#gjklasd

He goes for a drink, afterwards, because his mouth is dry and because he said he would. It’s lucky, really, that his check-in has left him with the same sour irritation a meeting with a soon-to-be-ex wife might. No pretending required.

But one drink turns into four, and a hand of cards, before he slides back into his car and relies on the string of luck that has a couple hundred dollars rolled in his pocket to keep him from getting pulled over. It works.

He’s not paying much attention to Byrne’s report. He knows what happens because he’d sat and heard it all from ‘Ethel’.

     Well. Most of it.

He wrestles to keep his face straight as Byrne smirks his way around the word screaming. He almost fumbles the cigarette he’s bringing to his lips, and brings to bear all his focus on lighting the damn thing. Maybe that way Byrne won’t catch sight of the look darkening his green eyes.

It’s somewhere between a hard, curling jealousy that’s surprised him with the intensity of his heat, and an amused disbelief that Vasquez would put all this effort in -- would pull a woman into the club bathroom and make her scream, just so that someone will tell him. What had he said? I’ll make sure there’s plenty to report back on.

Christ.

“Go home,” he tells Byrne. “I’ll take care of tonight.”

He waits until Byrne is gone, and then he waits sixty seconds more -- agonising, smoking his cigarette like he’s got a grudge against it. And then, he grinds the butt beneath his heel and makes his way deliberately towards Vasquez’s bedroom.

He doesn’t knock. It’s a hell of a risk; he doesn’t give a shit. He just pushes the door open, and leans himself against the doorframe, arms crossed and eyes dark and breath something hot already tying itself around the base of his spine.

“He probably won’t kill you.”

It’s said in a tone of utmost reason, no irony to be found in his tone. At his shoulder, Jack whickers, tossing his head until Faraday reaches up and back to drag an idle hand along the stallion’s neck. 

“He’s just restless.” And also some kind of demon in horse form, but Faraday has always thought that affectionately rather than otherwise. The thing is, he and Jack have always been on the move. Only so many people you can beat at cards in any given before you’ve outstayed your welcome.

But now, he’s here and he’s been here a while, and it’s going to be another while longer before he can ride again. He’s about thirty percent bandages and sixty percent aching, laudanum-laced regret, and he’s not sure he could even saddle Jack up without setting himself to bleeding again.

“And yet here we are.”

     He spreads his arms, announcing his presence. Claiming     his space.

     “ ---- well, I didn’t find any Romulans.” He tips his head,             leans forward to whisper his next words conspiratorially.