Faraday still isn’t in the habit of accepting help, even when he probably needs it. A matter of pride, he thinks, and a need to distance himself from his recovery in Rose Creek, when he was laid so low that he needed someone to feed him broth, like he was some sickened baby. Now that he’s mobile, now that he’s well enough to handle himself, he finds himself bristling whenever someone might imply he was helpless or weak.

Which is why whenever Vasquez offers a hand, Faraday tends to scowl at it, bite at it, like some mistrusting dog. It’s always a bit of a fight, though they both had about even odds of winning.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, and he lifts his weaker leg, rests his weight on it. “See? Quit fussin’.”

He waves his hand, dismissive, and returns to pacing around to ease out the sore muscle.

“You were serious about that bet?” he asks, before taking another bite of his bread. “Hell, I’m surprised you even remembered it all, drunk as you were.”