Faraday waits for Vasquez to join him in the hall, a tad impatient to make his way downstairs. He's made this trek before, of course, though usually with someone to lean against – most often Vasquez, but occasionally one of the womenfolk who tutted after the wounded men like worried mothers. In his more over-dramatic moments, Faraday would grouse about hardly knowing what the outside world looked like anymore, cooped up as he was in his room at the boarding house.
Vasquez's offer to help him with the pain of his leg earns him a startled look. Faraday had figured he'd be on his own with that, that he'd have to learn to grin and bear it. That Vasquez offers to assist, in whatever capacity that may be, gives him pause. He ought to bristle at that, too, he thinks, ought to puff up like a spitting cat, but mostly, he's oddly touched by the gesture.
Not that he ever means to say that aloud.
And it's just as well that Vasquez shoves past him (the rude bastard), because it gives Faraday time to regain his bearings. He scowls at Vasquez's warning, trying to subtly steel himself for the walk down.
"I don't recall askin' for your help, anyhow," he retorts.
They're just stairs, for crying out loud, he tells himself. His hand wraps around the handrail as he makes those first few steps down with little trouble. The wood creaks quietly beneath his weight. The strain on his mostly-healed leg isn't so bad, he insists, gritting his teeth. He can take it, and he'll have to learn to live with it, if he means to leave this one-horse town. It's when he's three-fourths of the way down that he pauses for a moment, catching his breath, leaning his weight on his good leg.
You're almost there, dammit, he snaps at himself, taking a deep breath and venturing down another step or two. What kinda weakling can't make it down a single flight of stairs?
Naturally, though, his stubborn spirit isn't enough to overrule the protests of his battered body. Just a few steps away from the bottom, his injured leg hitches, sending him stumbling straight into Vasquez.
no subject
Vasquez's offer to help him with the pain of his leg earns him a startled look. Faraday had figured he'd be on his own with that, that he'd have to learn to grin and bear it. That Vasquez offers to assist, in whatever capacity that may be, gives him pause. He ought to bristle at that, too, he thinks, ought to puff up like a spitting cat, but mostly, he's oddly touched by the gesture.
Not that he ever means to say that aloud.
And it's just as well that Vasquez shoves past him (the rude bastard), because it gives Faraday time to regain his bearings. He scowls at Vasquez's warning, trying to subtly steel himself for the walk down.
"I don't recall askin' for your help, anyhow," he retorts.
They're just stairs, for crying out loud, he tells himself. His hand wraps around the handrail as he makes those first few steps down with little trouble. The wood creaks quietly beneath his weight. The strain on his mostly-healed leg isn't so bad, he insists, gritting his teeth. He can take it, and he'll have to learn to live with it, if he means to leave this one-horse town. It's when he's three-fourths of the way down that he pauses for a moment, catching his breath, leaning his weight on his good leg.
You're almost there, dammit, he snaps at himself, taking a deep breath and venturing down another step or two. What kinda weakling can't make it down a single flight of stairs?
Naturally, though, his stubborn spirit isn't enough to overrule the protests of his battered body. Just a few steps away from the bottom, his injured leg hitches, sending him stumbling straight into Vasquez.