Vasquez hasn't worn his scrubs since the first day he'd turned up soaked in them. He'd found himself a box with his name on it, filled with everything he needs to look exactly like the cowboy of 1879 that he is (with a few exceptions, because he doesn't have his spurs or his guns in his belt), but it's still better than the scrubs.
The same colour that she's wearing, even. Vasquez finishes his smoke, curious about anyone who turns up looking the same as him, exhaling the last of the cigarette to the side. That panic, he knows it well, but is he going to be sympathetic?
It's not exactly what he's known for.
He takes a moment to tip his head to the side appreciatively, because if she's going to look at him like she's looking for something, then he can look back. "You like what you see?" he challenges, when he feels her gaze on him.
sometime later
The same colour that she's wearing, even. Vasquez finishes his smoke, curious about anyone who turns up looking the same as him, exhaling the last of the cigarette to the side. That panic, he knows it well, but is he going to be sympathetic?
It's not exactly what he's known for.
He takes a moment to tip his head to the side appreciatively, because if she's going to look at him like she's looking for something, then he can look back. "You like what you see?" he challenges, when he feels her gaze on him.