Vasquez pushes himself away from the wall when Faraday makes to get up, careful not to crowd and fuss too much, now that the other man's made such a big deal about that being unhelpful, but every part of him is still screaming to make sure he's there in case something goes wrong, cautious and careful. When he manages to stand on his own two feet, the smile on his face is totally sincere and brimming with warmth, backing away and setting his hands at his sides from where they'd been poised, ready to catch him.

"Guero," he drawls, not even flinching at Faraday's disgusting accent with the Spanish. "Look at that, two feet and all," he says, but his heart beating faster is a combination of relief and adrenaline, he thinks, because it means that Faraday really is okay. He has to ignore the way Faraday had touched his thigh, knowing the wound is there, but he can pretend it isn't, as good as ever at lying to himself.

Strange, how this celebration feels strangely missing something. Alcohol, maybe? After all the weeks spent so close, side-by-side, he throws away the idea that there's too much space between them and that's the problem. It's definitely the alcohol that they need.

"Now comes the stairs," he warns. "Should I wait for you to fall down them? Or on your ass behind you?" he deadpans.