Vasquez nearly points to the nearest seat to insist that Faraday sits and they work on his leg before they continue, but he steadily steels himself not to. That's not his task, it's not his job, and it's not his right to lay hands on Faraday's body like this. He tenses every muscle in his body to force himself not to touch, grabbing his jacket as he heads towards the saloon.

He's been here long enough to have familiarity with folks, tipping his hat to the ones he sees, offering polite greetings. He has no fucking idea how they can't be done (what else is there left to say?), but he's also not wanting Faraday to leave.

He buys a bottle of whiskey instead of tequila and settles in his usual spot, a table in the corner near the card game. He sits here because he can imagine that they're Faraday, hustling someone out of their money. Today, he doesn't need to imagine that, though, because he's here.

The whole process is a reminder on its own about how safe he is here. He's able to buy a drink, he can talk and sit, he doesn't have to lie. Pouring two glasses, he slides one over to Faraday, not sure what's left to talk about. "There, I'll start working down my debt," he says sarcastically.

"You should take care of your leg more," he says, because apparently, he can't let that go. "Or you'll do something stupid and lose it."