"Shh, shh, sh," Vasquez clucks his tongue and gently tries to soothe away that pain like Faraday is a bolting horse, settling his things on the nearest table as he collects his dignity and his thoughts and bearings, which makes him like a different man. Of course, it could also be said that helping Faraday had shut down the worrying parts of his mind and made him focus only on the heat of Faraday's fingers on his shoulder, the pained sounds he's making.

He fetches the small wooden object the doctor had given, but as he sets a knee on the bed beside Faraday, he thinks maybe he'll try the hand first, what Faraday is doing with little effect. "Lay down," he coaxes, one hand on Faraday's shoulder as he slowly bears in to forcibly do it, staring at the small distance between them as he presses the other hand to Faraday's hip on the bad side, ready to play dirty if Faraday fights him on this.

"Let me help you," scratches out past the rawness of his throat, feeling exposed to the heart of it as he slides back towards the leg in question, settling on his behind rather than a knee and putting the cylindrical roll on the covers as he twists up his lips in concentration, forehead furrowed, before putting hands to the place to the side of where the worst of the scarring would be. The palpitations of his hand are slow, steady, but deep. "Say if it's too much," he insists.