"I'm not going to do any of that," Vasquez says, his tone heavy with the awareness that it's not going to happen because he doesn't want to be responsible for anyone but himself. That's the only thing that he wants, really, the only thing that he thinks is important.
Then again, he did get flung through time only to be taken care of by a beautiful woman, so maybe his plans for life just got very derailed. "I don't have my horse, how would I get to these cities?" He's not ruling it out just yet, even if he's more than a little wary about this whole thing.
"You're a good nurse," he praises. "Better than some doctors I've met."
She takes his time before answering, putting the noodles in boiling water, before she smiles to herself.
"There are trains. Cars. Planes. Buses. Mainly, cars - the loud four-wheeled monsters out there on the street. Take us places, in this day and age."
Oh, just you wait until she introduces you to the internet, Vasquez. Your mind will be blown. Meanwhile, she drains the water out, adds sesame oil to the seasoning packet - who has time for real ramen at home - and brings Vasquez a bowl and cutlery.
"Nurses and doctors have different jobs. They're here to diagnose and treat. We're here for the aftercare. So we tend to be more compassionate."
He reaches out for the bowl and a fork when she brings it, the smell and the warmth of the bowl already more intoxicating than anything before. He knows he's being greedy, but the truth is, he's been a starving man for a long time and he doesn't think that he's going to stop.
"Where I come from, a town has one person who's both," he says. "Maybe a nurse being a doctor, maybe the other way around. Sometimes, neither, and the closest you get is the seamstress because she knows how to stitch," he says, with a dark nod, because he doesn't really like those towns very much.
"So, does this mean I'm not getting kicked out as soon as I finish eating? Because you're compassionate?"
"Damn," she says softly, unable to even imagine a life like this, where healthcare is a distant possibility. Where death comes so easily, and without delay. The advances they've made over time seem like little, sometimes, but actually...
Her train of thought is derailed when Vasquez speaks again, making Claire laugh.
"I've already told you, you can stay here and rest. As long as you don't mind the couch, anyway."
His head is bowed low into the bowl, eating rapidly, and giving her a coolly amused look when she reacts to that about his life. The towns he's been in have been brutal, but that's just how it is, and surviving means that he's made of tough stuff. He knows this, he's proud of it, but he's just not sure how it works here.
"I was sleeping on floors and the ground before this," he says with a nod of his head. "Your couch is the nicest thing I've seen in months. I could sleep here for weeks." Not that he will. The truth is, once he feels fine, he's probably going to sneak out and look for...
Well, something. Somewhere. He needs to figure out a way to get back, even if he'll be hunted and out of place.
"Would have to start and charge you rent," she replies without much thought, a smile on her lips. She can imagine he might want to go home, to his time, but she can't imagine where to even start.
"You can do pretty much anything you want, here," she says again, softer.
He wouldn't even legal anyway. No papers, no records of him anywhere. A ghost. He could really do whatever he wants.
"I don't recommend crime, but you could get away with it easier than most."
He'd always traded work for room and board, putting himself to the grind in order to get a roof over his head, though as he looks around Claire's house, he's not entirely sure what he could do here. Shifting a little once he's finished the ramen, he sets the bowl in front of him, eyeing her warily.
"Crime wasn't a choice," is what he says bluntly, feeling as if he wants that to be heard. "It was a consequence of no one letting me work, so I had to steal to get by. Eventually, I ran across the wrong person."
She can think of a reason, but if he was a ranch hand, she can't imagine that the color of his skin would be an issue, even back then. Still, her tone is soft, without judgment. She knows all too well how some people can turn to crime when their backs are against the wall.
He gives her a strained look, not sure that he needs to be sarcastic and vitriolic when he answers, even if he wants to be. "Because I look the way I do," he spits out, tempering the words a little so there's not an unhealthy amount of bitter anger in them. "Because I'm Mexican, because we had the bad luck to have land in what's now Texas."
"Take your pick," he says, annoyed. "They would give work and expect me to be grateful for their shitty tasks. They thought that I didn't deserve the wage the other white men did." He shakes his head, disgusted, even now. "It wasn't ever going to be different. Not for me."
"All right, that's what I thought," she replies just as softly as before. And then, gestures to herself. "Look at me. Not only am I a woman, I'm also bi-racial, and my ethnic background is definitely not white. And yet I've got a high responsibilities job."
She licks her lips, leaning against the couch with her head propped up against her hand.
"Times are different. Not enough, for sure, but it's easier, now."
"I didn't know nursing was high responsibility now," he says, not teasing, but genuinely a little impressed (and confused) because this is probably only one of the things that the future has changed. Shifting his arm when it stings, he thinks that ramen isn't going to do the trick.
"I need more alcohol," he says, because that will both numb the pain of his arm and the confusion of the modern world. It's his best bet, as far as he's concerned, and that's where he thinks he'll start.
"Are you allowed to permit me that as part of your responsibilities?" he asks, unable to help teasing her now.
She could take a lot, but she did take a lot of pride in her work, and how important it was. Nurses were constantly belittled, and treated as inferior compared to doctors. It was a stereotype that drove Claire to anger, way too often.
"I probably shouldn't, but it's not like I have morphine on hand, anyway, so it might be your best bet at a painkiller. If you become a sloppy drunk, though, I reserve the right to kick you out."
He could write a book about all the things he doesn't know, it's true. With being shoved into the future, it's clearer now more than ever that he's an idiot who's just trying to deal with the strange hand he's been given, but clearly he's said the wrong thing.
Then again, he has no idea what the right one is, so he's not about to backtrack on his words and try otherwise.
"Morphine?" he echoes. "I don't know what that is, but if it's an alcohol, I'll take it. I'll also ignore your insult that I can't handle my liquor." He can keep up with even the thickest of drunkards, especially when he's had food in his belly. Though, maybe not after he's been shot, but why not find out now?
"Morphine's a painkiller. It's very efficient and very addictive and it's very illegal for it to be distributed outside of hospitals."
She relaxes into the couch, putting her feet up on the coffee table. "Alcohol sometimes causes flare-ups, or worse pain than the painkillers we have on hand nowadays. Also, it destroys your liver and your brain, so obviously it's not cautioned. But I imagine that's what you're used to, huh?"
There's no malice or judgment in her voice - back in his day, it was doubtful they had anything else to help with pain than to try and numb it entirely with alcohol. And since she doesn't actually have anything she can give him that will help, she passes him the tequila bottle left on the table, half-empty.
As soon as Claire starts talking about this drug, Vasquez starts getting very interested in this drug, more so when she talks about how it's very illegal, because she's a nurse, yes? That means that she would be in a hospital and might have access to it.
"Alcohol, the kind I drink, you don't have to worry about anything because you're unconscious." At least, in the quantities that he'd sometimes drink it in. He grins when she hands him the tequila.
Working the bottle open, finding it strange to not have a cork to stop it, he drinks straight from the bottle, even though that's probably not very hygenic and safe. "I think I already owe you for more than just this," he points out. "You did patch me up, and I am a stranger, so now you give me a place to sleep? It's plenty."
"Better than some people I could have run into," he says, which is genuine and he doesn't let his gaze move from her when he says it, because he means this, most of all. "They would have let me to bleed or finished the job. Maybe even just ignored."
"Not you, though," he says, his exhaustion making him a bit soppy and tender, the weariness he feels rising to the surface, making him feel more honest than usual.
She smiles, reaching out to wrap a hand around his wrist, touch gentle.
"I could never forgive myself if I ignored someone in need. Even less if they're pretty," she adds, winking. It's a tease, to ease the moment into something more relaxed, but at least, it's the truth - he is, after all, a pretty good looking guy, even with all the grub on him.
It's a testament to how long it's been without touch that Vasquez leans hard into that touch, like he's practically wired into it. He closes his eyes and tries to remind himself that it's not safe to do this, but honestly, he's not sure that he cares, because he wants it so badly.
"Am I pretty?" he echoes, finally opening his eyes, though his mouth is still somewhat parted. "I think maybe this is an insult, because I'm not considered handsome."
"I could use a hot bath," Vasquez confesses, a yearning look in his tired eyes. He needs sleep more than anything else, but now that Claire's brought it up, he's already making plans in his mind. "Do you think there's a room somewhere in your building for that? When I wake up, I think I could soak for hours," he admits, licking his lower lip as he thinks about how good it would feel.
Right. Time travel. She doesn't mean to look surprised when he mentions a room in the building, but it's sort of fond, at the same time. How can this man even exist, in her day? How is it possible?
"There's a room just for that in this apartment, actually," she replies, pushing of the back of the couch to lean forward. "In this day and age, every apartment gets a private bathroom. Or at least, very much most of them.
She smiles. "You're welcome to it when you come to."
He's not so tired that he doesn't give her a surprised look, because who has a bathroom in their own house if they aren't rich? Maybe the future is extremely different, but he's definitely going to be taking her up on that bath when he wakes up. Sighing deeply, he can already feel his eyes start to flutter shut.
"I'm going to take you up on that," he warns, but for now, he's too tired. Even though he's not sure he trusts the future, he trusts her enough. "Don't let someone kill me in my sleep," he mumbles, folding his arms over his chest, letting himself start to drift off.
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Then again, he did get flung through time only to be taken care of by a beautiful woman, so maybe his plans for life just got very derailed. "I don't have my horse, how would I get to these cities?" He's not ruling it out just yet, even if he's more than a little wary about this whole thing.
"You're a good nurse," he praises. "Better than some doctors I've met."
no subject
"There are trains. Cars. Planes. Buses. Mainly, cars - the loud four-wheeled monsters out there on the street. Take us places, in this day and age."
Oh, just you wait until she introduces you to the internet, Vasquez. Your mind will be blown. Meanwhile, she drains the water out, adds sesame oil to the seasoning packet - who has time for real ramen at home - and brings Vasquez a bowl and cutlery.
"Nurses and doctors have different jobs. They're here to diagnose and treat. We're here for the aftercare. So we tend to be more compassionate."
no subject
"Where I come from, a town has one person who's both," he says. "Maybe a nurse being a doctor, maybe the other way around. Sometimes, neither, and the closest you get is the seamstress because she knows how to stitch," he says, with a dark nod, because he doesn't really like those towns very much.
"So, does this mean I'm not getting kicked out as soon as I finish eating? Because you're compassionate?"
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Her train of thought is derailed when Vasquez speaks again, making Claire laugh.
"I've already told you, you can stay here and rest. As long as you don't mind the couch, anyway."
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"I was sleeping on floors and the ground before this," he says with a nod of his head. "Your couch is the nicest thing I've seen in months. I could sleep here for weeks." Not that he will. The truth is, once he feels fine, he's probably going to sneak out and look for...
Well, something. Somewhere. He needs to figure out a way to get back, even if he'll be hunted and out of place.
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"You can do pretty much anything you want, here," she says again, softer.
He wouldn't even legal anyway. No papers, no records of him anywhere. A ghost. He could really do whatever he wants.
"I don't recommend crime, but you could get away with it easier than most."
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"Crime wasn't a choice," is what he says bluntly, feeling as if he wants that to be heard. "It was a consequence of no one letting me work, so I had to steal to get by. Eventually, I ran across the wrong person."
no subject
She can think of a reason, but if he was a ranch hand, she can't imagine that the color of his skin would be an issue, even back then. Still, her tone is soft, without judgment. She knows all too well how some people can turn to crime when their backs are against the wall.
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"Take your pick," he says, annoyed. "They would give work and expect me to be grateful for their shitty tasks. They thought that I didn't deserve the wage the other white men did." He shakes his head, disgusted, even now. "It wasn't ever going to be different. Not for me."
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She licks her lips, leaning against the couch with her head propped up against her hand.
"Times are different. Not enough, for sure, but it's easier, now."
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"I need more alcohol," he says, because that will both numb the pain of his arm and the confusion of the modern world. It's his best bet, as far as he's concerned, and that's where he thinks he'll start.
"Are you allowed to permit me that as part of your responsibilities?" he asks, unable to help teasing her now.
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"There's a lot you don't know, apparently."
She could take a lot, but she did take a lot of pride in her work, and how important it was. Nurses were constantly belittled, and treated as inferior compared to doctors. It was a stereotype that drove Claire to anger, way too often.
"I probably shouldn't, but it's not like I have morphine on hand, anyway, so it might be your best bet at a painkiller. If you become a sloppy drunk, though, I reserve the right to kick you out."
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Then again, he has no idea what the right one is, so he's not about to backtrack on his words and try otherwise.
"Morphine?" he echoes. "I don't know what that is, but if it's an alcohol, I'll take it. I'll also ignore your insult that I can't handle my liquor." He can keep up with even the thickest of drunkards, especially when he's had food in his belly. Though, maybe not after he's been shot, but why not find out now?
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She relaxes into the couch, putting her feet up on the coffee table. "Alcohol sometimes causes flare-ups, or worse pain than the painkillers we have on hand nowadays. Also, it destroys your liver and your brain, so obviously it's not cautioned. But I imagine that's what you're used to, huh?"
There's no malice or judgment in her voice - back in his day, it was doubtful they had anything else to help with pain than to try and numb it entirely with alcohol. And since she doesn't actually have anything she can give him that will help, she passes him the tequila bottle left on the table, half-empty.
"You owe me big, man."
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"Alcohol, the kind I drink, you don't have to worry about anything because you're unconscious." At least, in the quantities that he'd sometimes drink it in. He grins when she hands him the tequila.
Working the bottle open, finding it strange to not have a cork to stop it, he drinks straight from the bottle, even though that's probably not very hygenic and safe. "I think I already owe you for more than just this," he points out. "You did patch me up, and I am a stranger, so now you give me a place to sleep? It's plenty."
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And yeah, he sure does owe her for everything she's done, but it's also - the way she does things. He's not the first one to bleed on her couch.
"I'm just a good old bleeding heart, I guess."
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"Not you, though," he says, his exhaustion making him a bit soppy and tender, the weariness he feels rising to the surface, making him feel more honest than usual.
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"I could never forgive myself if I ignored someone in need. Even less if they're pretty," she adds, winking. It's a tease, to ease the moment into something more relaxed, but at least, it's the truth - he is, after all, a pretty good looking guy, even with all the grub on him.
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"Am I pretty?" he echoes, finally opening his eyes, though his mouth is still somewhat parted. "I think maybe this is an insult, because I'm not considered handsome."
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"It's not an insult. You're pretty handsome, I guess, for a guy that so desperately need a shower."
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"There's a room just for that in this apartment, actually," she replies, pushing of the back of the couch to lean forward. "In this day and age, every apartment gets a private bathroom. Or at least, very much most of them.
She smiles. "You're welcome to it when you come to."
no subject
"I'm going to take you up on that," he warns, but for now, he's too tired. Even though he's not sure he trusts the future, he trusts her enough. "Don't let someone kill me in my sleep," he mumbles, folding his arms over his chest, letting himself start to drift off.
/scene?
"Promise, you're safe here."