The pinched panic to William's face might have jerked Gabe towards awake, but nowhere near enough to truly wrap his head around that stream of desperation. But it was desperation, a taut edge to William's voice that was the second-cousin of hysteria, and every buzzword - Bob; side effects; ticking down; trigger - banged more demandingly at the sleepy sludge of Gabe's brain. None of the rest of it - the tangle of the last time he and William had talked about this issue, the residue of the dream he'd been jerked out of still evaporating, none of it - mattered compared to the simple fact that someone needed his help.
"Shit," he muttered, and pushed a hand through his hair, neither noticably increasing nor decreasing its chaos. Kicking the door a little wider open, he stepped back. "Come in. Sit down." To make this actually possible, he scooped discarded clothing off an armchair. Most of it he flung onto another chair, keeping one hoodie to shrug into as he headed across the room to a pretty eldritch set of drawers. "Yes, I've been working with Bryar," he said, raising his voice to still be heard without turning around as he rummaged in the top drawer. And if they had an it to do, they'd have done it already, but he wasn't saying that just yet. Ah-hah: from under a lime-green pair of socks Gabe pulled out a small, clinking drawstring sack; from within the sack he pulled out a few slim vials; after tilting his head and the vials to glance at their labels, he tossed two back in, the sack back into the drawer, and nudged it closed with his hip even as he turned around. "As for the rest, start again, and give me slow, clear details. What side effects, and how much worse?"