses the match into the catching flame before settling back on his bedroll.
He glances up at the darkening sky and starts tugging off his clothes. These days, he doesn't bother with too much modesty around Vasquez, at least when the sun begins to set or after the sun has risen. The man's already seen Faraday in the buff more than enough times, and he's certainly already seen Faraday at his lowest. There's not much room for shame anymore, as far as Faraday's body is concerned.
The scars from the fight are still red, relatively fresh, though they're not nearly so tender, these days. Punched-out holes on his bicep, his thigh, his back. A line bisecting the wolf's bite wrapped around his flank.
The transformation happens, as it always does, as the last few rays of daylight disappears. And the transformation, as it always does, hurts like goddamn hell – dragging out screams that turn to howls, leaving him an exhausted, panting pile of fur.
It takes him a little while to recover, but once he has, he stretches out, testing his limbs, before lifting his head and looking at Vasquez expectantly. ]
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