Vasquez can drink just as fast, as hard, as much as Faraday (the nights before Rose Creek have proven that), but he'd been stupidly tipsy then, so eager to laugh that he'd fallen off his chair at least twice that night, all eyes on Faraday for his stupid jokes and idiot talk of his guns. He's not sure he's in any mood for that, now, but a few drinks can't hurt him. He finished the first glass of whiskey fast so he can draw the second out. Lucky for him, Faraday's heavy hand means the first is enough to take the edge of his worry and make Vasquez just that much more pleasant to be around.
The problem is, Faraday's leg is seizing up after one flight of stairs. How are they supposed to ride out on it? It's not like Vasquez can go into towns for supplies or even be around Faraday too much when there are people, because a man with a distinctive limp will be easy to spot.
"Sorry that I'm worried it hurts you," he snaps, taken aback for a moment. He'd meant to cut sharper, say that he's sorry that he's worried about his own ass on the line with Faraday being so poorly, but in the heat of his anger, something else had come out. He's too tired and half-drunk, he decides, irritated with himself. "Maybe it's too soon to go," he says, deciding a fifth cigarette is exactly what he needs, bowing forward to light it and sucks it back until it calms him enough that he can take another drink.
"I don't know how I can help," he confesses bluntly.
For all that he might fuss or worry, the doctor has given him one thing to try helping, but he thinks only time and maybe alcohol will truly help. Shame that Vasquez's patience is starting to run low when it comes to seeing Faraday hurt.
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The problem is, Faraday's leg is seizing up after one flight of stairs. How are they supposed to ride out on it? It's not like Vasquez can go into towns for supplies or even be around Faraday too much when there are people, because a man with a distinctive limp will be easy to spot.
"Sorry that I'm worried it hurts you," he snaps, taken aback for a moment. He'd meant to cut sharper, say that he's sorry that he's worried about his own ass on the line with Faraday being so poorly, but in the heat of his anger, something else had come out. He's too tired and half-drunk, he decides, irritated with himself. "Maybe it's too soon to go," he says, deciding a fifth cigarette is exactly what he needs, bowing forward to light it and sucks it back until it calms him enough that he can take another drink.
"I don't know how I can help," he confesses bluntly.
For all that he might fuss or worry, the doctor has given him one thing to try helping, but he thinks only time and maybe alcohol will truly help. Shame that Vasquez's patience is starting to run low when it comes to seeing Faraday hurt.