[ Clearly, as the only 100% sober adult in the room -- half out of his mind on painkillers, maybe, but close enough -- Bradbury was going to have to actually be the responsible one in all this. ]

Bradbury. You can call me Bradbury. [ He offered it quietly to Adrian Maskin, even as he lifted the hand that wasn't immobilized by a makeshift sling to pry Nelson's hand gently away from his shirt collar. Someone had torn the sleeve off Bradbury's shirt to be able to wrap the wound neatly in gauze, leaving his T-shirt unattractively asymmetrical, but somehow he didn't think Nelson was up to getting himself dressed for bed, much less anyone else. ]

And you can help me by cutting this guy off and getting him to bed. Come on, big man. You look like you need to catch a few Zs.

[ Ironic, coming from a guy who still had drying blood soaking his clothes, but really, with his wound stitched and bandaged, the only thing to do now was to try not to re-open. He drained the glass of water and pushed himself back to his feet, nodding at Maskin and nudging Nelson with a foot. ]

I'll take a shirt, if you can spare it, but go the fuck to bed after that, all right? We'll talk in the morning. When you're sober.