Vasquez slumps into the chair next to Faraday after he fetches two mostly-clean glasses from the sideboard, letting them knock into each other as he settles down beside Faraday at the table, digging out his own cigar before he thinks that maybe five in one day is a few too many and he's not so stressed now that he needs it. He can see Faraday is fine, they're still planning to set out together (or he hopes they are), and while he might be in pain, he's still alive.

The snort on his lips is sincere as he takes the matches and tucks the into his vest pocket, but his brow is furrowed. "Only in the mornings," is his absent reply, his energy level about as low as Faraday's.

"Que esta mal?" he asks, hearing that weariness in his voice. "Is it your leg?" he asks, eyes slowly following the path of Faraday's hand, settling on where he has his fingers kneading against his hip. If they were upstairs, he could force Faraday to lie down and let Vasquez help, but this isn't as convenient.

"Do you want to go back up?" he suggests, probably hovering closer to fussing than Faraday likes, but he doesn't care.