Faraday blinks at Vasquez, startled by the words, by the heat in them. He had expected some lecture on his stupidity, on his stubbornness – old, familiar censures from his childhood, shouted at him by his mother, rest her soul. Their conversations were usually filled with barbs, with cheap potshots, with hardly any sincerity between them. But everything Vasquez just spouted off wasn’t on the script, was far too honest.

And Faraday, a man who talked in half-truths, smirking all the while, has no idea how to respond.

For a long while, he’s silent, staring at Vasquez blankly. The man might as well have spoken in his mother tongue, for all Faraday appears to comprehend him, but slowly, Faraday comes out of his daze, shaking himself.

“I don’t recall askin’ for help,” he croaks out. Moments ago, the words would have been cast out angrily, snapping like a chained dog. Now, however, his voice is uncertain, the words slow, like he’s testing each step and hoping for stable ground. He falls quiet again, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass, before gulps down another mouthful.

“Listen, Vasquez,” Faraday says, still slow, still uncertain. He pauses to wipe at the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. The admission he has to make is a bitter thing to say aloud, and for a second, he grimaces with it. He pushes himself onward, though. “Maybe I ain’t ready, after all. So if you’d rather move on...”