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WHO: Vasquez
WHERE: Fountain / Inn
WHEN: July 3
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Cigarette usage, violence, anger

i. drowning rats never looked so good

The last time that Vasquez had been shoved into a body of water and expected to fend for himself, he'd been working a cattle drive at twenty-four, and some gringo working with him had seen a deep pond, considered the hot temperature, and then shoved Vasquez in without a second thought. He never actually learned to swim, but the idea was simple enough that he had climbed out (sopping wet), and strode over to deck the laughing idiot into the ground.

His violence against idiot white men has escalated in recent years, but he's not sure who's to blame for this. One minute, he's in Cadelle and he's arguing with Billy about the fact that he doesn't want opium in his house, the next, he's fucking drowning. He sputters and kicks and fights his way to the top, his hair matted down around his face (and it'll fucking curl, he knows, because he hasn't cut it in too long). Out of instinct, he reaches down for his guns to see if they're waterlogged and ruined, only to find himself stripped of his guns, his lasso, his clothes, and his cigarettes.

"Me cago en Dios," he hisses out, spitting mad, as he hauls himself over the stone edge of the fountain. Who the fuck would trap him down a well? Is this something ridiculous like the bottles of drink or the paint in Cadelle? Or is it another wishing well that he's going to turn into a modern idiot? Whatever it is, he's already scrambling to yank off the shirt he's wearing, not recognizing the fabric at all, in order to squeeze it out, trying to decide where he goes first.

And, depending on if anyone confesses to bringing him here, who gets the first punch this time.

ii. smoke, baby

Instead of being useful and making a space for himself, the minute Vasquez had found the box with his name on it, he'd forgotten everything else in the favour of the cigarillo papers and the tobacco. He'd changed out of his sopping red scrubs and into the dry ones that resembled clean versions of what he had before (but no gun belt, of course not, because he couldn't be given everything he loved). What's most important is the tobacco.

Sitting on the steps of the inn with the box at his feet, Vasquez has been licking papers in between inhalations of the first cigarette he'd finished (he has to test them out, doesn't he?). In between successful creations, he's inspecting the other box for his treasures.

There's a vest, which it's too hot to wear. He's got a hat, which he's using to hold the cigarettes, and he's got his lasso. Grinning around the cigarette pressed between his lips, he digs that out to start working it to the perfect length, inhaling sharply when he hears the crunch of boots coming up the path. The flickerings of a terrible idea come to mind and it's a good thing that Vasquez isn't desperate for friends, because what he does next, well, it's probably not the smartest.

"Hey," he calls over, as much warning as he'll give. "Look out."

Which is all that he gives before he stands and works the lasso into a wide space, tightening the rope when it gets around the shoulders and not the ankles, deciding not to be a complete jackass today. Why go all the way when he's got so much time to build up to it? Smirking as he settles back in his seat, he picks up his cigarette again and gives his new friend a shit-eating grin.

"You can take it off, I won't tug." Maybe, he decides, depending on what happens next.

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The whole picture is something rather amusing and right out of a romantic comedy where the girl practically falls on her face looking at the guy as she walks by. The bonus here was he was shirtless and speaking Spanish like he was straight out of some telenovela.

Okay, so it wasn't the nicest thing to say but whatever, he was still shirtless and speaking her language.

"La primera vez que escuché eso." she replies, coming closer and trying very hard not to stare too long at his bare chest or trip over herself.

He'd seen some battles judging by those scars, but Claire had definitely seen her fair share of those.

Edited (it bothered me too much not to fix) 2018-07-05 00:31 (UTC)

When he hears her voice, it's like he's caught in the water again. It rushes past his ears and he's stuck gaping when he turns around, shirt still in hand, a befuddled look on his face. His eyes are wide and he's not entirely sure he's seeing what he is. "Claire?" he asks, stunned.

There isn't the sort of recognition he's used to, definitely a little of the teasing, but not the way she looks at him. Trying to remind himself that it could be anything, he tries to stay somewhat hopeful. "No has estado cerca de mí mucho tiempo entonces," he replies, squeezing his shirt a little as he tries to figure out what else you say to a woman you've come to appreciate in so many ways.

Like she needs another demonstration of her luck sucking. Over the last eight months, it was one thing after the other and then two guys, both very attractive, show up knowing her and she has no recollection of them at all.

How fair was that?

After he answers, she walks a little closer, her expression conveying some disappointment there but that might be more because he's really nice on the eyes and not because she has any idea that some version of her in another pocket of the universe was intimate with him.

"No por falta de intentos." Claire shrugs with a smile. "Entonces, obviamente, tienes la ventaja de saber quién soy, por lo que tendrás que ayudarme a ser quien eres."

Vasquez finishes wringing out his shirt, but he doesn't put it back on just yet, draping it over his backpack as he tries to think of what he's going to tell her. Clearly, she doesn't know who he is, so assuming she does would be rude and useless. Instead, he thinks that he should just tell her facts.

Maybe later, once he's figured out where he is this time, he can get a little more detailed. "Soy Vasquez," he says, thinking that he's half as undressed as he had been last time he'd met her, so it's improving. Maybe next time, it'll be all the way. "Tal vez puedas decirme dónde estoy antes de decirte cómo te conozco."

Eyes drop to watch him twist the dark material and with a quick look to his left wrist, she sees he's in the red scrubs camp. Same as Jax. So, it's a little hard not to wonder why people are grouped into the certain colours that they are. Was it a personality trait thing? Oh well, things to think about later.

Claire shifts into her welcome committee hat and shakes her head.

"Lo suficientemente justo. No hay nombre Pero todos aquí llegaron de la misma manera que tú." she starts, glancing to the fountain as she spoke of it. "Por razones de las que nadie está seguro.."

She looks at him again. "¿Es el español el único idioma que conoces?."

Edited 2018-07-06 22:31 (UTC)

He gives her a rueful look, because he wants to show off, but it's not exactly going to be as pretty. "No, I know English, too," he admits, though it's still heavily accented despite all the practice he's had with it. At least it's not as bad as when he'd first shown up in Cadelle, but he might also stubbornly not be trying to learn so much.

"What's easier for you?" he says, because he thinks that he'll be able to do either. "And reasons unknown, the last time I made a wish to get where I was, but I didn't do anything wishing or make any deals this time. Maybe I just am following you," he jokes, with a hint of a grin.

It's an accent that reminds her of home even if home is Puerto Rico and he's clearly Mexican, but a language close enough that it makes her miss her mother and abuelita so fiercely it hurts.

Claire listens, her eyes wandering past him briefly at nothing in particular because that really nice, muscular chest of his is going to get her in some trouble. They return to his face at the mention of following her and she can't help but give him a look that borders on shy.

"Oh, really? Well, if we're talking like that, maybe I was the one that wished for you."

She stops and shakes her head, clearly devastated with herself for even saying something like that.

"Okay, Vasquez, you really need to put on a shirt. That bag that was on your back has dry clothes in it." she tells him, trying not to look as flustered as she was sure she looked.

Maldición.

He's not stupid. He can see where her eyes are drifting and a part of him feels warm and delighted for it. It's not like Vasquez has ever claimed to be humble, but maybe his vanity is working in overdrive right now. When she says what she does, he laughs, but it's not at her.

No, it's warm and delighted, because that's a pick-up line that he wishes that he'd thought of. "Why, am I not supposed to be walking around shirtless here? Are there rules against it?" he asks, with a shit-eating smirk as he rolls his shoulders back to flex his arms a little.

"Not at all," she says, shaking her head knowing already this man was going to be trouble and she should just accept the inevitable heat he brought with his presence. Not just for her but a lot of the other single ladies there in the settlement.

Claire drew in a breath and held it, looking up at him and his face and that smile. No, she won't be looking at those arms. No way.

"We have a lot of people around here that haven't exactly seen their partners in awhile. Both men and women. So if you want that kind of attention.." she said, grinning herself now.

Well, that does help Vasquez out. He's in the middle of actually rifling through the bag to put on the tank top, even though that doesn't cover off nearly everything that he would've had with the other shirt. "I'm not very picky, so that's good to hear."

Touch-starved, eager for physical touch, and not picky. Though, he definitely does have his preferences and in Cadelle, the woman in front of him had definitely been one of his favourites. He grins, slow to grow, but there. "How do I find those people?" he asks, coaxing her with a lift of his brows.

Yeah, that response doesn't surprise her at all. The questions after it makes her pause, her grin growing slowly in time with his and for a second she was going to answer with something different. Instead, she merely shrugs.

"Keep your eyes open, you'll spot one eventually." Claire replies, playing it cool.

Vasquez should tell her, maybe, about how he already knows a little about what it's like to have her as a partner. He should. Still, for now, it's a good secret to have and he smirks like he knows it. "Consider my eyes open, as open as they get," he guarantees with a waggle of his brows.

"I bet you have lots of eyes on you, besides," he says, with a clear look of appreciation on his face as he tips his head to check her out.

Life in the village has, by and large, gotten Picard used to a fairly wide variety of inconveniences and set backs. That said, abruptly finding himself caught in a lasso is not anything that he would have expected; he turns at the call to look out, but that's not enough to keep the rope from falling around his shoulders. And when it only tightens, his expression turns to one that is very clearly one of displeasure.

"I should certainly hope not."

True, he isn't trying to get out just yet, but judging by both his expression and the tone of his voice he's almost certainly going to, and most likely before too long.

It's no fun whenever he gets someone who's going to act like he's not doing anything wrong. If you can't rile someone up, it instantly becomes a bit of a chore. When the man just stands there and gives him a look like he's disappointed, Vasquez starts to get Sam flashbacks, feeling them very strongly.

"I only tug if they're struggling, he guarantees, lifting his chin like he's going to try one last time to goad the man. He doubts it's going to work, but, well...why not make the attempt?

Unfortunately for Vasquez, his attempt is absolutely not going to work. He's not entirely impossible to stir to anger, true. But it takes a lot more than a simple lasso to do it, to say nothing of what Vasquez has just said.

(Whether or not he's telling the truth is another a matter, but just at the moment, Picard figures he might as well take it at face value."

"That's not much of an incentive to try."

Struggling, he means, though he doesn't quite say it.

He definitely reminds him of Sam, mainly in that no matter how much Vasquez had tried to rile him, nothing fun had ever come of it. That means that he needs to move on to finding out how he can be useful to a man like this, because a calm man is usually a good one to have at your side.

"No, don't worry, I don't want to treat you like a bucking calf," he says, releasing the rope so that the man has the control here. "I'm Vasquez," he introduces himself. "And you?"

"It's appreciated," Picard answers, while he sees to freeing himself from the lasso, tossing it back in Vasquez's direction once he's managed that. Only then does he turn to the matter of introductions.

"Jean-Luc Picard."

(Meanwhile, Vasquez is absolutely right to assume that he's a good man to have at one's side, for all that Picard isn't even remotely aware that's where his thoughts have gone.)

Cigarette dangling from his lips, Sirius simply looked down to the stiff circle of rope bound across his chest. It was an American thing, he thought, although his education on non-British cultures had been woefully limited. He reckoned the people who wrote the wizarding textbooks stopped giving a toss about what America did or didn't do approximately around the time it stopped being an English colony. He had, though, spent more time in darkened Muggle cinemas than the average wizarding lad.

"This is new," he began, and lifted a hand to pluck the smoke from his lips. "Is this what Americans consider foreplay?"

Well, he had been planning to loosen it up, but as soon as he opens his mouth and talks, it doesn't matter that the man clearly appreciates a cigarette or that he looks good enough to pin down. Vasquez hears the word 'American' and that lasso gets tightened sharply, yanking at the man.

"I'm not American, cabron," he chastises sharply, the anger glittering hot in his eyes. "I'm Mexican." There's a world of difference, as far as he's concerned and even though it's been a long time, it's still a very touchy subject given his history. He inhales sharply, pressing his tongue to his free fingers so he can put out his own cigarette, for now. "Don't you know the difference?"

Sirius found himself jerked forward a few halting steps, but didn't much resist, seemingly more concerned about not losing his cigarette than whatever bondage exchange he'd found himself literally roped into. Once, he might have reached for the rope, engaged in a tug-o-war just to see what might become of all that fiery anger, but just now, on the frail side of skinny, tempered by five years in a cell and the simple reality of being there, he looked from the rope to the bandito and lifted one bony shoulder in a shrug.

"Not really," he allowed. "Isn't Mexico part of North America?"

Oh, look, Vasquez isn't planning on doing any loosening now, either. The glare as he tucks his cigarette into his hat only gets worse and he stands on his feet, looming for all his might (which isn't so easy when his clothes actually fit the way they do, because now they show off all the meals he's missed).

"It's bullshit that it's called that," is Vasquez's opinion on the matter. "I come from Mexico, so I'm a Mexican, it doesn't matter where it lands. It matters who I am." Never mind that his family's lands aren't even Mexican anymore, they are as far as his mind is concerned. "You want to say anything else?" he offers, because he holds up the rope, to show that he's about to loosen.

Honestly, Sirius wasn't terribly certain whether he wanted the rope loosened or not, even if the puffed-up lecture was a bit of a bore. There'd been little enough to occupy a human mind in Azkaban; this might as well be theatre, as far as he was concerned.

Did he want to say anything else? He took a slow drag, considering the man, the rope, and the distance between them.

"Is this what Mexicans consider foreplay?"

Vasquez gives him a considerate look and lets the rope loosen enough that the man can climb out, if he wants. "You're a little too pretty for my tastes," he confesses bluntly, because if he's going to go for that, then it'll be a woman. When he goes to men, it's usually because it's for convenience or because that's what he can find.

Rough, tough, and tumbling is not so bad, and he's learned to take what he can get, being an outlaw. "Though, I appreciate a man who has the good taste to smoke," he appraises, digging out his cigarette again, letting the lasso sit under his foot. "What's your blend taste like?"

Well, that's vaguely disappointing, if only for the lack of further theatrics, but Sirius steps readily out of the circle without remark, shaking the rope free when one of his boots gets caught, and then reaches for the spare cigarette tucked behind one ear.

"I'll trade one of mine for one of yours," he offers, holding it out poised between two fingers.

"Good deal," Vasquez says cheerfully, reaching out to coax the man forward as he digs one of the freshly rolled ones from the box of wrappers, the tobacco neatly separated to give him at least a good month's supply. More, if he doesn't smoke in his usual way, but he has an addiction, he knows.

Offering it out, he starts to wind the lasso back around his arm as he waits for the cigarette in turn. "I'm Vasquez. Who are you?"

"Sirius," he answers, and moves to take a seat beside his new Maxican friend, hand-rolled cigarette replacing the one behind his ear as he settles. He learned fairly quickly that smoking indoors is apparently frowned upon round these parts, so if he's not interested in heading upstairs and perching on his windowsill like he's back at school, he'd likely be out here anyway.

"You new?" he asks, mostly conversationally — He's an inkling that if he can get this bloke going again, he might carry most of the exchange for them. Talking still feels a bit strange.

Vasquez snorts as he digs out his matches, since 'new' seems to be what people like to talk about, both here and back in Cadelle. He strikes up the match to light up one of Sirius' cigarettes, letting it sit casually between his lips as he looks him over.

"New enough. I came out of a ridiculous fountain in different clothes, found myself some boxes with my name on it, and a place to live. They don't like when I smoke inside, though," he says, and if he weren't so lazy about food (and so wanting of it), he might leave a little faster.

Lucky for him, a daily meal means that he can make the walk outside to smoke. "Does that mean you're not new?"

"'Bout a week," Sirius replies, and idly picks a stray bit of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. "It's the clothes that give you away," he adds with a nod Vasquez's way. "Me, too, I reckon." He's certainly had enough people asking if he's new, and apparently he's now joined their ranks as well.

"Apparently everyone comes out of that fountain. Odd place, if you ask me. Makes you wonder if anyone's drowned."

Vasquez glances down at his clothes, even though he's more than a little proud of them, but he's aware that even back home, they'd set him apart. He's working the cigarette with his lips, missing the curl of his tongue around a larger cigar, but hasn't taken his eyes off the other man.

"Would serve someone right if they did. Not everyone knows how to swim." He'd barely known, and only had because of some very lucky occasions to find pools of water as a boy. "Who are you?" he asks bluntly. "You're from Britain?" There'd been a group of people who spoke like him in Houston, when he'd stopped in to do some work, talking fancy and funny, just the same as him.

"England, yeah," Sirius replies with a nod. "Grew up in London." He motions to Vasquez with his cigarette. "At least you know where Britain is. Some of the people walking round here are from other planets, places I've never even heard of."

He takes a drag, sighs it out. "And we've established you're from Mexico, which is definitely not the same as America. It's hot there, yeah? Beaches?"

Barely, but he doesn't say that part, seeing as it's not like he'd paid much attention to them other than listening to the accents. They had more Irishmen than Englishmen, though, and Vasquez liked them better (for more reasons than one). They drank better, kept up more, and were more interesting.

Is this one? Time will tell.

"Not where I come from. Hot, yes," he admits. "But not beaches, I grew up on farms." He could've stayed on a farm, too, but he'd been too angry to stay there with his parents and sisters, eager to set out and find something for himself.

More's the pity, Sirius thinks; seems to him if you've got to endure the heat, you ought to at least get the benefit of a beach to lay on.

"I've never been to a beach when it was hot," he says, squinting out into the afternoon. "England's bloody dreary even at the shore. I never understood why people holiday there, it isn't like Spain or the south of France." He turns to Vaquez, tilts his head. "You speak Spanish?"

"It's my first language," he says, even if he's proud that he can speak English as well as he can. Maybe the reading and writing isn't so good, but he's only going to give those white assholes a little big of a win, and speaking is enough. "I always heard stories about Spain," he admits, though it had mostly been his Mama lamenting not being there.

"You've been? Visited? What's it like?" he demands, questions like bullets as he tries to pain the picture in his mind.

Sirius huffs out a laugh at the sudden shot of enthusiasm. "Warm," he starts with a little quirk of of his lips. "Where I was, anyway. Bright. Colors everywhere. Blue ocean as far as you can see. Beautiful women. Beautiful men," he adds with a considering cant of his head. "The people were brilliant, friendly. Always playing music."

Vasquez could use a place with all sorts of beautiful people, even though he does like a bit more rough and tumble in both his men and his women (it just means they've lived through enough shit to put up with him, usually). Smoking considerately, he thinks this Sirius appreciates the pretty things, but his cigarette isn't bad either.

"So now you're in a place with plenty of beautiful people, but not so bright, no ocean?" At least, not that he's seen, though he definitely notices the people. "And no music, which is a shame."

"I've not got any complaints," Sirius says, which is perhaps the understatement of his entire, miserable life. Would he rather be in a place where he can see James and Lily again? Certainly. But that seems an incredibly big ask, particularly for someone like himself.

"Music would be nice, though," he adds with a considering tilt of his head. There aren't even any instruments, as far as he's seen.

Vasquez stares at Sirius and wonders what his life was like before this, if he has no complaints. Given that he's in a similar situation, is it rude to ask? Also, does he give a shit? The answer's no, which is why he's going to be blunt. "Your life before this wasn't so good? I thought there was Spain with beautiful people. Or is it just that you like all the beautiful views here more," he suggests.

"I could use more alcohol, more dependable cigarettes, but even this...better than what I had," he admits, even though he'd always made sure to have tobacco on hand.

Peter has been operating under Peter Jr's instructions to look for anything that seems out of the ordinary and that, unfortunately, has ended up being an awful lot of shit in this place. He's looking at the treeline and trying to decide if he's going to get struck by lightning if he goes and stands under it (it has been raining off and on all day) and that's when he feels the rope drop over his head.

A lasso? What is this, the Lone Ranger? Judging by the accent, it's more Zorro, but he guesses that doesn't matter. What does matter is he's been lassoed by a guy.

"Why did you just lasso me? What's the point in that?"

There's something strangely familiar about the man he's managed to catch, but Vasquez can't put his finger on it. All that he knows is that he feels a wave of irritation and fondness, like some strange mix of things that he doesn't really understand.

"Maybe it's just to lasso something before I go work with the animals." He gives him an up and down look, like he's considering him. "You're about a half cow, it's good practice," he deadpans, but he loosens the knot so that the man can push it above his head if he so chooses.

"Half a cow? I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult," Peter says. For all he grew up in Missouri, he'd grown up in the city and that hadn't involved any lassoing or cows - at least not before he'd gotten kidnapped to the stars.

Peter flips the loop of the lasso off him and closes the distance between them, holding out the rope for the other man. "Peter Quill. Half a Cow, I guess."

"Good shoulders," is what Vasquez says, because that's one of the things Vasquez can already tell are decent about him. He grins as he takes the lasso and steps a little closer to make sure that he's nicely tucked in to his side. "Not as wide, but maybe I could still work with them."

He starts to tug at the rope, hoping that this Quill will keep holding onto it as he tugs, seeing as it's very promising. "Vasquez," he introduces himself, not ready to give up a first name yet. "Wrangler of cows, half and whole."

Edited 2018-07-17 22:19 (UTC)

"Work with them to do what, exactly?" Peter is a pretty shameless guy for the most part but he thinks this Vasquez probably takes the proverbial cake. He's definitely a lot more open than Peter ever is. Still, it might be an act. It usually is on his own part - something to deflect attention away from himself.

"More lasso'ing practice? Or something else?"

"Practice," Vasquez deadpans, because he hasn't decided if he's going to try and escape this place and he's not sure who he can trust, but good shoulders? Well, those are good for him to practice. Absently, he reaches down to find his cigarette and the matches, eager to strike up the match to light it.

"Why, you think it should be something else?" he asks, not blinking as he stares at the man.

"Well, no, I was just trying to figure out what you were getting at," Peter says. He frowns a little and wonders how he's gotten the best of him with only one brief conversation. Peter isn't normally so bad at this stuff but, then again, he's not usually lasso'd out of nowhere, either. Hmm.

"Is there much cause for roping cows where you come from?"

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