Sarge raises an eyebrow, often a sign that he is about to say something t least he thinks is funny. Other people might beg to differ, but most other people also don't matter. "You're incredibly biased, so your opinion doesn't count." It astonishes him hat his words are slurring, something he rarely even does when drunk, and he wants to stay on the bed and curl up with his back against the wall and try to sleep. There haven't been many nights in the last twenty or so years when he didn't sleep with a knife within reach, aside from prison and even that wasn't entirely out of the question, but right now he think he might be able to. And feeling safe, just like trusting someone, is not a very common thing for him.
His eyes still drift around, not looking at her at all, but his hand, that feels like it's filled with lead, lifts and comes to rest on top of hers. Once more he thinks about how small she is, but he had time to think it over. There used to be thoughts about her not being able to grow with two shadows looming over her constantly, but he chooses to think that strength has nothing to do with size, another novel concept. But he doesn't need any more confirmation for his theory than he already has. "She can think whatever the hell she wants. We know we're crazy backwoods rednecks."