It feels like a challenge, for all that it isn’t. It’s a simple enough request – standing, walking, like he’s some sort of newborn babe. Maybe a few weeks ago a request like this would’ve been a much taller order to fulfill, but Faraday has been healing, and if he couldn’t manage something as basic as this, then the doctor surely wouldn’t have given him leave to pack up his things, would he?

He looks up at Vasquez standing over him, defiance in his eyes as the outlaw practically leers down at him. (And maybe a small part of him admits it’s an interesting sight, a warm curl of something licking up the back of his breastbone. Faraday hardly knows what that is, and like a good deal of things he doesn’t understand, he ignores it.)

“You act like I don’t got two perfectly functional legs of my own,” Faraday grumbles, absently running a hand down over the bullet scar in his left thigh. He gets to his feet – admittedly, a little slower than he would have managed before the fight – and once he’s there, he spreads his hands in a muted sort of flourish.

“Satisfied, hombre?”