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quinientos
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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