He wasn't…broken exactly. It's just that he wasn't the same. Gone were the days of Faraday's never ending griping and indecent, but funny to himself, slurs. He'd tried to maintain his couldn't-care-less attitude and laid back persona, he'd tried to keep up with the drinking and gambling and mutterings of complaints any chance he could get. But after a whole week laid up on a hard as nails cot and then another 2 weeks of recovery while trying to maintain said persona….well it had just got to tiring him out. Maybe it was the time laid up and unable to drink that got him off of it, or maybe the shock of literally being at death's door made him realise the drinking and card games were eating into his easy-earned coin and borrowed-time existence. Who knows. Could be both, or probably neither, he couldn't tell ya. All that was obvious to Faraday was that he wasn't the same.
He'd come out of his cot-bound recovery to face all the barely concealed grimaces and sympathetic smiles of his new companions. He'd figured the best way to get them back to treating him how he's used to being treated was to throw himself into his drink and his gambling and his quick witted grumbling like he used to. He'd intended to perhaps play up on the fact that he was tougher than he looked, he could still drink with the best of them, still do what they could all do, he could help fix up the town proper and, damnit Vasquez he could get up the stairs his damn self.
But no. After those first 2 weeks out of recovery Faraday just came to realise something important, well a few things actually. No matter how hard he tried to be the usual Joshua Faraday they had come to know, no matter how hard he tried to pretend he was ok, to make them see him as they did before, it just wasn't working. The pitying looks weren't gonna stop, the drink wasn't gonna taste any better and certainly ain't gonna help matters, the hushed voices concerning his supposed wellbeing couldn't be unheard, his jibes and complaints weren't going to get the usual smirks or grunts of laughter from his comrades, just half sympathetic smiles and blatant ignores. Ultimately, he was tired.
So, on the 22nd day after the big show down with Bogue, Faraday gave up. He didn't start his day struggling down the stairs with his bum leg and setting up at the far table from the bar with his cards and whiskey. He didn't immediately start grumbling to Sam about what jobs he'd have to do today and who he could pawn them off on because he's got serious, respectable and non-gambling businessman-like work to do today with fellas that enjoy cards and money and the like. He didn't give Red any shit about what he was most likely planning on catching for them for dinner, or Horne about how he was looking more bear-like than usual today, he didn't even slur something offensive about the fancy pattern Vasquez was carving into one of the pieces of wood they were using to clean up the church for the townsfolk. Nah, today he hobbled straight over to the room opposite his and knocked twice. He waited without a word, asked Goodnight if he was heading down and if he wouldn't mind offering some help taking the stairs. He expected the surprised look on Robicheaux's face, what with Faraday's new chosen approach to his days, but certainly not the sharp turn of Billy's head towards the door, from where he sat on his and goodnight's bed fixing up his pig-stickers.
Billy of course rarely responded to most social cues outright, and when he did deem it necessary to, it was merely just an incline of his head or a raised eyebrow if something was particularly funny. Faraday looked to the floor not quite sure how to handle Billy's surprise, fiddling with his own fingers a little. As if shaken out of his surprise by Faraday's discomfort, Goodnight acknowledged his out of character request by informing Faraday he was just heading down himself, before shutting the door behind himself and taking the still recovering man by the elbow and letting him lean on him, as they headed down the hall towards the stairs.
Goodnight looked over at his new friend curiously and a little concerned "You feeling alright, Son?"
Faraday felt a twinge of guilt in his chest as he considered perhaps just going on pretending to still be the same Faraday he always was to the outside world. He didn't particularly want to worry any of his companions any more than he had already with his injuries, but at the same time he was tired, and he didn't see the point any more. He just wanted to sit, and be quiet, and watch every one and every thing and figure out exactly what was next for him. Who he was gonna be, what he was gonna do, where he'd go….He couldn't very well do all that while griping at everyone and playing cards and drinking like he normally did. He didn't want to. 'So no', he thought, 'fuck it - it's not like they can think any less of me, why not be weak for a while. May as well be what they think I am anyway, right?'
"Just wanted some help." Faraday shrugged and mumbled his reply, as he continued to lean his left side into goodnight and approached the top of the stairs.
He grunted as they descended the steps and kept his eyes on his feet as he felt the others starting to look up. 'It wouldn't be so bad', he tried to convince himself. 'Sam won't mention anything, Red barely speaks anyway. Horne might mention something divine about accepting help but that's to be expected. Vasquez...'
Faraday bit his lip as they neared the last step, thinking about all the times he's shrugged Vasquez off, or yelled at him for hovering too near when he thought Faraday needed help, for all the countless times he'd called him an irritating fucking Mexican for just offering his arm to lean on up the stairs. Fuck. He felt another pang of guilt.
'Well, better late than never I suppose.' He thought, as they finally made the last step, and he looked up with a twinge of embarrassment and a no-doubt slightly redder than usual face. "Mornin".