Or, at least, they feel like they should be, considering the massive shift in Vasquez and Faraday's dynamic. The added complication of fucking each other should be a big event – something they need to address and settle, in order to keep functioning as the effective team that they are. Responsible adults would talk this out; Vasquez and Faraday, reasonably, need to at least mention the goddamn enormous elephant in the room.
So do they do the responsible thing?
According to Babar in the corner, it would seem that, no, they're solidly avoiding responsibility.
Despite their frankly immature approach to the newest wrinkle, the rest of their mission is carried out without a hitch. Bogue, the purchaser of the massive haul of nerve gas, sends for his goods in the late afternoon, and by the evening, the crate is hauled out and loaded into a truck. A few different options are weighed; considering how obviously partial Vasquez is to the idea of stealing the whole damn truck, it should be no surprise that halfway to its destination, Bogue's men are yanked out of the truck's cab and dumped on the highway (to be retrieved later by Statesman).
Tampering with the truck's tracking software is simple. They reattach it to an errant semi in order to misdirect Bogue's people, and then Vasquez and Faraday drive off into the sunset with pounds upon pounds of a deadly neurotoxin packed away behind them.
Cognac is pleased by the outcome of the mission when Mezcal and Bourbon return to Statesman's California branch. Unconventional means, as per usual, have led to successful acquiring of a deadly substance, and the agency will be looking into Bogue more intently from now on.
They haven't seen the last of him.
But with nothing more on the immediate docket, Cognac gives the two agents the go-ahead to pack it in for the next few days and recouperate.
What does that mean for Vasquez and Faraday?
Drinking, obviously.
It's hard to call the Back Lane Bar a "nice" place, but it's the sort of establishment that feels familiar, more than it does comfortable. It's the sort of dark establishment that reeks of cigarettes and strong booze, and it reminds Vasquez of his younger years; it's a step up from the seedier bars where he'd wiled away hours in Morelia, but it has the same atmosphere of men who come to drown their sorrows and celebrations in their drink of choice.
It's not uncommon for Vasquez and Faraday to find themselves in the Back Lane after a long week or string of weeks. A table tucked away is waiting for them, and the pretty bartender offers them both a familiar nod as they pass.
Vasquez removes his hat, setting it on the table as he nods back to the bar. ]
I've got the first round, guero.
[ He raps his knuckles once on the wood, then leaves Faraday to chat up the bartender.
To his credit, he's quick, and he only wastes a few moments over charming grins with the cute girl pouring their drinks. He returns to Faraday with a tumbler of decent bourbon and a double of tequila. Vasquez deposits Faraday's glass in front of him, before sliding into his own seat. ]
See – I told you I wouldn't forget to buy your drink, eh?
[ The moment they message back to HQ that the neurotoxin is secured, Faraday almost instantly receives a message from Switchel:
Mezcal and Bourbon, the message says, sittin' in a tree.
Faraday sinks in his seat while Vasquez drives the stolen transport, jaw clenched and face a little red, and promises himself he's going to punch Teddy's teeth right out of his mouth, one by one.
Once they're home, it doesn't get better. They return their equipment to the tech advisors, and Faraday can tell Teddy is trying to maintain a professional air, though his gaze keeps darting to the dark marks on Faraday's neck, peeking up above the collar of his shirt. And the bastard keeps casting Faraday bug-eyed, disbelieving, far too interested looks. Once Vasquez steps out to lead the way to Cognac's office, Faraday grabs Teddy's face and shoves him, hissing out a quick shut the fuck up, Theodore, before fleeing the room.
They debrief, and Cognac is pleased – which isn't too much of a surprise, considering there was little to no collateral damage, nothing exploded, and neither of them came back sporting bullet wounds, but still comes as a relief. Compared to some of the other agents, Faraday hasn't been in Statesman for all that long. He's held his position for a handful of years, sure, which has become more than enough time to rise through the ranks and become a trusted member, but it's also been more than enough time to cause a fair bit of trouble, with or without Vasquez's involvement.
Every debriefing tends to feel like the teacher plans to scold him after class.
(Sam was the one that found him in some dingy watering hole, and after Faraday had almost absentmindedly helped Sam out of a bit of a pinch, Sam put him forward as his candidate for the abruptly vacant agent position in Statesman.
Faraday still hasn't got a goddamn clue what Sam saw in him when they first met, but he refuses to disappoint him.)
They should talk about this, Faraday thinks. They should talk about the two of them, what the hell the other night might mean or not mean, in the grand scheme of things. They should talk about what this means for their partnership, and whether they ought to ask Cognac for reassignments, if this proves to be a problem. They should at least set some ground rules, maybe decide if that was a one time thing, or if maybe this might be a more than once thing, or if maybe this might be an only on special occasions thing, or—
(It says a great deal about Faraday's life and the quality of his past dalliances that discussing the possibility of a relationship doesn't even occur to him.)
Sitting at their usual table in their usual haunt doesn't help to put things into perspective, but it does, at least, put him a little more at ease. Before Statesman, Faraday practically called bars like these his home. His natural habitat. He spent a great deal of time in bars like this one, tricking men out of their money at pool tables or games of darts. Hardly auspicious, admittedly, but he got by for a while.
He's tapping an idle rhythm against the table top when Vasquez returns with his drink, and he offers an appreciative nod, pulling it toward himself. ]
[ Vasquez gives a derisory little snort as he takes a seat across from Faraday. ]
You think we had time for it before?
[ Considering they went from the initial promise of buying a drink to dealing with the mission at hand to fucking furiously in their hotel room to finishing the mission to returning to HQ to—
They haven't exactly had any breathing room until now. ]
[ Vasquez just scoffs back at Faraday, but he lift his own glass in a mild salute. ]
Salud.
[ He throws back half of the tall shot without preamble, setting it back on the table with a content sigh, the burning taste of the tequila tingling on his lips.
He clears his throat, then leans back in his seat, making himself comfortable. ]
[ He sips at his whiskey, taking his time with it – the decent stuff needs to be appreciated. This stuff has absolutely nothing on what Statesman produces, obviously, but it'll have to do. ]
I suppose I oughta be grateful that we didn't wreck the package before we could deliver it. Seems like something worth celebratin'.
[ Vasquez makes a quick show of crossing himself – pressing three fingers to his forehead, chest, and both shoulders – like that will banish the potential for cursing their luck. ]
Lo siento, guerito.
[ ... He doesn't sound very sorry, just because something about the idea of the two of them being sent out for strictly political missions is hilarious to him. ]
At least it would mean you spend more time looking good in a suit.
[ He snorts out a derisive laugh, leaning back in his seat. Thoughtlessly, he stretches out his legs, eating up some of Vasquez's space across from him – a bad habit, admittedly, but one he's easily fallen into over the years, and one that only seems to crop up when Vasquez is involved. ]
Sure. I'll just stand there and look pretty and foreboding, and you can do all the talkin'.
[ It says a lot about his relationship with Faraday that Vasquez doesn't bristle or try to move away. Instead, he knocks his boot against Faraday's ankle – almost affectionate, by any other standards. ]
Why would I do that when you like the sound of your own voice so much?
[ He hums agreeably, bringing his drink up to his lips again. ]
I do have a mellifluous voice.
[ Never mind that Vasquez likely meant that as an insult to his vanity. Faraday seems to know it, too, judging by the way he hides his smirk behind his glass. ]
[ It's easy to discern Faraday's meaning, given how long they've worked together, though the mention of Maximiliano draws a small wrinkle to Vasquez's brow, some of the easy cheer falling away. ]
Only because of good luck.
[ A moment of hesitation, as he shifts his glass back and forth over the wooden table. ]
[ Faraday's head tilts a little, eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth turning downward.
Given everything that happened, Faraday had nearly forgotten about that slight misstep in the cigar room, about Vasquez's promise to talk shit out later. Vasquez had been shaken up after Maximiliano had found them, that much Faraday could tell, but there hadn't been time to discuss it.
There's time now, though. And, a little selfishly, Faraday leaps at the chance to talk about this rather than the other topic that sorely needs discussing. ]
My accent – I don't usually bother with it, unless I need to sound American. We've never been put somewhere I thought anyone would be able to place where I'm from.
[ After a moment of hesitation, he throws back the rest of his tequila, exhaling on a short, rough breath. He leans forward on his elbows, a slightly tenser set to his shoulders. ]
But the cartels in Columbia? They work very much with the ones in Mexico.
[ Faraday straightens at that, a little surprised, but mostly intrigued.
Very few of the agents in the California branch tend to talk about their lives before becoming Statesman agents – partially because joining up meant putting their old lives away, and partially because, Faraday thinks, most of them would much rather forget everything that came before.
Faraday knows some broad strokes, though, mostly thanks to plying the others with booze and poking and prodding until something came loose. He knows that Teddy Q was once on the track to become an agent, but when they realized he couldn't shoot worth a damn, he was quickly switched to tech. He knows that Goodnight was deployed once, a while ago, and came back a broken man, with Billy practically materializing out of the ether to pick up the pieces.
Vasquez, though, has been relatively mum. Something to do with drug cartels in Mexico, Faraday thinks, though he never pressed enough to find out.
The way Vasquez is sitting, though – slightly hunched, head bowed – tells Faraday that he was likely onto something.
[ He says it a little slowly, absently tilting his glass one way then the other to swirl his whiskey. ]
If you were just rank and file, I doubt you would've ever been on his radar. Bigwig like that, I assume he don't have much time for anyone that isn't callin' any shots.
[ Of course, that begs the question of where, exactly, Vasquez landed in the hierarchy, but Faraday still doesn't feel it's the time to press. ]
[ Obviously, Maximiliano wouldn't have time for some random grunt, but Vasquez had been part of the Sinaloa Cartel since he was fifteen. It consumed nearly twenty years of his life. He wasn't top of the food chain by any means, but he had a standing there that had the potential to make him recognizable in the wrong places – which is also why Cognac doesn't send him to South America, if they can help it. ]
It doesn't matter much now; he said nothing and our cover wasn't blown.
But— [ He sighs as he runs a hand back through his messy curls before straightening up again. ] That was why I slipped.
[ It's certainly not a common occurrence on their jobs, and while Vasquez had recovered quickly, it was still more than he likes to allow himself. ]
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wow finally writing this after hell week has let up
Or, at least, they feel like they should be, considering the massive shift in Vasquez and Faraday's dynamic. The added complication of fucking each other should be a big event – something they need to address and settle, in order to keep functioning as the effective team that they are. Responsible adults would talk this out; Vasquez and Faraday, reasonably, need to at least mention the goddamn enormous elephant in the room.
So do they do the responsible thing?
According to Babar in the corner, it would seem that, no, they're solidly avoiding responsibility.
Despite their frankly immature approach to the newest wrinkle, the rest of their mission is carried out without a hitch. Bogue, the purchaser of the massive haul of nerve gas, sends for his goods in the late afternoon, and by the evening, the crate is hauled out and loaded into a truck. A few different options are weighed; considering how obviously partial Vasquez is to the idea of stealing the whole damn truck, it should be no surprise that halfway to its destination, Bogue's men are yanked out of the truck's cab and dumped on the highway (to be retrieved later by Statesman).
Tampering with the truck's tracking software is simple. They reattach it to an errant semi in order to misdirect Bogue's people, and then Vasquez and Faraday drive off into the sunset with pounds upon pounds of a deadly neurotoxin packed away behind them.
Cognac is pleased by the outcome of the mission when Mezcal and Bourbon return to Statesman's California branch. Unconventional means, as per usual, have led to successful acquiring of a deadly substance, and the agency will be looking into Bogue more intently from now on.
They haven't seen the last of him.
But with nothing more on the immediate docket, Cognac gives the two agents the go-ahead to pack it in for the next few days and recouperate.
What does that mean for Vasquez and Faraday?
Drinking, obviously.
It's hard to call the Back Lane Bar a "nice" place, but it's the sort of establishment that feels familiar, more than it does comfortable. It's the sort of dark establishment that reeks of cigarettes and strong booze, and it reminds Vasquez of his younger years; it's a step up from the seedier bars where he'd wiled away hours in Morelia, but it has the same atmosphere of men who come to drown their sorrows and celebrations in their drink of choice.
It's not uncommon for Vasquez and Faraday to find themselves in the Back Lane after a long week or string of weeks. A table tucked away is waiting for them, and the pretty bartender offers them both a familiar nod as they pass.
Vasquez removes his hat, setting it on the table as he nods back to the bar. ]
I've got the first round, guero.
[ He raps his knuckles once on the wood, then leaves Faraday to chat up the bartender.
To his credit, he's quick, and he only wastes a few moments over charming grins with the cute girl pouring their drinks. He returns to Faraday with a tumbler of decent bourbon and a double of tequila. Vasquez deposits Faraday's glass in front of him, before sliding into his own seat. ]
See – I told you I wouldn't forget to buy your drink, eh?
you're perfect
Mezcal and Bourbon, the message says, sittin' in a tree.
Faraday sinks in his seat while Vasquez drives the stolen transport, jaw clenched and face a little red, and promises himself he's going to punch Teddy's teeth right out of his mouth, one by one.
Once they're home, it doesn't get better. They return their equipment to the tech advisors, and Faraday can tell Teddy is trying to maintain a professional air, though his gaze keeps darting to the dark marks on Faraday's neck, peeking up above the collar of his shirt. And the bastard keeps casting Faraday bug-eyed, disbelieving, far too interested looks. Once Vasquez steps out to lead the way to Cognac's office, Faraday grabs Teddy's face and shoves him, hissing out a quick shut the fuck up, Theodore, before fleeing the room.
They debrief, and Cognac is pleased – which isn't too much of a surprise, considering there was little to no collateral damage, nothing exploded, and neither of them came back sporting bullet wounds, but still comes as a relief. Compared to some of the other agents, Faraday hasn't been in Statesman for all that long. He's held his position for a handful of years, sure, which has become more than enough time to rise through the ranks and become a trusted member, but it's also been more than enough time to cause a fair bit of trouble, with or without Vasquez's involvement.
Every debriefing tends to feel like the teacher plans to scold him after class.
(Sam was the one that found him in some dingy watering hole, and after Faraday had almost absentmindedly helped Sam out of a bit of a pinch, Sam put him forward as his candidate for the abruptly vacant agent position in Statesman.
Faraday still hasn't got a goddamn clue what Sam saw in him when they first met, but he refuses to disappoint him.)
They should talk about this, Faraday thinks. They should talk about the two of them, what the hell the other night might mean or not mean, in the grand scheme of things. They should talk about what this means for their partnership, and whether they ought to ask Cognac for reassignments, if this proves to be a problem. They should at least set some ground rules, maybe decide if that was a one time thing, or if maybe this might be a more than once thing, or if maybe this might be an only on special occasions thing, or—
(It says a great deal about Faraday's life and the quality of his past dalliances that discussing the possibility of a relationship doesn't even occur to him.)
Sitting at their usual table in their usual haunt doesn't help to put things into perspective, but it does, at least, put him a little more at ease. Before Statesman, Faraday practically called bars like these his home. His natural habitat. He spent a great deal of time in bars like this one, tricking men out of their money at pool tables or games of darts. Hardly auspicious, admittedly, but he got by for a while.
He's tapping an idle rhythm against the table top when Vasquez returns with his drink, and he offers an appreciative nod, pulling it toward himself. ]
A bit late, though, don't you think?
no subject
You think we had time for it before?
[ Considering they went from the initial promise of buying a drink to dealing with the mission at hand to fucking furiously in their hotel room to finishing the mission to returning to HQ to—
They haven't exactly had any breathing room until now. ]
no subject
Could've made time.
[ Because there's always time for booze, in Faraday's mind, especially when it's coming to him for free. ]
I suppose it's better late than never.
[ He lifts up the glass. ]
Cheers.
no subject
Salud.
[ He throws back half of the tall shot without preamble, setting it back on the table with a content sigh, the burning taste of the tequila tingling on his lips.
He clears his throat, then leans back in his seat, making himself comfortable. ]
Better back home, for a job well done, my friend.
no subject
I suppose I oughta be grateful that we didn't wreck the package before we could deliver it. Seems like something worth celebratin'.
no subject
[ Considering the package in question was a toxic gas.
Wrecking that probably would have meant an untimely death for the both of them. ]
We kicked up no fuss, barely made any mess... [ Vasquez shrugs. ] Better than usual, no?
no subject
Shouldn't make a habit of things goin' so smoothly. We've got a reputation to uphold.
no subject
[ He grins lazily at Faraday. ]
Diplomacy.
no subject
[ And he utters it like Vasquez just damned them to the darkest, coldest reaches of hell. ]
Don't even joke about that.
no subject
Lo siento, guerito.
[ ... He doesn't sound very sorry, just because something about the idea of the two of them being sent out for strictly political missions is hilarious to him. ]
At least it would mean you spend more time looking good in a suit.
no subject
Sure. I'll just stand there and look pretty and foreboding, and you can do all the talkin'.
no subject
Why would I do that when you like the sound of your own voice so much?
no subject
I do have a mellifluous voice.
[ Never mind that Vasquez likely meant that as an insult to his vanity. Faraday seems to know it, too, judging by the way he hides his smirk behind his glass. ]
You didn't do half bad, back there.
[ "Back there," meaning their most recent job. ]
You had Maximiliano handled well enough.
no subject
Only because of good luck.
[ A moment of hesitation, as he shifts his glass back and forth over the wooden table. ]
I thought maybe he recognized me.
no subject
Given everything that happened, Faraday had nearly forgotten about that slight misstep in the cigar room, about Vasquez's promise to talk shit out later. Vasquez had been shaken up after Maximiliano had found them, that much Faraday could tell, but there hadn't been time to discuss it.
There's time now, though. And, a little selfishly, Faraday leaps at the chance to talk about this rather than the other topic that sorely needs discussing. ]
That's why you were so rattled?
no subject
My accent – I don't usually bother with it, unless I need to sound American. We've never been put somewhere I thought anyone would be able to place where I'm from.
[ After a moment of hesitation, he throws back the rest of his tequila, exhaling on a short, rough breath. He leans forward on his elbows, a slightly tenser set to his shoulders. ]
But the cartels in Columbia? They work very much with the ones in Mexico.
no subject
Very few of the agents in the California branch tend to talk about their lives before becoming Statesman agents – partially because joining up meant putting their old lives away, and partially because, Faraday thinks, most of them would much rather forget everything that came before.
Faraday knows some broad strokes, though, mostly thanks to plying the others with booze and poking and prodding until something came loose. He knows that Teddy Q was once on the track to become an agent, but when they realized he couldn't shoot worth a damn, he was quickly switched to tech. He knows that Goodnight was deployed once, a while ago, and came back a broken man, with Billy practically materializing out of the ether to pick up the pieces.
Vasquez, though, has been relatively mum. Something to do with drug cartels in Mexico, Faraday thinks, though he never pressed enough to find out.
The way Vasquez is sitting, though – slightly hunched, head bowed – tells Faraday that he was likely onto something.
It's why he feels comfortable with venturing, ]
Did your people ever work with him?
no subject
Often.
[ He lifts a hand in a helpless, somewhat dismissive little shrug. ]
I never met him in person, but I have no way to know if he's ever seen my face.
no subject
[ He says it a little slowly, absently tilting his glass one way then the other to swirl his whiskey. ]
If you were just rank and file, I doubt you would've ever been on his radar. Bigwig like that, I assume he don't have much time for anyone that isn't callin' any shots.
[ Of course, that begs the question of where, exactly, Vasquez landed in the hierarchy, but Faraday still doesn't feel it's the time to press. ]
no subject
Si.
[ Obviously, Maximiliano wouldn't have time for some random grunt, but Vasquez had been part of the Sinaloa Cartel since he was fifteen. It consumed nearly twenty years of his life. He wasn't top of the food chain by any means, but he had a standing there that had the potential to make him recognizable in the wrong places – which is also why Cognac doesn't send him to South America, if they can help it. ]
It doesn't matter much now; he said nothing and our cover wasn't blown.
But— [ He sighs as he runs a hand back through his messy curls before straightening up again. ] That was why I slipped.
[ It's certainly not a common occurrence on their jobs, and while Vasquez had recovered quickly, it was still more than he likes to allow himself. ]
no subject
[ And Lord knows Faraday has surely fucked up worse on a few of his assignments, with or without Vasquez.
He also valiantly refrains from saying, I'm reasonably sure you and I have a bigger slip up to discuss.
Faraday has apparently decided he won't be the one to bring things up. ]
And I only noticed on account of hanging around you too much.
no subject
[ Vasquez manages a hint of his former broad grin, before he starts getting back to his feet. ]
Another round?
forgot to hit post comment.......
Offerin' to pay again? You're feelin' generous today.
big mood
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