bakerstreet | ( quote prompt )

[ The first night in the little cabin is rough, with the wind howling and the thunder shaking the walls, with the rain dripping into room, trickling through some unseen crack. Even with the fireplace crackling, coldness still clung to Faraday's bones. Faraday spends the majority of that night terribly awake, despite his exhaustion, thanks to the way his body complains, the way the mostly-healed wounds see fit to remind him that they're still there, all but forgotten.

At least Vasquez manages to sleep, snoring away on the floor. Faraday envies his capacity to pass out whenever he damn well pleases.

Faraday spends the next few days in bed, feeling only slightly better than shit warmed over, thanks to a low-grade fever. Every inch of his body is sore, muscles tense and knotted. And during that time, Vasquez finds the cracks in the wall and the roof, patches them up. Makes various and sundry little repairs to the cabin. Gathers up firewood – made easier by the storm from the other night, which had indiscriminately felled trees and branches.

It reminds him far too much of those days in Rose Creek, still grimacing over his old wounds, watching the survivors of the battle wandering to and fro in the streets from his room at the boarding house.

(Understandably, this all does very little for Faraday's opinion of himself as dead weight.)

Faraday still doesn't seen the sense in this, the two of them staying together. Doesn't understand why the hell Vasquez hadn't simply left Rose Creek the moment the last shot rang out over the town. Doesn't understand why he had waited, loafing around while Faraday healed. Doesn't understand why the hell Vasquez goes about as he does, doing all this work while Faraday simply watches.

You have never held me back. I move forward because of you.

I asked for you to come along, and leaving you behind has never been an option.

He runs those moments in his head over and over and over until the individual words lose meaning, until it's as incomprehensible to Faraday as whenever Vasquez decides to slip into Spanish.

(Guero. Guerito.

Cariño.)

The longer he analyzes that conversation, the less sense it all makes, until eventually his head aches from the way he grinds his teeth in frustration, until he actually wants to wallop Vasquez across the face, grab him by the collar, and demand he start talking straight.

But there's a small part of him warmed by it, all the same, confusing as it all is. A part of him that twists itself up whenever Vasquez sits beside him on the edge of the bed, warming himself by the fire. Something that makes his skin flush or his tongue tie into knots whenever Vasquez smiles or laughs in that certain way. There's something different between them, but Faraday hardly knows what it is.

(If his head were on straight, he'd remember having felt this way once before, lingering in some shitty town to while away a few nights in a rowdy saloon. A woman with dark curls, filled with sass, unafraid to speak her mind.

Ethel's smile was the most wonderful smile Faraday had ever seen.

Or it had been, until about five or six months ago.)

It's a full week before Faraday feels well enough to lend a hand, doing chores that remind him of his younger days, before he started learning that stacking the deck in a card game was a far sight easier and more profitable than legitimate work. Almost two weeks out from that stormy night, the worst of the cabin's ailments are repaired or patched up, and the idea of staying there for the winter is a little less daunting.

The temperatures drop abruptly, one night, and even with the fire blazing in the hearth, a chill pervades the room. And if Faraday can feel it – straight down to his bones, his muscles aching with it – then Vasquez must be feeling it even more, lying on the floor as he is. It's only then that Faraday realizes he doesn't hear the quiet drone of Vasquez's snoring. A pang of guilt rings through him, and Faraday hisses in a breath as he props himself up on his elbow, the movement pulling at the old wound at his side. ]

Vasquez.

[ Voice pitched low, just in case he has managed to fall asleep. ]

You alright?

[ If Vasquez stops to think about it, as he often does, he can’t quite figure out just when Joshua Faraday became someone that he couldn’t stand to lose. It wasn’t their first meeting, certainly. The asshole was drunk and mocking, and he got Vasquez’s hackles up immediately. In that moment, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch the grin right off of Faraday’s face or shoot him for a chance at blessed silence.

Neither came to pass, thanks to Sam’s hand on his arm, guiding him away.

But sometime after that, Faraday went from an annoyance to an annoyance that Vasquez actually kind of enjoyed having around to someone he trusted, and perhaps someone he needed. Maybe it was the moment they stood back-to-back in the streets of Rose Creek, or maybe it was their drunken brawl late one night, or perhaps each little moment came together to make one wonderful, confusing whole.

What he did know now was that having Faraday around made even a life on the run a life worth living, and he was determined not to let the gambler go so easily.

Their little cabin is much less worse for the wear than it was when they found it. Vasquez was a creature of the sun and the heat, but he’d venture out without complaint into the chill of early winter and to gather wood and make repairs or bring in dinner.

(He was no Red Harvest or Jack Horne by any stretch of the imagination, but his father had taught him how to make snares a long, long time ago, to keep the wild rabbits out of their fields, and to his surprise he could still manage it. There was also, much to his pleasant surprise, a small plot of potatoes and carrots out back of the cabin. A little worse for wear but ultimately growing fine in spite of the weather.)

He makes it a point to go about things quietly, with Faraday sick in bed, no doubt feeling more like dead weight than he had in days prior. He perched on the edge of the bed and offered the usual conversation, punctuated now and then by a fond little smile when he thought the other man wasn’t looking.

Right now, though, it’s cold. Damn cold, and for all Vasquez is concerned the floor may as well be a slab of ice. The cold seeps under his blankets, steals the feeling from his fingers and toes, and settles in his bones with a dull ache as he tries in vain to let sleep claim him.

Apparently he’s not the only one, because Faraday’s voice sounds, quiet, somewhere above him from the bed. There’s a moment of silence before the quiet, gruff reply comes, ]

Cold. How are you holding up?

Better than you, probably.

[ His voice remains soft, in return; the night feels oppressive, somehow, and Faraday is reluctant to spoil the quiet.

The fire still burns in the hearth, crackling softly, trying gamely to push back the chill, but it’s not quite enough, by his judgment. His fingers feel stiff as he shoves himself up to sit properly in the bed. He catches Vasquez’s form on the floor, edged in yellows and reds from the fire, and even with the mound of blankets over him, he can see the way Vasquez curls up. That pang of guilt rings in him again, cold and hollow, and Faraday’s hand twists on the furs and blankets on his bed, gaze drifting to the fire.

He licks his lips before huffing out a breath, dragging up the words: ]

The racket of your teeth chatterin’ is gonna keep me up. [ Gruffly, exasperated – or that’s what he’s aiming for, at any rate. He can feel heat rise up his neck when he says, ] Grab your blankets. Get up here.

[ Though he’s little more than a head poking out of a pile of blankets, he manages to look dubious. ]

If I go up there, then where are you going to go?

[ Faraday huffs out a breath, gaze still fixed on the fireplace. He feels wrong-footed, making this suggestion, embarrassment crawling up his throat. And the uncertainty in Vasquez’s expression, in his tone of voice, makes it feel even worse. ]

Nowhere.

[ He drags his eyes over to Vasquez, tries to look annoyed, though he’s not sure how well it comes across by the flickering light of the fire. ]

What kinda saint do you take me for, anyhow? I’m offerin’ to share, not to give it up. ‘S big enough for two, anyway.

[ Oh.

Oh. For a second, he’s not sure he heard that correctly, like maybe the cold had seeped into his brain and is slowly making him go crazy.

But no, he definitely heard that, and for a second Vasquez, who had slipped into this growing realization of fondness with surprising ease, falters a little. He pulls himself together quickly enough, because wouldn’t sitting there gaping be a way to make the wrong impression? ]

All right, guertio. Scoot over.

[ Though the shelter of his blankets had felt meager, it’s nothing compared to how bone-chillingly cold it is once he removes them. He curses sharply, damning whoever even thought winter was a good idea to hell and worse, and hastily gathers up his things before slotting himself onto the mattress next to Faraday. It’s hardly graceful, the way he slides under the blankets next to the gambler, piling his own blankets on top of them, but he’s pretty sure if he stays in the open air any longer he might just freeze to death. ]

[ Even that brief pause is enough to make Faraday grimace, makes him realize how stupid he must’ve sounded.

“Share the bed with me, Vasquez.” Like it wasn’t a strange thing to suggest, considering the type of men the both of them are – largely solitary, unused to company. Good Lord, he feels like an idiot, and his face flushes all the more as refusals and dismissals bubble up his throat. Never mind. Forget it. It was a stupid thing to say, I know. Go back to sleep and let’s pretend this never happened.

But Vasquez is speaking, moving, before Faraday can get the words out, and some of that mortification fades away. He obligingly holds up the edge of the covers as Vasquez scurries over, swearing up a storm. (Faraday snickers at the sight of him, though that’s probably thanks more to the nervousness unwinding in his gut than actually finding anything funny in it.

... Or maybe it’s both. Vasquez does look ridiculous.)

It’s a different story when Vasquez settles in at his side, though, bringing the cold with him beneath the blankets. ]

Land sakes. [ Hissed out as he scowls, flinching away. Faraday immediately regrets extending the invitation. ] You’re ice.

[ The tirade in Spanish continues for another few seconds as he huddles under the covers. ]

It’s ice out there. [ He jerks his head at the room at large, scowling as though it’s to blame for the invention of winter. ]

I’m lucky I didn’t die on the way to the bed.

[ God, well. He’s well and truly awake now, and that brief time in the open air was enough to thoroughly freeze him. He shivers in spite of himself as he curls under the blankets. If there was any lingering awkwardness at sharing a bed with Faraday, it’s long gone in the face of how damn cold he is. ]

[ For a long moment, Faraday is silent, listening as Vasquez hisses and grouses unintelligibly (to Faraday, anyway), though he recognizes a snippet, here and again, watching as Vasquez curls and shivers under the blankets.

Then, Faraday barks with laughter, startling and loud in the near dark. ]

Good Lord, I never imagined you’d take to these kinda histrionics.

[ And just like that, his discomfort from just seconds ago melts away near completely.

Despite his common sense – specifically, the part of him insisting that he ought to stay warm – Faraday shifts closer in the bed, turning on his side to face Vasquez. Even if Faraday knows Vasquez is being terribly melodramatic about it all, the fact of the matter is, Faraday’s been taking the bed when he hardly deserves it, considering Vasquez has been doing most of the heavy lifting around here, fixing the place up. Trapping their meals, gathering up the firewood.

Faraday tries to fight down the cold wash of guilt that floods him. ]

Quit your bellyachin’ and gimme your hands.

[ Faraday's sudden bark of laughter startles him into silence, only broken to grumble, ]

I hate the cold.

[ Like a petulant child. Any further complaints he has fall by the wayside when he feels Faraday shift next to him, and turns to find the other man scooting close, a look of good humor on his face. Vasquez's brain stalls for a second, and he just sort of offers his hands over without thinking.

This night has just been far too miserable for him to handle this with any sort of grace. ]

If you think this is bad, you're in for one hell of a rude awakening, muchacho.

[ Faraday takes Vasquez's hands, chafing them between his palms – considering the cold, Faraday is only marginally more warm than Vasquez seems to be. It's not much, all things considered, but it's something, aside from lying beneath the blankets and waiting it out.

Faraday's always been an impatient son of a bitch, anyway. ]

I keep tellin' you, it's only gonna get worse.

[ Well, it does help, if only because it makes him go warm from the inside out. He watches their hands for a long moment before offering up a small shrug. ]

I guess I'll be sleeping up here more often, then.

[ Vasquez doesn't protest, doesn't tell him to stop, so Faraday stays the course, rubbing feeling back into Vasquez's hands. He's quiet for a second, then, ]

Fine by me. You really oughta be takin' the bed, anyway.

[ His eyes finally flick up to Faraday's face, and he frowns slightly.

Slowly, ]

I'm not kicking you out.

[ Faraday quirks an eyebrow, his hands stilling against Vasquez's. ]

I don't mind the floor, you know. I ain't that delicate.

Hell, I'm probably more tolerant of the cold than you are, seein' as how your instinct is to cuss at it.

Neither of us are fans of the cold, but that's beside the point.

[ He goes quiet, then, eyes searching Faraday's face in the low light of the fire. ]

Stay.

[ He can feel Vasquez’s gaze on him, an uncomfortable weight that he doesn’t quite know how to parse. He fidgets a little, distracting himself from the heaviness of it all by pressing his palms against Vasquez’s fingers, coaxing warmth back into them. ]

We havin’ this talk again?

[ With a dry edge of humor, a touch of exasperation, neither of which he genuinely feels. The request – demand? – reminds him of that first night after the storm. Just a couple weeks ago, now, when it feels like ages have passed. ]

Already said “maybe,” didn’t I?

I meant the bed.

[ Only partially. He was assuming they would have this conversation again at some point, just not so soon. However, if Faraday wants to reopen that door, he’ll gladly step through. ]

Still sticking by your “maybe”, eh?

Maybe.

[ In answer to Vasquez’s question. This time the dryness of it is a little more genuine, because Faraday is nothing if not a little shit.

He smooths his hands down Vasquez’s forearms, grimacing at the chill clinging to Vasquez’s skin.

He’s quiet for a few breaths, eyes still fixed on anything but Vasquez’s face. In the dark, the admission comes a little easier. ]

Still not sure that this partnership of ours is workin’ in your favor.

[ He snorts a little at the remark, unamused.

And perhaps it is the darkness, or the cold, or the feel of Faraday’s hands running the length of his arms, but somehow talking seems easier. ]

I know you think you’re a burden, but you’re not. You never have been.

I can’t imagine being alone again after this.

[ Faraday still can’t bring himself to look Vasquez in the eye, and he pretends to be focused on this, running his hands along Vasquez’s arms to warm him.

Sentimental bastard, he thinks again, but still without any resentment, even if annoyance kicks up in his stomach – his usual response when things stop making sense. ]

Anyone could keep you company, you know. [ Faraday tries to veer the conversation away from this strange turn, tries to move it back to their usual teasing and needling so he doesn’t have to think too long or hard about everything Vasquez is saying. ] Find some painted lady. Maybe some stupid bastard who might be able to stand some of your bullshit.

Hell, get a dog.

[ Even in the darkness, he can see the way Faraday averts his gaze, close as they are. He huffs a sigh through his nose and shifts closer, close enough that their foreheads nearly touch.

They’ve been dancing on the edge of this for a while, he feels. Faraday is a stubborn bastard, and he seems to be so set on his notion that this will all end in disaster that he refuses to listen to anything else. Perhaps it was high time he was made to listen. ]

No, cariño. It has to be you.

[ Faraday goes as Vasquez draws in close, just stopping himself from jerking back. Flinches, though, just the smallest twitch of surprise, before he freezes in place for more reasons than the cold.

He’s not sure if he likes the way something twists in his chest at those words, not sure if he likes that it only seems to be Vasquez who’s ever caused that particular sensation. He’s not sure yet if it’s dangerous, this thing between them, whatever the hell that is. He doesn’t know why Vasquez’s gaze on him makes him squirm like it does, doesn’t know why it makes heat rush up his neck, coloring his ears and cheeks.

Faraday doesn’t know much of anything, it seems.

What he does know is that the weight of this strange thing, of something like expectation, is unsettling and unfamiliar. Like someone piling bags of sand on his shoulders and expecting him to dance. What he does know is that the peculiar coil in his chest is warm, almost comforting, for as much as he fails to understand it. What he does know is that no one’s ever asked him to stay before – at least, not like this.

Not on account of him being him.

For whatever goddamn reason Vasquez has for that. ]

Quit it.

[ And he winces at himself, embarrassed by how rough his voice is, how small his voice sounds.

Goddamn Vasquez. God damn him, straight to hell. ]

Callin’ me things I don’t understand. You’re pissin’ me off.

[ That Faraday doesn’t outright pull away is a good sign, he thinks. The edge is looming, closer and closer, and he’d be damned if he backs away now.

He knows the kind of life that he leads, that they both lead, and Rose Creek was a testament to close calls and near-impossible escapes from death. Now, after all this time, knowing how he feels, can he afford to just let it go? To leave Faraday with his “maybe” and the notion that he needs to leave?

Certainly not.

He shifts his hands, letting them rest on Faraday’s arms. ]

Do you want to know what it means?

( quote prompt )

bothers u forever

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