Numbers nods, numbly--in agreement of knowing where they're headed when they leave, as well as Wrench's suggestion to lie down. His glass, half-empty, still sits between his feet on the carpet, forgotten. He's already spent half of his brainpower on this conversation, and right now, he'd really like to be horizontal. He moves to try and stand, but then kicks the glass with his foot, causing it to spill onto the ground.

"Shit--god dammit--!" he says out loud in surprise, stumbling to the side and catching himself against the arm of the couch. He collapses back into an approximate sitting position, trying to reach down and save the drink, but it's too late--all of its contents have spilled, the alcohol beginning to seep into the carpet. After a few moments of fumbling, he gives up.

Sorry. Sorry. Numbers looks like he's going to wear a hole in his chest as he repeats the sign, holding out his other arm for Wrench to help him up.