[ ... 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. ]
[ It's oddly natural, routine, to settle in preparation for Faraday's change. With their makeshift camp set out, the fire lighting rapidly approaching night, Vasquez has learned to wait as his companion goes from man to furry beast.
(No matter how many times he's seen the change, he still feels a pang of sympathy every time Faraday screams as his body is ripped apart.
Vasquez really does with there was something he could do.)
Shortly after, the wolf lies where Faraday used to be, and Vasquez watches him settle back into his four-legged body.
Of course, Faraday leaves him with little time to continue putting off his explanation. Vasquez sighs, tossing a twig into the fire. ]
You know the Spanish invaded Mexico years ago, sí?
[ Faraday nods at that. He doesn't know the particulars – it's not a topic that interested him much when he was growing up, with as distant as it all felt.
Growing up, he was always more interested in the local legends. ]
[ Vasquez doesn't expect Faraday to be especially well-versed in Mexican history, and he doesn't need to be; Vasquez just wants to ensure Faraday has some point of reference. ]
I lived a little before that, in a small village. I had not much family, but everyone looked out for each other, worked together. It was that way for a lot of the land, before it was taken by the aztectl. Before the Spanish, they were their own empire, taking and destroying everything they wanted.
People, also.
[ He sounds— detached from his explanation. It feels like another life, like it happened to someone else, and in many ways, it did. Vasquez doesn't think there is much of Coyotl left in himself, but it doesn't bother him terribly. ]
They took my village, raped and killed and captured as they liked. Those who lived, they took back to their city as sacrifices for their gods.
At the top of the tall temples, they offered us.
[ Vasquez shrugs, watching the fire now, instead of Faraday. ]
I remember nothing but walking on these bloody stones after others had gone before me – and then I woke again as this.
[ He gestures down at himself with a wave of his hand. ]
See, Faraday had expected another vampire story. Something about being wooed by some alluring stranger, or being stalked in the night by some shadowy figure, or playing good Samaritan to the exact wrong person by allowing them into his house. The sort of story you could tell with suspenseful pauses.
Faraday didn't expect this.
Even if he could speak, he'd have nothing to say. As it is now, he lowers his head a little, ears pressed back – offering his sympathies, maybe. Or offering an apology for asking Vasquez to recount that awful bit of his life. ]
[ Vasquez glances over at Faraday, unsmiling, though there's something soft in his expression, despite the horrible tale he's shared. ]
I don't know if their gods are real or what made me like this. They say that sometimes, when they sacrifice to their trickster, he curses the world with a caminante de sangre.
A prank, maybe.
[ He straightens up, shrugging out of his vest. He lays it on his saddlebag before he reaches for the buttons on his shirt. Vasquez undoes the top few, pulling open the fabric to reveal the nasty, jagged scar down the middle of his chest. ]
They also say it's because he eats the hearts, because they bleed the bodies first, and that's why the caminante need to drink the blood of others.
[ Vasquez's hands fall from his shirt, resting instead on his knees. ]
I don't know what is truth or legend, but... [ He lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. ] Centuries later, I am still here.
[ Faraday's gaze falls to Vasquez's hands as they work at the fastenings of his shirt. He's seen the scar a handful of times – chance glimpses when they bathed, or after the wolf had mauled Vasquez half to death, and the scar was all that lingered after Vasquez's body had healed beneath his ruined shirt.
He had never wondered what it meant, had assumed it was a holdover from his mortal life.
It appears he wasn't entirely wrong.
He's never been more annoyed that he can't speak, especially now that he has a half-dozen questions bubbling in his throat. They left you for dead? Did you have a family? Did you go out and get revenge on those bastards?
He lets out a low, frustrated growl.
For now, he settles on the question he can probably mime out, gaze falling to the scar on Vasquez's chest, head tilted inquisitively.
[ ... He can't interpret the meaning behind Faraday's rumbling growl, but the way he looks at Vasquez's chest, that little tilt of his head – that's clearer.
He huffs a short laugh. ]
Nothing in here, perrito.
You can listen, if you want. It sounds hollow. [ Vasquez's own overly sensitive hearing has told him as much. He can hear his lungs inflate, if he listens, but there's an odd emptiness, a low, almost imperceptible echo. ]
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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.
no subject
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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(No matter how many times he's seen the change, he still feels a pang of sympathy every time Faraday screams as his body is ripped apart.
Vasquez really does with there was something he could do.)
Shortly after, the wolf lies where Faraday used to be, and Vasquez watches him settle back into his four-legged body.
Of course, Faraday leaves him with little time to continue putting off his explanation. Vasquez sighs, tossing a twig into the fire. ]
You know the Spanish invaded Mexico years ago, sí?
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Growing up, he was always more interested in the local legends. ]
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I lived a little before that, in a small village. I had not much family, but everyone looked out for each other, worked together. It was that way for a lot of the land, before it was taken by the aztectl. Before the Spanish, they were their own empire, taking and destroying everything they wanted.
People, also.
[ He sounds— detached from his explanation. It feels like another life, like it happened to someone else, and in many ways, it did. Vasquez doesn't think there is much of Coyotl left in himself, but it doesn't bother him terribly. ]
They took my village, raped and killed and captured as they liked. Those who lived, they took back to their city as sacrifices for their gods.
At the top of the tall temples, they offered us.
[ Vasquez shrugs, watching the fire now, instead of Faraday. ]
I remember nothing but walking on these bloody stones after others had gone before me – and then I woke again as this.
[ He gestures down at himself with a wave of his hand. ]
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See, Faraday had expected another vampire story. Something about being wooed by some alluring stranger, or being stalked in the night by some shadowy figure, or playing good Samaritan to the exact wrong person by allowing them into his house. The sort of story you could tell with suspenseful pauses.
Faraday didn't expect this.
Even if he could speak, he'd have nothing to say. As it is now, he lowers his head a little, ears pressed back – offering his sympathies, maybe. Or offering an apology for asking Vasquez to recount that awful bit of his life. ]
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I don't know if their gods are real or what made me like this. They say that sometimes, when they sacrifice to their trickster, he curses the world with a caminante de sangre.
A prank, maybe.
[ He straightens up, shrugging out of his vest. He lays it on his saddlebag before he reaches for the buttons on his shirt. Vasquez undoes the top few, pulling open the fabric to reveal the nasty, jagged scar down the middle of his chest. ]
They also say it's because he eats the hearts, because they bleed the bodies first, and that's why the caminante need to drink the blood of others.
[ Vasquez's hands fall from his shirt, resting instead on his knees. ]
I don't know what is truth or legend, but... [ He lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. ] Centuries later, I am still here.
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He had never wondered what it meant, had assumed it was a holdover from his mortal life.
It appears he wasn't entirely wrong.
He's never been more annoyed that he can't speak, especially now that he has a half-dozen questions bubbling in his throat. They left you for dead? Did you have a family? Did you go out and get revenge on those bastards?
He lets out a low, frustrated growl.
For now, he settles on the question he can probably mime out, gaze falling to the scar on Vasquez's chest, head tilted inquisitively.
So you've got no heart? ]
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He huffs a short laugh. ]
Nothing in here, perrito.
You can listen, if you want. It sounds hollow. [ Vasquez's own overly sensitive hearing has told him as much. He can hear his lungs inflate, if he listens, but there's an odd emptiness, a low, almost imperceptible echo. ]
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