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the i n s o m n i a meme

It happens to everyone - sometimes, you have nights where you just can't fall asleep, no matter what you do. It could be for a number of reasons, or no reason at all. And this is what's happened now: you've been laying in bed for what feels like hours, just tossing and turning, and nothing seems to help. So what's left to do? Get out of bed and go wake someone else up, of course. If you're not getting any sleep, then why should they?

i n s t r u c t i o n s

• Post with your character (note the name and fandom in the subject).
• Other people reply to you by generating a number from 1 to 10.
• Have fun!

o p t i o n s

01 • FEAR. Maybe you're hearing strange, indeterminable noises; maybe there's a severe storm happening outside; maybe you watched a scary movie before bed? Whatever the reason, you're terrified and it's keeping you awake. You just want to wake someone else up so they can protect you from the monster in your closet.
02 • HUNGER. Your stomach is growling and it just won't stop. Or perhaps your throat is so dry you could cough up a tumbleweed? Well, you've gone to the kitchen to remedy this and hey, that was a pan that just dropped on the floor. It was loud enough to wake the dead! Oops.
03 • PAIN. Your body is completely worn out, be it from exercise, battle, sickness, or what have you. Either way you're in enough pain to keep you from sleeping, so maybe someone else has a home remedy or something, or can at least help you take your mind off of it.
04 • SOLITUDE. For some reason, your bed just feels so empty at the moment. You're feeling terribly lonely and really just want someone to keep you company for a while. Maybe it'd be easier to fall asleep if you're with them...
05 • DISCOMFORT. Your room is an oven. Either that or a freezer. Or maybe this bed is just really uncomfortable? Who knows why you can't get to sleep, it feels like it could be anything. Why even bother trying? Maybe someone else can preoccupy you until you feel tired enough to ignore your discomfort.
06 • PENSIVE. Something's on your mind, and no matter how hard you try to focus elsewhere, it's just not going to work. Your body may be tired, but your mind is incredibly busy and it's virtually impossible to get to sleep. Surely, talking it out with someone else will help?
07 • SADNESS. Something terrible has happened that day, perhaps; or you could just be severely depressed. Either way you're trying your hardest not to cry yourself to sleep, and it's not working at all. Better find a way to get it out of your system somehow; you need a shoulder to cry on.
08 • ANGER. You are just... fuming. Who knows why - that annoying dog is barking again, or maybe the people next door are getting busy and keeping you awake. Whatever the reason for your ire is, you'd better put an end to it so you can get some damn rest already! Go wake up a friend so you can complain to them.
09 • RESTLESS. You're far too energetic to sleep right now. Maybe you're just trying to do so out of necessity - you have to be up early tomorrow! But you just don't think you'll be able to fall asleep for a while now, so why waste the time trying to sleep when you could be doing something else? Namely bothering someone else - you're totally jealous because they're getting more sleep than you.
10 • WILDCARD. Choose one of the options above, or make up your own scenario.

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[ Months pass under the well-meaning care of the denizens of Rose Creek, and Faraday recovers alongside the hobbling town. The church gets repaired; burnt-out, bullet-ridden wood replaced with fresh planks. Scorched walls covered with pristine white paint. One would hardly know it was ever the center of a war zone, were it not for the inordinate number of crosses standing silent vigil in its graveyard. Buildings are torn down, replaced with fresh storefronts. The blood washes away from the town's streets, from the grass in its fields, and the scent of rotten meat isn't quite so pungent anymore.

When Faraday's strength returns, so, too, does that wild spirit of his. He sneaks out from his prison more, only this time he has the resilience and the stamina to do it. Doesn't always need Vasquez's help, but if the man happens to catch him out and tags along, Faraday complains loudly and often without turning him away. (He finds he likes the company, even if it is the company of a smart-mouthed Mexican.) He laughs more, drinks more, challenges men to games of cards and dice. Even with his right arm still weak and sore, he makes the cards dance, spirits a face card away into his sleeve – a suicide king or a one-eyed Jack, because he has a morbid sense of humor – and the townsfolk remind themselves why they should never play a round of poker with Josh Faraday.

Faraday builds up his strength, builds up his speed, builds everything up again. He's not where he was before the fight – probably won't be for some time yet – but he's getting far closer than he has any right to, considering the state they had found him in. He should be up on the hill, buried six feet under with a small white cross bearing his name. Instead, he's here, shooting out tin cans from fence posts with his recently repaired revolvers to build up the speed and dexterity of his right arm.

When Faraday can draw, fire, and hit his target at fifty paces in the time it takes to draw a breath, the spell shatters.

As all things must, the alliance of Chisolm's ragtag crew comes to a slow end. Red Harvest rides away first, tired of the lives and strange customs of white men. He offers each of them a stilted goodbye before he leaves, solemn to the last, with some cryptic directions on how to find him, should his services ever be needed. (Faraday just nods dumbly. Says, "Been a unique pleasure, compadre," and lets the man be on his way.)

Chisolm leaves after that, having his own life to return to. He sets the town up with a sheriff at long last, shows him the ropes and shows him how to use that new backbone of his. (Those that survived the battle came out with steel-plated spines, Faraday thinks. They must have, from the way they all stood taller and prouder.) Chisolm offers Faraday that half-smile of his before he goes, though darkness still lurks in his eyes. Finally, he passes over Jack's reins, once and for all, and tells Faraday to stay out of trouble.

("Why, Sam," Faraday replies, a hand pressed to his chest in mock indignation. "When have I ever conducted myself in a manner not befitting of a gentleman?"

Sam snorts, shaking his head and giving him a fond pat on the shoulder.)

And Vasquez—

Doesn't leave.

Not until Faraday does, at any rate. Or at least, they happen to pack their saddlebags on the same day. Happen to say their goodbyes to the good people of Rose Creek. Happen to visit a recovering Emma Cullen, whose expression is caught between shedding tears and open relief, glad to at last be rid of these troublemakers. (She eventually gives them both grim stares, tells them both to be careful, which is far more than Faraday ever expected to receive.) They happen to ride out just shy of dawn the next morning.

They happen to travel in the same direction.

And so it goes for the next few days. They happen to set up camp together. Happen to wake together. And if one happens to tire earlier than the other, they call an end to riding. If one happens to wake earlier than the other, they wait. Not quite a partnership, but not quite a coincidence, either. Faraday isn't even quite sure he has a label for it, himself, but if he were honest, he'd admit he's glad for whatever this arrangement is. The idea of riding out of Rose Creek alone hadn't sat well with him.

Well, he wouldn't have been entirely alone. His injuries still linger with him, though they make poor conversational partners. Aches and pains that rise and ebb like a tide. Evidently the freshly healed wound in his left leg decides it just can't wait until morning, and pain jolts him awake in the middle of the night, with the stars and the moon high and full overhead. The old injury screams, apparently sore with him for the long day of riding. Faraday hisses in a quiet breath as he curls up around it, hands going to kneed out the knotted muscles. ]

_{[Vasquez had had ideas about how he'd leave this town.

Picked up and carried into a grave had been first and foremost on his mind. Seven against hundreds? You do the math. But when that hadn't happened and he'd realized he actually had a chance of surviving this insanity, in the heat of the moment he'd pictured riding out with his life and new found money in a thunder of hooves, his departure quick and unapologetic like the way he lived most of his life. There and gone again, no long goodbyes, no glances backward.

As it turns out, he's wrong on both counts.

Before Rose Creek, he hadn't really understood the appeal of homesteads. He'd grown up poor in an even poorer village, surrounded by women whose only contact with their husbands was the scant little money they sent back from back-breaking, low-pay jobs, wives and children left at the mercy of racketeering thugs charging for their protection. "Protection" being the same indignities, merely offered up by different men. The slow march into poverty and death had been unbearable. He'd left as soon as he could. Town life was either pitiable or predictable--he wasn't interested, whatever the case.

With that in mind, despite the reasons as he has to linger in Rose Creek--like the strong and resilient admiration for the three men left, forged by the fire and tempered by its ashes--he'd still expected to wait out Faraday's convalescence like a prison sentence.

It comes as a surprise to no one more than himself that he almost likes serving time in a prison of quiet, pedestrian life. People ebb and flow from home, to work, to home again, and he flows around him, tugged along his own current. It's a nice change from the long months he'd spent on the run before Chisolm had found him and his fly-infested bunkmate.

And while Vasquez enjoys the reprieve, Faraday gets a little stronger every day. There are times when he heads out for a week or so to care of business (he'd be a poor bandit if he didn't have a means of stashing his winnings) and get the latest news, venturing out of Rose Creek's valley like an animal poking its nose out of its den, and every time he returns Faraday's movements are sharper, his moods lighter. Vasquez is glad to see the dark cloud over the man's head go, and he even humors the other with a couple games of poker, though he's seen Faraday handle cards and should really know better. (He loses money each game, unsurprisingly.)

Soon, it's time. They all feel it. The seasons are changing, and Faraday's almost as good as new, if a little tarnished around the edges.

Job done.

Vasquez makes his goodbyes the best way he can--by sitting everyone down around a table on the eve of their departure to smoke, and drink, and bullshit without using the word 'goodbye'. He and Red Harvest share a look and a nod. Already being neck-deep in trouble most days, instead of telling him to stay out of it, all Chisolm says when they shake hands and part is to stay sharp.

Now that's a promise he can keep. Any more than that would be asking too much of a wanted man, and they both know it.

Then it's just him and Faraday. On the matter of keeping promises, he'd said he'd stick around until Faraday could ride again, and so he has. He's a man of his word, when he chooses to give it. Laughingly, he announces he has no particular destination in mind--if he just so happens to head in the same direction as this blond bastard, then it's all the same, isn't it? They drift out with a slap on the back for Teddy and a half-nod, half-shrug for the widow (after all, careful is a thing for homesteads, not the open road, and they both know that, too).

But he glances backward all the same. That town, those people... it could've been worse.

Travelling is a quieter affair than he remembers it. Chisolm and Red Harvest hadn't exactly been chatty characters at any point of their acquaintance, but without them, and Goody, and Billy, and Horne, and the hustle and bustle of Rose Creek, days and nights seem more hushed, more stagnant. But there's still one voice to latch onto--a card player with a quick answer for everything. Quite possibly the last person he'd have been imagined riding out of Rose Creek with back when Faraday had first slid off his saddle back at the way point outside of Junction City, reeking of whiskey and belligerence.

Amazing how things change. Back then, he might've slept straight through Faraday's shifting around, but he's more attuned to the other man now, a product of close company. The whisper of cloth and the clatter of disturbed pebbles under Faraday's boot stirs him out of slumber, though he's not immediately sure what had roused him. He tips his hat off his eyes and squints, looking around uncertainly until his eyes land on Faraday.]}

What?

_{[That was supposed to be what is it? but he's still half-asleep and the words get lost.]}

[ Vasquez’s voice in the darkness startles him, hands twitching against his leg for the gun belt lying next to his head, beside the saddle he was currently using as a pillow. He remembers himself, though, remembers the company he’s currently (reluctantly?) keeping, and instead of groping for his revolvers in the dark, he lifts his head to peer over at Vasquez’s bedroll, Vasquez’s form vaguely illuminated by the light of the moon.

Faraday always feels equal parts relief and surprise whenever he finds Vasquez still bumming around come morning. It’s been a long, long while since Faraday traveled with anyone longer than a handful nights, and even longer since he’s traveled with anyone for any reason beyond convenience. One of these days they shall surely part ways, but in the meantime, the Mexican isn’t too terrible as a riding companion.

(Most days, that is.)

Faraday quickly returns his attentions to the knotted mess of his thigh. ]

‘S nothing.

[ Except even Faraday can hear the strain in his own voice, knows the dismissal certainly won’t stand as an acceptable answer for the sin of waking a man in the dead of night, and he silently curses himself. A few tense seconds, and he elaborates: ]

Bum leg.

[ He sucks in a breath between his teeth as he digs the heels of his palms into the protesting muscle. ]

Go back to sleep.

_{[Well, he's not going back to sleep now. He could--Vasquez could probably fall sleep standing up in the middle of a barn dance during a hail storm if he absolutely had to--but he's not going to.

Rubbing grit from his eyes, he deliberately sits a little higher against the saddle he's using for a pillow and pushes his hat all the way up.]}

Still?

_{[Rest is precious, it's true; he knows this better than most, accustomed to sleeping with one eye open and on high alert. The smartest men and the men most desperate for a reward understand that the best time to ambush someone is when their guard is down.

But that had been then, before Rose Creek when he'd only had a single set of eyes--his own--to watch his back. Now he has two. And that street runs both ways. Just as Faraday has made allowances for riding with someone whose wanted posters could down a heap of trouble on their heads, Vasquez makes allowances for riding with an injured man.

Not just any injured man, either--this is Faraday. The prospect of falling back asleep while Faraday stifles his movements out of courtesy to him doesn't sit quite right.]}

How long's that been going on?

Not long. On 'n' off.

[ Pain, apparently, makes an honest man of him. Too much effort to come up with a plausible lie; too much on top of that to make it sound believable. He carefully stretches out his leg, the muscle protesting the movement at every inch, and he grits his teeth with the effort.

With a wave of his hand, he gestures to where the horses are tied. Jack, feral beast that he is, stands alert, snorting and huffing, tail lashing sharply from side to side. ]

Ain't used to ridin' yet. That's all.

[ Faraday tilts his head back against his saddle, casting Vasquez a strained smile. His teeth flash in the dim moonlight. ]

Why? You worried about me? [ Tight as his voice is, he still asks it as if that's the most adorable thing in the world. ]

_{[He's not sure what time it is as he gets his bearings. Late enough that the temperature has taken a dip, and the surrounding night is the color of a blue-black bruise, enveloping them in the sounds of night life. He'd been asleep a couple of hours at least, he'd estimate. Has Faraday even laid down yet?]}

We could have stopped earlier.

_{[It's not as though they're in a hurry to charge into the next town and liberate it from a gold baron, after all. But going easy on Faraday's body would have required Faraday to say something about it, and Vasquez strongly suspects--if not knows--that wouldn't happen unless Faraday was at the point of falling off his saddle (and probably not even then).

His suggestion ends up playing right into Faraday's tease and causes him to cut his gaze to the other man in the dark, belligerently silent for a second. He's not a worried nursemaid. (Not really.)]}

I don't need to worry. You're indestructible. If the battle didn't kill you and an infection didn't get you, a leg cramp won't do you in.

_{[Faraday can take it as a compliment--he's harder to kill than a cockroach.]}

[ His grin spreads across his face, unseen in the dark. It’s clear enough in his voice, though: ]

Aww. You big softy.

[ Evidently, Faraday failed to hear Vasquez’s dismissal.

The shift of dirt and rocks signals movement, muffled though it is by the blanket beneath him, as Faraday slowly sits up, back pressed against his saddle. He drags his knee back up to flex the muscle of his thigh, hissing at the awkward pull. ]

Cramp won’t kill me, as you say. [ Ah. So he did hear what Vasquez said. Not deaf, then – the explosion that nearly tore him apart didn’t take his ears, but neither did it do anything about that infuriating selective hearing of his.

There’s a thread of good humor in his voice as he continues, ]

So you don’t gotta tut over me like some squirrelly mama over her newborn.

_{[Vasquez mutters something low and incomprehensible in Spanish. A little grumbling is the expected response to Faraday being Faraday, the same way the sky is blue and the grass is green.

It's perfunctory at best, though, the aggravation behind it a token effort. He doesn't mind Faraday's ribbing as much as a respectable hardass should, especially now that the worst of Faraday's dark, depressive episodes during his bedridden days have seemingly passed. He's seen Faraday low; he prefers him at his most comfortable, free and easy and--

Well, if that happens to mean Faraday's an irreverent, loose-lipped pain in the ass, so be it. Although it's much simpler to grumble in Spanish than 'fess up to that. (But Vasquez is still here, so he figures that says just as much as words could, if not more.)]}

I have to deal with this when I'm awake and now when I'm asleep... _{[Spoken to himself and not Faraday, but it's clear it's for effect. Then, with undue cheer, he picks up Faraday's trail of thought:]} You are like a child sometimes. It's half true.

_{[Maybe Faraday's onto something with that analogy.]}

[ Faraday glowers at the general space Vasquez currently occupies, as he always does when Vasquez grumbles away in his mother tongue. By now, he’s stopped giving Vasquez the satisfaction of asking what the hell he just said, considering Vasquez always responded in ways that were willfully unhelpful.

(Or in ways that were far too truthful, like that day in the boarding house. Faraday avoids both sides of that particular coin in equal measure.)

When he switches to English, Faraday’s not entirely certain if that’s better, considering the insult Vasquez brightly flings at him. “Childish” is not the worst thing anyone’s ever called him, but Faraday makes a scoffing noise all the same, affronted. ]

I am not.

[ Faraday says, childishly, as he childishly picks up a nearby pebble and chucks it, childishly, in the direction of Vasquez’s voice.

With the cramp in his leg down to a dull throb, he slouches down again, both legs stretched out. He exhales out a slow breath, relieved, as his head falls back against the saddle. ]

I liked it better when you were sleepin’. ‘Least then you were quiet.

_{[Is he--? He is. He's throwing shit. The pebble ricochets off a stone with a clack and disappears somewhere near his leg; Vasquez lifts his hat higher to see what he's suddenly being ambushed with.

Someone needs to go back in time twenty years and teach this guero some manners. Whomever failed to teach Faraday is probably the same person who failed to teach Vasquez, too.]}

Are. And your aim is piss poor. Sure it's your leg that's the problem and not your arm?

_{[Two can play at that game--and he's awake enough now to play it. Now that he is, he might as well make the most of it and heed nature's call while he's at it.

Chuckling at his own joke, Vasquez clambers up, stretching sleep-stiff limbs with a soft groan.]}

Well, I'm up now and I have to hit the head. Try not to hurt yourself more while I'm gone.

Only problem I've got right now is you.

[ Faraday's grumbling is punctuated with another half-hearted toss of a pebble, though it skitters along on the ground, just shy of Vasquez's boots as he stands. The warning is met with another scoffing noise, and while Faraday can't quite see it, he's reasonably sure Vasquez is wearing that damnably smug smile of his.

He silently reasons through the pros and cons of finding a larger rock to chuck at Vasquez's head.

Too much effort, is what he decides, and the moonlight catches his dismissive wave. His voice is chipper when he calls over, ]

I sincerely and truly hope you get eaten.

[ But after that, Faraday sits up properly, ignoring the quiet protest of his sore body, and builds the fire again. The campfire had burned itself out as they slept, leaving little more than ash and blackened wood in the little circle of stones. Whatever sleep he was hoping to get has been chased off for now; if he's going to be so terribly awake, he might as well have some light to see by.

One match for the small fire, and it slowly eats away at the kindling. One match for the cigar that finds its way to his lips, and smoke escapes from the corners of his mouth, curling up into the black sky. ]

_{[Faraday will have no problems hearing the flippant dismissal of everything Faraday, says, does, and chooses to be in life--it comes in the form of insolent, chest-deep laughter that lingers after he's disappeared into the darkness to take a piss on an outcropping of stone.

That's how he'll go to the great beyond if he has any choice in the matter: laughing like he hasn't a care in the world.

When they part, Faraday should expect the same. It would be just like him to leave someone's company as carefreely as he'd entered it, banding together with a bunch of suicidal gunfighters with a smile and a shrug and a lack of anywhere better to be.

It's routine to check on the horses before he sits down again, taking the long way around the perimeter of their camp to ensure their mounts are still comfortable and cared for. He finds his way back by the light of the newly-stoked fire. There are benefits to a partnership with a drunk Irishman, no matter how drunk the Irishman gets--tasks that would take a single man twice as long get split down the middle and are done in half the time.

Truthfully, while Faraday's been struggling to get sleep, Vasquez has been sleeping better than he ever did before, an outlaw alone.]}

Still got stuff for the pain or do we need to make a stop?

_{[That's not an invitation to accuse him of mothering Faraday, it's just a question.]}

[ Faraday follows Vasquez’s progress by the sound of his boots crunching in the dirt, circling around their little camp. Unnecessary, Faraday thinks most of the time, but that could just be his usual inclination to shirk responsibility rearing its head. There’s a balance to this, whatever the hell this is. Faraday does the easy stuff, the stuff that takes time but requires little more effort than his attention; Vasquez does the necessary stuff, like stalking the edges of their camp or checking their horses.

A small, bitter little voice reminds him how easy it had been before, when there was more of them. Those all too brief days, riding hard toward a town that would likely see their ends.

Faraday scowls to himself, tossing a branch into the fire with more force than strictly necessary. The fire sputters, spitting out a few embers, before it claims the small offering.

He cuts Vasquez a glance as he approaches, and he snorts a derisive sort of laugh at the question. That glitter of amusement in his eyes again, like he has more than a few choice words about Vasquez’s apparent concern, but he keeps them to himself for now. ]

Depends.

[ He says it around the cigar in his mouth and prods at the fire with a stick. With his other hand, he jerks his thumb towards his saddlebags. ]

Whiskey count?

_{[Contradictions are an innate part of Vasquez; he has his own brand, just as Faraday has his, like the brands of their cigarettes, except they don't share these, they simply learn to accommodate them.

For instance, he's not hard to get along with in a room full of men in the daylight, loose and raucous and as brazenly carefree as they come on the surface, but he's always looking over his shoulder for something, stalking around camp like a mountain lion taking the measure of its territory in case of threats.

Odd, then, to think an outlaw on the edge of alertness could be a heavy sleeper, but there it is. That he'd been one of the last to rouse at Red Harvest's approach back in the day hadn't been a fluke; he has the ability to put his head down and be dead to the world a matter of minutes, a talent he's tempted to show off when he returns to Faraday and the circle of firelight. He likes his sleep. He could always go for more of it, like second helpings.

But he doesn't. Maybe that does make him soft, he doesn't know.]}

Do you still feel the whiskey?

_{[A sarcastically amused retort, flicked at Faraday as he lowers himself down beside the fire.

It's a fair question, he thinks; Faraday is the reigning champion at holding his liquor. Hard to imagine the man feels it any more than he'd feel a tall glass of milk, and that's not taking into account the months of his recuperation, being pumped full of narcotics to take the edge off near death.]}

[ As Vasquez makes himself comfortable, Faraday reaches into his saddlebags, searching around for his flask – another small gift from the grateful folks of Rose Creek, who learned early and quickly to never go toe to toe with Faraday when drinking was involved, lest they find themselves dozing the night away beneath the protective legs of a saloon table. ]

Feel it just as well as you'd feel a fist to the face.

[ Shot back, with all the cheer one would use to deliver only the best of news – "Congratulations. It's a boy," or "You're probably gonna live," or "You're in luck: they don't plan on killin' you."

Granted, it takes Faraday a few more shots than most for the liquor to take hold, for the world to fuzz and dip in that uniquely pleasant way, but Vasquez hardly needs to know he was right, after a fashion.

He fishes out his flask, gives it an experimental shake as he pulls the cigar from his mouth. Feels about half full, miraculously, though that means it's in need of topping off, sooner rather than later. Which means going into town. And with Vasquez's ugly mug posted up throughout the state, venturing into civilization may prove to be difficult.

He peers thoughtfully into the middle distance and takes a quick swig, sighing as the liquid burns a line down his throat. Wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his free hand, he offers the flask to Vasquez across the fire. ]

Might as well have a nightcap with me.

I think you just insulted yourself.

_{[A dismissive way of saying whatever helps you sleep at night, guero. On a more literal level, if what actually helps him sleep happens to be a healthy application of whiskey, Vasquez isn't about to stand in his way.

As one of the many vanquished by Faraday's alcohol tolerance in the past, left to snore like a baby in his chair after one too many drinks tipped him into sleep, Vasquez knows full well a nightcap could be akin to a gauntlet thrown to the ground if there were cards between them instead of a fire.

Then again, is it any wonder Faraday's a force to be reckoned with? The man had survived being shot to pieces, blown up, and still manages to draw a gun as quick as a viper's bite.]}

Might as well since I only got a couple hours' relief from you. _{[He'll accept the bottle as payment for his company, thank you kindly. And then decidedly:]} We'll stop. More breaks out of the saddle might loosen you up.

[ Faraday’s mouth twists to one side in distaste. ]

I’ll have you know, my company is a goddamn delight and a privilege.

[ said no one. ever. in the history of man.

But even with Vasquez’s teasing, Faraday still relinquishes the flask. He offered, after all, and considering he prides himself on being an amiable drinking companion, it’d be poor form to snatch it back.

(Apparently Faraday has some sense of honor, as soon as liquor is involved.)

He brings his cigar back to his lips and takes a slow drag, the orange rosette at the tip flaring to life. The smoke lingers in his mouth before his lips part, drifting and spiraling into the darkened sky. Volleying insults at one another over the campfire, listening to the flames crackle in the relative quiet of the night – Faraday finds all of it steadying, calming. Oddly peaceful, even, considering the way the evening started. He taps ash into the dirt as Vasquez continues, gaze flicking up to him.

And the words earn a flat, unimpressed look. ]

You’re doin’ it again. Fussin’.

[ Grumbled in a way that implies this is quite possibly the worst crime Vasquez could ever commit. ]

Pretty sure you cluckin’ at me like a mother hen is gonna do me in a far sight sooner than a leg cramp.

Someone told you that?

_[Ha.]

And you believed them?

_{[Ha ha.]}

Don't make me laugh. I'm saying I'm stopping. You can do what you like.

_{[Magnanimously, Vasquez hands the flask back in good humor once he's taken his reparation in the form of a swig. Wouldn't want to take a soother from the mouth of a fussy babe for long.

Probably should feel sorry for the guero's real madre. That woman must have went through hell. Ignoring the fact that this is the pot calling the kettle black a bit, as Vasquez hadn't been the most easy, mild-mannered child to slap sense into.]}

[ He snatches the flask back with an exaggerated glower. ]

You know, you were sleepin' earlier. You might wanna go 'n' get back to it.

[ Because he's pretty sure Vasquez was a far sight less vexing when he was unconscious. ]

_{[As if he hadn't heard Faraday, Vasquez goes to light a cigarette of his own, realizes halfway through stretching out in front of the fire that his matches are with his bedroll where he'd left them with his hat, and stops.

Fuck. The eternal conflict of someone in a comfortable position: move to get that thing you forgot, or go without.]}

Didn't realize you were so concerned I'm counting all my sheep. Now who's clucking?

_{[He does the next best thing--leaning forward, he plucks a burning twig from the fire and holds the end to his smoke until the flame catches. Tossing the bit of wood back into the fire, he settles on his side again, propped up on an elbow. He puffs on the cigarette a few times until he's satisfied it's properly lit.]}

You used to wake me up like that before. _{[A musing thought, offered absently without any discernible emotion attached to it.]} While you were out of your head in the worst of it we took turns checking you hadn't up and died when no one was looking. Boring work. I fell asleep in the chair.

_{[Is he joking? Maybe. He may definitely be joking.]}

I don't think you knew you were doing it. All that tossing and turning would wake me up.

_{[So, you know, this isn't the first time Faraday's interrupted his beauty sleep if Faraday is at all inclined to feel guilty about that. It could be he's developed a sixth sense for when Faraday's restless. A useful skill under special circumstances, perhaps.]}

[ He makes a derisive noise when Vasquez turns the insult back on him. He's hardly worried, after all, except for his own peace of mind. Traveling had been a whole lot quieter, when it was just him. A lot less annoying, too, when he didn't have riding partners trying their best to find the weaknesses in his armor to constantly prod at them.

Faraday can't still make heads or tails of why either of them have stuck together like this, given how fond the both of them are of throwing their hands up and declaring the other the most aggravating creature to haunt God's green earth. Fond as they are of snapping at each other in their own ways – Vasquez, with his constant teasing and needling; Faraday, with his much more direct approach of baring his teeth like a cornered dog.

At first blush, it should've ended in disaster. But here they are, still together – months after the battle of Rose Creek, days after departing the little one-horse town, and they haven't soured on each other yet. He wonders how much longer this might last, this tenuous partnership of theirs.

(Not long, Faraday thinks. Vasquez is a man on the run. It would take an idiot to not see Faraday's half-healed wounds as a liability, as a weight dragging him down.)

When Vasquez speaks again, Faraday expects more accusations of being some soft-hearted fool, and he preemptively scowls across the fire. But Vasquez surprises him, as he so often does, and Faraday's expression goes slack for a second. He tries his best not to think of those early days after getting fished out of whatever crater they had found him in. It's made all the easier by remembering so very little of it, aside from flashes of agony, like fire racing up his body, beneath his skin. Too much at once, and far more than any man should have to experience, much less survive, and yet there he was. And here he is, despite all the odds against him.

He hadn't heard about the late night vigils. Would have never bothered to ask about them, either, if he heard even an inkling of it. Faraday didn't like the way something twisted in his chest when he thought of the other men waiting on him – hadn't during his recovery, and months later, still doesn't.

Faraday tosses another branch onto the fire – something to do with his hands, mostly. ]

Suppose you're wantin' me to apologize for keepin' you awake all those nights?

_{[Had he been going somewhere with that? Maybe. Maybe not. Under the cover of night when the world has narrowed to the ring of firelight around them, it's easier to hand the reins over to thoughts without necessarily considering where they might lead.

He wouldn't say he's much for philosophy, but the silence of the dead hours has a way of loosening the tongue.]}

Would you?

_{[A grunted laugh. Rhetorical question--he has to see Faraday apologize for anything and mean it, and wouldn't expect him to. He wouldn't be Faraday, wheeling and dealing and womanizing and gambling and all, if he did.]}

Anyway, you need to apologize to anyone for being alive, it's not me. Saved me from checking for a pulse.

_{[Though it's true dead men make quieter bunkmates, for sure.]}

[ He answers the question with a derisive little sort. Just as well that Vasquez doesn't expect a sincere apology, seeing as how Faraday is hardly willing to give it, except with some token word that would've left everyone unsatisfied – Faraday, for having to expend even that much effort, and the man in need of an apology for receiving some hollow offering.

His laugh as Vasquez continues is a little softer, this time, less derisive. Possibly approaching something sincere, but not quite hitting the mark. Faraday pokes at the fire with a stick, directs his attention to the dancing flames. ]

Certainly explains why you look like shit all the time. [ Brightly, conversationally. ] Seems like all that lack of sleep took its toll on you, and then some.

It's no wonder you're always so worried about looks. With your personality being what it is.

_{[This is familiar, this back-and-forth. It's a game for two people to play, and he's happy to take position on his side of the court when Faraday lobs the ball into it. He sends it back, and the sun rises, and the trail creeps on, and the drinks flow, and every day Faraday gets a little stronger.

It's nearing a routine, for two people who don't do anything in a routinized manner, who'd chafe to call it that. It's tentatively something. It's enough for now.]}

You're lucky the shrapnel didn't take your tongue off or you'd have nothing to work with.

_{[Bright smile right back at you, amigo.]}

Edited 2017-01-20 10:06 (UTC)

Vasquez | The Magnificent Seven

03; i am so sorry for this novel

i'm only sorry that there wasn't more to read, tbh

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