So he wound up slumped on the other end of the couch, staring dimly at the bottle for exerting the energy to reach over, grab it, and slammed down whatever was left in one swig.

He made a face, holding the bottle away from him and squinting at it. What did he say? Something about fruit and beer and not being a good thing?

He could agree with that.

The bottle was returned to the table, and Zelgadis returned to slumping back against the cushions, pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb.