His eyes narrow at the sudden change in Vasquez's demeanor, at the worry that stands naked on his face, plain as his nose. That fussing had been maddening during Faraday's recovery; Faraday's reasonably sure his own mother had never clucked after him nearly so much during his childhood as Vasquez had during those bedridden weeks.

(Granted, Faraday had staged a number of escape attempts during those weeks, had landed himself flat on his face when his weakened body betrayed him, but details.)

Faraday had assumed that with the doctor's permission to finally clear out, Vasquez would have left the mother henning behind them. Apparently he was wrong.

"First," Faraday says slowly, the edge of irritation sharpening his words, "I'd stop treatin' certain handsome devils like they were made of glass."

He sits back on the edge of the bed, replacing the King of Spades on the top of his deck. "I'm fine, amigo." His vowels are round and drawling on the borrowed word – the imprecision played up specifically to annoy Vasquez. He spreads his hands as if to prove his point, annoyance standing out in the tick of his jaw. "You were here when the doc said I was good as new, 'cept you're still actin' like I'm liable to break apart if I so much as breathe wrong."