Faraday's hands clutch at the fabric of Vasquez/s vest, knuckles turning white and hands shaking. He grits his teeth against the sharp ache running up his leg, echoing along his hip and side, eyes screwed shut as he sucks in breath after labored breath. Most of his weight is pressed against Vasquez, and he balances on his good leg to give his injured leg a rest, however momentary.

Vasquez's breath is hot against his ear, and in another moment, he'd notice the peculiar way it calms something in him. As it is now, Faraday concerns himself with keeping himself upright, pressing his brow against Vasquez's shoulder as he tries to catch his breath.

"I'm fine," he grits out. A lie, of course – he's anything but fine, and that’s clear just from looking at him. They’re alone, thankfully, which means no one saw that frankly shameful display of his attempt at traversing stairs (stairs, of all the damn things). "Lost my footing, is all."