Vasquez laughs, low and pleased, stumbling a little on a rock and not caring about it as he hauls Bobo up with him, mussing up that shirt of his a little more, wrinkling it with the way both hands fist at fabric. "Go on, then. Fix it," he coaxes.

"If you think you can," he adds, with a cock of his head to the side, like he's not so sure about that.