Vasquez just keeps aggressively smoking, maybe more than before when Faraday starts to drift closer, both to give his hands something to do and to prevent himself from reaching out and yanking on Faraday's shirt to toy around with the fabric and talk about how good he looks in it.

"It's not bad," he agrees, plucking it and turning his head to the side to exhale a steady stream of smoke, before turning to look at Faraday again, not sure where this is going. "It's not just someone in my bed." Because Faraday shouldn't be mistaken.

He definitely, absolutely, completely wants Faraday in his bed where he can take him apart with his mouth and make that white man beg.