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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[ For a while there, their brawl is a flurry of flailing limbs and flying dust as they each try to claw for the upper hand. Vasquez loses his hat the instant his back slams into the dirt the first time, and he doesn't care to figure out where its gone.

Not for the first time, one of them finds just the slightest bit of advantage and manages to get the other onto his back. Vasquez is the unlucky one this time, and he glares up at Faraday, eyes dark and angry. He has a cut above one brow, a trickle of blood slowly carving a path through the dust and sweat on his face.

He fights against Faraday's weight for just a moment, then lets it go for now. Maybe Faraday will relent a little if Vasquez isn't actively fighting him. ]

Quit now? But we just got started. Don't tell me you're done already, eh pendejo?

[ He growls in annoyance, hands tightening around Vasquez's arms. ]

Who said I was quittin'?

[ He turns away, spitting blood again. ]

But who's the one comin' out on top, huh?

So? If the fight's not over, there's no winner yet.

[ Faraday may still be gripping his arms, but he thinks he can probably fling his weight around enough to knock him off or roll them over. Worth a shot, anyway. He glares up at the other man for a moment longer without fighting it, and hopefully it's enough to catch Faraday by surprise when he moves, shifting an arm to take Faraday off balance before trying to reverse their positions. ]

[ He grimaces, something bitter and white-hot bursting in his chest when Vasquez doesn't call it quits. That always was Faraday's problem, the short fuse of his temper, and Vasquez seems to spark it so damned easily.

So when Vasquez moves, it catches Faraday off-guard, and he has to let go of Vasquez's arm to brace himself against the ground – which means Vasquez throws him easily enough. He grunts with the impact and shift of position, and when he realizes what Vasquez has done, he growls again. With Vasquez over top of him, Faraday swings a fist wildly, hoping to knock the other man off. ]

[ Faraday’s wild swing manages to catch Vasquez across the jaw, but with Faraday prone, there’s not enough force behind it to send him sprawling. Still, he makes a grab for Faraday’s wrists to keep it from happening again.

This has become less of a fist fight and more of a battle of stamina at this, because as soon as Vasquez gains the upper hand, Faraday is quick to turn the tide, and then Vasquez is just as quick to do the same. The fight goes on for several more minutes, though it could be hours- it’s hard to tell, really, being in the middle of it and all- and exhaustion begins to settle in alongside the alcohol making him sluggish.

They end up in the dirt again, somehow, the both of them sprawled on their backs, and Vasquez lazily swats at the man next to him. ]

Had enough, guero?

[ With how sluggish the movement is, Faraday easily bats away that last swipe Vasquez sends his way – though his own block is easily just as slow, just as half-hearted. ]

Not on your life.

[ He’s out of breath and aching, and come morning, he and Vasquez will surely be faced with the embarrassing task of explaining away the bruises blossoming across their jaws and knuckles. And it’s going to be a trial, setting up the barriers and fixing up the buildings for war with sore muscles and twinging sides, but—

He grins, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. He snorts briefly as he glances over at Vasquez sprawled in the dirt beside him, his profile traced by the light of the moon. Then Faraday throws back his head and laughs.

The fight was dirty and clumsy, surely, but it was good. An outlet for the tension coiling through him after watching the bumbling farmers of Rose Creek struggle their way through loading and firing a gun – and managing to only hit empty air. And each passing hour with little improvement left Faraday with the sensation of a noose tightening around his neck. Seven days would never be enough, he was starting to realize, but how the hell could he leave?

His laughter eventually dies down to a few snickers, his arm thrown across his eyes. ]

Shit. [ He says it around that same, wide smile, and amusement dances in his voice. ] Sam’s gonna give us hell.

[ Vasquez is already dreading the next day’s work, sore and stiff as he’s going to be. There’s too much to be done in too short a time, and for days now they’ve been working from sunup to sundown. In spite of that, however, he feels a little lighter. A little less like dark clouds are looming over the horizon.

So when Faraday laughs, it’s catching. A grin splits his face- a real one, this time, wide and toothy and amused- and laughter bubbles up before he can think to stop it. He may not laugh as long or as hard as Faraday, but it’s there. ]

Oh, yes. Probably we’ll get stuck with all the shit jobs tomorrow.

We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t tan our hides, first.

[ He lets his arm flop to his side, staring up at the night sky for a few breaths. Slowly, he props himself up on an elbow, sucking in a breath between his teeth and wincing, before he glances over at Vasquez.

Brightly, ]

I’m gonna tell him it’s your fault.

[ Vasquez lets out a derisive snort through his nose, lifting his head slightly to look at the other man. ]

He’ll probably think you had it coming.

Now, I resent that. [ He shoves himself up to sit properly, taking a second to test his jaw. (He’ll never admit it aloud, but Vasquez had one hell of a right hook.) ]

I was merely defending myself, seeing as how you started it.

[ Slowly- slower than he’d like- he hauls himself up to a sit. His body protests the movement immediately, but he keeps it to himself aside from a soft grunt. He casts around for his hat, finds it lying in the dirt some ways away. He can’t quite muster the will to stand just yet and instead drapes his arms over his knees. ]

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

[ Faraday’s belongings aren’t too far off from Vasquez’s, but the fight has taken them far enough that his things might as well be miles away. If Bogue’s men cropped up right now, galloping in on horseback and rifles clapping like thunder, Faraday doubts neither he nor Vasquez would feel up to darting for their gun belts.

(A part of him wonders, When’s the last time I left my guns so far out of reach?

But he doesn’t think too long on it.)

For now, it’s enough that his guns are within sight, metal glinting under the moon, and he rubs at the back of his neck, trying to ease out a bit of soreness there. ]

Maybe if you spoke in English more, you’d understand it better.

[ Sourly, but not with any conviction. ]

Lemme say it again, then: I blame you.

[ He scoffs and bites out something in his native tongue, nothing kind to be sure (he has some very clear suggestions about the sexual habits of Faraday’s mother, in fact). Mostly he’s just trying to get a rise out of Faraday, as if he hasn’t spent the whole night trying to do that anyway. ]

--And: you had it coming.

[ His eyes narrow at Vasquez, mouth twisting in annoyance – which, admittedly, is an improvement, considering Faraday would have met an insult like that when they had first met with a renewal of their fist fight. ]

Now, hold on. The hell was that? [ Sharp and frustrated. ] What’d you just say to me?

Maybe if you spoke Español more, you’d understand it.

[ He just grins, sharp and amused. At long last, he finds the will to get to his feet, though it’s a slow process. Vasquez does not envy the state he’ll be in tomorrow, to be sure.

He catches sight of his guns, not too far from Faraday’s own. He should probably go get them- he feels almost naked without the reassuring weight of his weapons at his hip- but, well. Faraday may get on his nerves, but at the end of the day, they are meant to be allies in this.

Vasquez offers the other man a hand up without comment. ]

Wouldn't have to, if you just told me what the hell you said.

[ Easy as that.

When Vasquez grins like that, Faraday grunts in an annoyance, kicking a bit of dirt in his direction – not with any real conviction, though, considering he only manages to displace a tiny shower of dust.

He expects Vasquez to leave him on his own, once the outlaw is standing, and Faraday runs his fingers tentatively along his cheek and jaw, carefully prodding his skin to check for bruises. Vasquez surprises him yet again, though, and Faraday blinks up at him, at the offered hand, eyebrows lifted slightly. He can't quite help the brief narrowing of his eyes before he takes the proffered hand and stiffly hauls himself to his feet.

Once he's standing, he steps back, brushing dirt from his clothing. Vasquez offered wordlessly, so Faraday thanks him wordlessly – gives only a curt little nod in place of gratitude. ]

[ Faraday is going to learn very quickly that Vasquez is not in the habit of explaining jack shit. He's not going to give up his ability to talk shit right to people's faces so easily.

Stiffly, he makes his way to his fallen effects. He scoops up his guns first, shaking the dust fro the holsters before slipping the belt back on. ]

I suppose we should turn in for the night. Face our lashing tomorrow like men.

[ He follows soon after, claiming his belt first and slinging it low around his hips. Only once his guns are settled does he scoop up his hat, tapping it lightly against his thigh to clear off the dust from the brim. ]

'Least I can be secure in the knowledge that I won.

[ He snorts. ] Mentiroso. You were lying in the dirt, same as me.

[ He scoops up his hat, waving the dirt off before placing it back on his head. ]

[ He sneers again, plunking his hat back atop his head. ]

Would you quit that, already? What's that mean, menty-row-so?

Why? I don't ask you to stop speaking English, do I?

[ Yeah, sorry Faraday. He's still not explaining anything. ]

And your accent is atrocious.

[ He scoffs, leveling an unimpressed look Vasquez's way as he brushes dirt form his arms. ]

Difference being that we both know what I'm saying. Hardly sporting, babbling on like you do when we both aren't in on it.

[ He tilts his head a little, something in his smile sharpening. ]

Do I strike you as a good sport, guero? Because I assure you that I am not.

[ Another flat look, and Faraday rubs at his jaw. He scoffs again, brushing past Vasquez to head to the boarding house. ]

I remember. See if I ever take it easy on you again, chivato.

I would hope that you don't.

[ The last thing he wants is Faraday to go easy on him. Whatever scraps or disagreements they have, aggravating as they are, he would rather win them fairly. Or as fairly as either of them ever do anything. He steps aside to let Faraday pass, giving the other man his distance before heading off to his borrowed room.

Oh, he's going to regret this in the morning, but right now? He can't say he does. ]

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the whole world sitting on a ticking bomb;

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