He follows after Vasquez at an unhurried pace, noting the dark quality to his expression with a bit of approval, though he makes no sign of it.

Faraday has a bad habit of only living moment to moment, of focusing on now, and at best, maybe a few minutes into the future. He has a mind for what ifs, of course, but planning has never exactly been his purview, content as he is to flit from place to place. Thoughts of what will come after the worst of the winter days has passed seem distant and shapeless – but for once, he's looking forward to what the future might hold.

When Vasquez kept talking up his bed, Faraday had expected it to be a joke, or more likely, a way to coax Faraday into his bedroom for all the obvious reasons. He hadn't expected it to be actually impressive – which is why he lets out a startled bark of a laugh. He moves toward it, running his palm along one of the bed's posters.

"The hell were you plannin' with this thing, Vas?" It hardly seems practical for a man who intended to live out the rest of his days as a modest farmer. (Though he has the briefest inklings of Vasquez moving on, finding new companionship.

He quickly stamps down on the thought before it can fully form.)