Vasquez stares down at the smoke curling off his cigarette, not entirely sure that he'd been expecting to face this down so early, but it would've come up eventually. "I have to get the thing he gave me to help," he admits, seeing as he'd left it upstairs in his rooms. Not only that, but it's an embarrassing thing, probably, to do this in public.

Faraday is right that he's healed up, so maybe it's not about expecting to see Faraday split open again on the road. Maybe it's worse? Maybe some part of Vasquez can't bear to think of Faraday in pain, whereas when he'd met the man for the first time, all that he'd wanted to do was put a bullet through him.

Funny how much weeks can change your opinion. Sobriety, weeks, and the realization that Faraday is no worse than Vasquez himself and maybe that's what he's been missing out on. "The muscles, doctor says they must heal, but you have scars," he explains. "He says many don't agree, but that if you work at the muscle enough with your hands or un instrumento redondo, then maybe it will make the pain stop?"

"Worth a try," Vasquez gives his opinion with a shrug of his shoulders. "Could find a prettier face than mine to help you with it," he can't help adding at least one jibe, "but we both know there are no prettier."