Seconds tick by, and Numbers says nothing. Those seconds stretch into a half-minute, then a full minute, and still the shorter man makes no attempt to communicate. In a panic, Wrench wonders if he even can. What if the first jerky, contorted phrase was the only thing he knows to sign? What if the man who's been his closest companion since they were both children somehow forgot how? Or what if it isn't Numbers at all?

He's had nightmares like this before. More when they were much younger, just cresting into their teens and finding their place with the rest of the Fargo brood. Wrench always thought Numbers adapted faster. Thought Hanzee - Moses - liked the other man more, and accepted him on some kind of two-for-one deal. Back then he'd had the nightmare more than once that he'd sign something to Numbers and the other would look at him blankly, like he didn't understand. Like he didn't want to understand.

Right now, Numbers looks even more vacant than in those nightmares. He stumbles, and Wrench rushes to catch him. Slinging an arm around his back makes damn sure they won't be saying much on the short walk over to his house, but Wrench doesn't care right now. He steers them in that direction, careless of who might see them walking like this. Steers Numbers through the front door and practically shoves him into the couch before going to pour them both a measure of alcohol.

Wrench shoves the thick-cut glass at Numbers and folds himself in front of the man. Don't make me slap you across the face. Are you paying attention?