[he'd only managed a few inches upwards, back braced against the wall, so it's only a few inches Rincewind slides down again once he meets resistance. Or rather, "consolation". He stares up at Petyr from beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes shadowed with glazed suspicion at the sympathy.

The apology, though - that's a start. It's a snack at least for the beast curled in Rincewind's breast, hungry to reclaim a shred of control. Humility, apology, the little compliment regarding his caution - oh yes. Yes, he vastly prefers those to Lord Baelish's judgement.]

You've no idea. [unconsciously, he rolls his shoulder under that jeweled hand - Rincewind tends to be awkward with touch on the best of days, and today has been far from that.] I don't think I've slept more than twelve hours in the past four days. This -

[he gives the bottle a little shake.]

- will at least fix that, even it couldn't keep a god from my back. [a beat, and he folds his arms to amend bitterly:] ...Or devil, or angel, or whatever the hell he's calling himself.