Watching Numbers flounder like this reminds Wrench of too many times before. Times when they were still just kids and lightheaded from too many shared swigs of stolen beer. Times when one or the other of them had just been fed the fist of some schoolyard bully and was struggling to hold the blood back into their nose. And times, too, when they were a little older, and those missteps weren't nearly so benign. Playing field medic with whatever they could find in an old tacklebox, one dragging the other from the latest misstep.

It had been too easy to assume they were invincible, somehow, when they'd always seemed to come out on top. Maybe a little banged up and worse for the wear, but always still kicking. The last time Numbers had fallen, Wrench hadn't been there. This time, he lifts him up almost too quickly.

You're fine, it's fine. At this proximity, Wrench taps his thumb on Numbers' chest instead of his own, using his partner's body to complete the sign. It's not necessary, but it's easy to do. Easy to feel, too, so the man can keep his eyes half closed as Wrench drags him along to the bedroom, leaving the spilled glass for the carpet to soak up and focusing instead on helping the man lie down. Granting him some comfort he couldn't ten years ago.