etceteras | the whole world sitting on a ticking bomb;

the whole world sitting on a ticking bomb;

[ Faraday is a natural showman.

Part of his problem, he supposes, how naturally he's drawn to the spotlight. How quick he is to step into the center of attention, spinning some half-remembered incident into a captivating story. He grins and he laughs and he revels in the understanding that, at least for a little while, the men with whom he's drinking aren't likely to shoot him before the week's through.

And that's what Chisolm's little assembled team is, really – killers. Ruthless in their own ways. Faraday's own list of murdered men isn't nearly as prolific as the legendary Jack Horne's, nor is it as storied as Goodnight Robicheaux's, but he supposes he's merely here to pad out their numbers. Not that he isn't a fair shot in his own right; Faraday figures if you take the skill of all of the men in Rose Creek, they still wouldn't reach Faraday's level.

It's been a few nights, now, their days spent in hard labor, in trying to teach a handful of farmers how to hold a gun, how to actually hit what they're firing at, and it's going about as well as Faraday ever expected: badly. But Sam seems to see some potential, even if hardly anyone else does Faraday supposes it takes guts for these men and women to stand up to a mean son of a bitch like Bart Bogue. That has to account for something.

Not much, but something.

It's late in the evening by the time the saloon starts to clear out. Faraday's sides ache from laughter, the corners of his eyes wet with tears, and he scrubs them away with the back of his wrist, grinning. Horne had wandered off earlier in the evening to return to his little tent on the banks of the creek. Goodnight and Billy had excused themselves to the boarding house, and Sam— well. He was doing important things, surely. Faraday leaves all that business to him.

Which leaves him and Vasquez in the relative silence of the saloon, a whiskey bottle – still mostly full – between them. Faraday doesn't get Vasquez, and that goes beyond finding his manner of speech nearly intractable. He gets why Horne and Sam are here – some misplaced sense of honor, Faraday guesses, of wanting to help the helpless. Goodnight is here for the gold, and Billy is here for Goodnight. Red Harvest is...

Well, who the hell knows with that one?

And Faraday is here because he owes a man a horse.

But Vasquez's motivations are a little tougher to pin down. Maybe some outlaw with a heart of gold. Maybe he truly just wants Sam off his tail. Maybe he's just some capricious son of a bitch who does whatever sounds fun. (Faraday can relate to that last bit, at least.) And Faraday is curious, tends to stick his nose where it's not wanted, asks too many questions. Vasquez is exactly the sort of knot he likes to prod at, to unravel – someone unlikely to make it too easy on him, someone liable to bite and snap at him and give him a challenge.

Faraday kicks up his feet on an empty chair, pulls his cards from his vest pocket and shuffles them idly. Even with the alcohol clouding his head, his hands still move with certainty – riffling the cards, bridging them, cutting them between his hands. He flashes a crooked smile at Vasquez from across the table. ]

Care to see a trick?

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[ Vasquez is here because... well, because it's something to do, isn't it? It's something other than running from the people who want him dead and holing up alongside stinking corpses. He's got nowhere else to be, in any case, so why not play hero for a while?

That's the reason he'd give if asked, anyway, though whether he really believes it or not is another story. There's a pretty high chance that even with all their tricks and traps, they won't walk away from this. Seems pretty stupid to throw one's life away on a whim, but then a man with a $500 bounty on his head probably doesn't have much of a life left to throw away.

He watches Faraday for a moment- more accurately he watches Faraday's cards -as he lazily leans one elbow on the bar, resting his chin in his hand. He's seen the gambler awe a few of the townsfolk with his card tricks, his slight of hand and easy smile. ]

It better be good. I've seen your tricks.

[ Faraday snorts, pausing long enough in his shuffling to wave a hand dismissively. ]

Please, hombre. [ The pronunciation is round, willfully imprecise – specifically to kick up Vasquez's ire. ] All my tricks will amaze and astound you.

[ He swings his legs back around, though the drink in his system means the momentum nearly brings him to the ground. He laughs brightly, steadying himself against the bar top, and fans out the deck with a practiced movement. ]

Pick a card.

[ That's far from the first time Faraday has butchered the Spanish language, and he'd be damned if it was the last, but he makes a face all the same- a slight pinching of his features to show he's less than amused.

Flatly, ]

Okay, güero. Amaze me.

[ And he reaches out to pluck a card from the deck. ]

Commit it to memory, but don't let me see it. Return it to the deck when you're done.

[ He straightens out the cards into a neat deck, resting it in the palm of his hand, and holds the short end out to Vasquez. ]

Care to make a wager on this?

[ He gives it a once over, eyebrows slightly raised, before sliding it back. ]

Such as?

[ Normally when the card is returned, Faraday starts shuffling, but for now, he simply holds the deck in hand. His eyebrow quirks slightly, almost in challenge. ]

I get your card right, you gotta answer a question of my choosing.

You can't ask a question like a normal person?

[ He says it blandly enough, but he has to admit he's curious about where this is going. ]

Go on then.

[ Faraday smiles winningly, tucking the card into the deck. He splits the deck into packets, spins them around in his hands in a complicated-looking shuffle. Over, under, around, the motions practiced and easy, despite the drink. And as he's doing that, he says brightly, ]

I could ask, but that don't mean you'd be likely to answer.

[ He settles the deck into his palm again, using the one hand to split the deck in two, the top half twisting to fall into his cradled fingers. A card pokes out from the middle of the deck as they settle again, sitting perpendicular to the rest of the cards.

He lifts up the cards, aiming the deck like a makeshift gun. The paper snaps sharply as he flicks the perpendicular card out across the bar top. It spins, still face down, coming to a stop just beside Vasquez's elbow. ]

Your card, compadre.

[ He keeps one eye on those cards, tracking Faraday's hands he shuffles and picks a card out of the middle. It's novel, but hardly an impressive move. (He is determined not to be impressed.) ]

I could be. Maybe.

[ Depends on the day and the company and the amount of alcohol involved. The day and the alcohol weren't to bad, but the company? Well, that remained to be seen. True, the whole lot of them, all seven, had very little common ground to stand on, yet the seemed to fall in a rhythm of sorts. Training the townsfolk, preparing the defenses, this was where whatever differences they had seemed to fall away. Faraday still found ways to be insufferably smug and annoying even in the middle of everything, but they still did work well together.

Vasquez just wasn't about to start calling Faraday compadre in earnest any time soon.

His gaze flicks to the card at his elbow, then to Faraday, and back. Lazily he scoops up the card, giving it a bland look. (Still determined not to be impressed.) ]

I think you're getting rusty.

[ And he flicks it back across the bar. Wrong, apparently. ]

[ His smug look falters at the denial, and Faraday snatches up the card, peering at it critically before snapping it back onto the counter top, face up. He directs a flat look up to Vasquez, lips pursed into a thin, annoyed line. ]

C'mon, now. This ain't gonna work if you lie.

Edited 2017-01-17 08:14 (UTC)

How do you know I’m lying?

[ Unfortunately Vasquez as never been much of an actor, and the slight smirk on his face gives him away. Worth it, he thinks, if only to annoy Faraday a little in return.

He slides the card back along the bar to its owner. ]

Go ahead. Ask your question.

[ The admission does little to mollify him; in fact, his scowl deepens as he plucks up the card from the counter, replacing it into his deck. If Vasquez’s intention was to annoy, then he did so with remarkable ease. ]

I was gonna ask why you’re such an ass, but I think that’ll just be a mystery for the rest of time.

[ With that little bit of grousing out of the way, Faraday’s expression smooths out a little. He starts shuffling again, splitting the deck into packets, moving them in his hands in complicated-looking movements and flourishes – spinning, trading hands, over, around, under. The shuffle is apparently muscle memory, by now, even with whiskey fogging his mind. ]

So.

[ The deck settles, and he absently flicks out a card again – the same card Vasquez had drawn earlier. ]

What do you think our chances are? With Bogue, I mean.

[ Oh, now he grins. That was definitely worth it- it’ll probably wear thin if he does it again, so he’s glad the once paid off. The outlaw lifts his shoulders in a lazy sort of shrug, content to let Faraday marvel at the mysteries of the finer points of his personality.

The question he does ask is a sobering one (though Faraday hardly needed the card trick to ask it) and Vasquez would vastly prefer to be drunk right now. In fact, he plucks up the bottle between them and tops off the waning contents of his glass before tossing it back.

Plainly, ]

I think we will be lucky if half of these people survive. Why? What do you think?

[ He chuckles, dark and mirthless. ]

I think we’ll be lucky if these fools don’t accidentally put a bullet in our backs while they’re aimin’ for Bogue’s men.

[ He picks up the card again, integrating it into the deck and setting it between them. ]

Bless their hearts.

[ The bottle still has some heft to it when he lifts it – still blessedly full, then – and he pours out another glass for himself. (Normally Faraday would do without the glassware, but he supposes while he’s keeping company, he ought to be polite about it.) ]

But if we go’n’ save this town, we’ll be heroes, huh? [ He smiles brightly, crookedly. ] Maybe that’ll knock a few hundreds off that bounty on your head.

[ He snorts out a laugh. He sort of doubts this little speck on the map will warrant that kind of action, unless Chisolm has some say in the matter, some contacts or influence to throw around that they’re all unaware of. You know, provided they’re not all six feet under after this little endeavor. ]

Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe they’ll make me a deputy too, eh?

[ Because there’s something about an outlaw-turned-lawman that he finds hilarious. He’d never do it in a million years- too many rules, too much responsibility- but the notion is amusing. ]

[ He barks out a laugh, apparently just as amused by the mental image as Vasquez is. ]

‘Bout as likely as them makin’ me sheriff.

[ Though he did steal the badge – has it sitting in his breast pocket, even. A little trinket to remember the town by, he supposes, once everything’s over and done with. (If any of them make it out alive, of course.) ]

I’d be happy to deputize you. [ He punctuates it with a healthy swig from his glass, sighing after the whiskey burns a line down his throat. ] You’d do a shit job of it, but still.

[ Now that’s funny, and Vasquez laughs himself. Faraday might not be a wanted man, at least not that they know of, but he just doesn’t seem the type. Maybe less so than Vasquez. ]

I think I’d do a better job than you.

Doubtful for quite a few reasons.

[ Bright and sing-song.

The two of them come at lawlessness from different angles; Vasquez is the one with the bounty on his head, but Faraday doubts either of them have killed more than the other. Faraday wanders himself into back alley fights, but has yet to kill anyone who mattered, anyone whose death would be noted with anything more than a curious little hum. It’s likely what’s kept him out of the noose, all these years. ]

You lack my easy charm, for instance. [ This, with a quick wink and a crooked smile. ] No one’s comin’ to you with their troubles if you’re scowlin’ up a storm.

And for another— [ His smile widens, turns slightly sharp. ] — I’m faster on the draw.

[ Excuse you, he doesn’t scowl.

… Okay he doesn’t scowl all the time. He’s not as quick and easy with his smiles as Faraday is, true, but he could probably pass for approachable if he really had to. He just doesn’t have to. Vasquez has never had a reason to make people like him, and all the disarming smiles in the world won’t do much in the face of a $500 bounty.

His eyes narrow a fraction in the face of that smile- a smile with a little more edge to it. A challenge if he ever saw one. ]

Is that what you think? Because I’d be happy to prove you wrong.

You would be happy. [ This, with a slight quirk of his eyebrow – still challenging, then, testing the waters of Vasquez’s patience. ] Considerin’ how impossible those odds are.

[ He pours himself another glass of whiskey; any other man would be sleeping away under a table after half of what Faraday’s imbibed tonight, but Faraday just feels loose, the hard edges of him grated down by the drink. The reality of what they face only days from now should be a more pressing concern, should weigh more heavily on his shoulders, but—

Well. That’s a worry for tomorrow morning, isn’t it? Made all the easier to put off while Vasquez makes himself such an entertaining target. ]

I’d have to be practically half-dead ‘fore you could best me, amigo.

[ Vasquez isn’t so stupid or so drunk not to realize that Faraday is trying to goad a reaction out of him- the man seems to thrive on the reactions of others- but neither is he so sober that it doesn’t work. Hell, it might have worked regardless. Faraday had a real talent for getting under his skin.

The outlaw narrows his eyes, finally dropping his hand from where it supports his chin, and leans forward a bit. ]

That’s awful big talk, my friend. [ The corners of his mouth twitch upwards a little in a smirk, barely there but no less sharp. No less challenging. ] I’m beginning to think talking is all you’re good at.

[ Faraday finds it’s easier to get a man’s measure when said man is angry. The ones with chips in their shoulders, the ones with too much to prove and nothing to prove it with, tend to rile up faster. Made them easier to read when they wore their anger on their sleeves; made them likely to make mistakes.

(And on his worst days, Faraday sometimes numbers among them, though he at least has the skill to back himself up.)

When Vasquez meets Faraday’s challenge with one of his own, Faraday feels a spark ignite in his gut, fiery and white-hot, feels the tips of his fingers itch for his gun. His own smile widens, turns mean, and Faraday sits up in his seat, spreading his hands. ]

Name the time and the place, pendejo. [ The pronunciation on the borrowed word is a little more precise than his usual mangled attempts; Faraday’s found insults are more effective if he actually attempts to say them correctly, even if he only has a general idea of what the words mean.

He turns slightly, rests his elbow on the back of his chair. ]

I’ll be happy to show you just how outclassed you are.

[ Vasquez has seen Faraday in action, and if really pressed he’d admit that the other man was good at what he did, but he’s also so insufferable about it that Vasquez would really, really like to take him down a peg. It would be a challenge, sure, but he finds the prospect kind of thrilling.

His eyes track Faraday as he leans back in his seat, apparently not a care in the world, and the smirk on his face sharpens a little. ]

I’ll kick your ass any time, any place, guero. We could step outside right now.

[ Faraday barks out a laugh, something pleased and surprised in equal measures. ]

You that eager to get shown up, huh?

[ He takes one last swig from his glass before he scoops up his cards and his hat. The cards get tucked away into his vest pocket, and he settles the hat on his head, his fingertips brushing along the brim. His smile turns cocksure and crooked, eyes narrowing a little. ]

Suits me just fine, friend.

[ He wonders if Faraday thinks that smile is charming, and perhaps it usually is without the mean, wicked edges, the way he’s so clearly itching for a fight swimming just under the surface. Vasquez has no use for charm, but the eagerness to start something is familiar. He wears it as well, though it settles in the corners of his eyes, the line of his jaw.

Faraday rises and he follows suit, plucking up hit hat from its resting place on the back of his chair. ]

Eager to shut you up, maybe. [ He waves Faraday towards the door, hat still in one hand. ] After you.

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