The only reason why Sarge is currently situated on the top bunk is because Rodeo has some trouble with his injuries and seeing him try to crawl up here is a very pathetic sight Sarge doesn't care about seeing. He has a black eye that is slowly fading and some bruises, because he sometimes forgets to keep his hands up, to actually block punches, when he is angry. And he is constantly angry these day because it keeps him from collapsing.
He hasn't slept more than two hours per night since they were arrested, most of them spent on the floor, trying to keep an eye open for any assholes with funny ideas and shivs, one as dangerous as the other in here. And being tired and angry keeps him from thinking too much, which doesn't mean he doesn't think at all. Sarge is convinced that he will not make it out of La Quinta, and it has been eating at him. Not because he doesn't want to die, he doesn't really care, but because he didn't really get to say goodbye to Addie. And because Rodeo doesn't know what happened and that just doesn't sit right with Sarge. There are supposed to be no secrets. Trust. He should trust his best friend with this, even if it means that his death will actually be brought on by said best friend.
When the bottle appears in his line of sight he grunts in disgust, but takes the bottle anyway. Not that he wants to drink it, but he also doesn't want to be sober in here. Maybe it will soften the edges of the many knives currently stuck in his heart just a little bit.
"You just don't wanna die knowin' I'm the asshole inheritin' the tiara," he grumbles, making a face when he lifts the bottle to his face, because the stuff smells as vile as it probably tastes. One sip later he is proven wrong, because it tastes even worse. But he suppresses the cough that his body is trying to release in an attempt to get rid of what can only be poison, because coughing hurts. Breathing hurts even more than usual, because the bruises on his back from the arrest are still there, still as painful. Speaking of painful, he looks up at the ceiling and what looks suspiciously like a water stain that is vaguely shaped like an elephant, and decides that talking might as well be like a bandaid, and that it will only get worse with time. "Gotta talk to you 'bout somethin'."