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Jordan solemnly applauded the belch. "Eight point five outta ten," he drawled.

He finished his own water bottle, a little slower, paying attention to the state of his stomach. Crackers would be good, he decided. He missed on the first grab for the package, made a grumpy noise, and concentrated on his aim to pick it up. Better. "I'm in-toxicated," he pointed out, "so that's. Like. The finish line. So now, I'm like. Jogging." He paused. "Metaphorically." It was a good word. A good long word. "Six syllables," he mumbled.

He watched Robert text as he munched contemplatively on the crackers. Robert had an expressive face. It was good that Robert was happy. "Tell her hi an maybe tell her I'm sorry for the drunk part."

"I'm just, I mean. Maintaining. Keeping it going," Jordan explained, slowly, because Robert needed it explained slowly and because speaking slowly meant that he had a higher percentage chance of getting all the syllables pronounced correctly and in the correct order. He sat up straight and put both feet on the floor, then leaned over to the table to perform the exacting task of pouring a fresh drink. Sprite, then vodka. The latter bottle was getting less full.

He stared at Robert with a small frown as he tried to work out what Robert had said, then tried to work out what Mimsy might actually have typed. Accessing the reasoning part of his mind was like slogging through knee-deep mud. The rest of his thoughts were operating at normal speed, though. "Don't need those," he said, and laughed, before remembering that his statement could be literal in more than one way and lapsing back into silence as the smile slid off.

"I don't want anyone else," Jordan said, mostly to his glass, because saying that was still a little embarrassing, a little too vulnerable, even when he was saying it to a close and trusted friend. "I, yeah ... thanks, man. For the, the vote of confidence."

He drank half of the freshly poured glass. "Not thinking, it's. Good idea. Working on that."

Jordan stared thoughtfully at the now-broken table, contemplating what it would take to fix it. He was better at breaking things than fixing them, he thought gloomily, and took another drink.

He slid down on the couch, propped one foot on the coffee table, and contemplated that instead. It was getting difficult to think about much of anything, which was a relief and a fresh frustration. There were things he didn't want to think about, but not thinking at all was not something he did on a regular basis. "How do you do that?" he asked Robert, forgetting that his train of thought hadn't been audible to anyone other than himself and his weapon.

"No, I meant ... " Jordan lost track of his thought as Robert vaulted acrobatically over the couch and then failed to stick the landing. "Did you break something? Other than the table, I mean, did you break yourself? Don't break yourself," he advised. "It's not a good idea."

Jordan peered suspiciously at Robert. "You didn't break your butt," he accused. "The butt isn't, isn't a bone. Sprained, maybe, or, like, tore, but you can't break your butt." He pointed the mostly-empty glass at Robert. "Anyway, if you broke your butt you'd have to go to the infirmary and then Sunny would want an explanation, so you didn't break your butt."

"That's only a problem if you're not on top," Jordan said. ... That had been out loud and now Ferros was laughing hysterically. He finished his drink and reached across very carefully to put it on that table. That was probably enough.

He poked Robert with a toe. "You're not going to die, right?"

"There's a lot of things that are stupid." Jordan slid down on the couch and contemplated his foot some more. The wind and rain howled outside the window. "Stupid," he muttered again, and thought about getting his second bottle of water, and didn't, and thought about going home, and stayed where he was. "Tired," he said after a stretch of time he couldn't measure.