George wrinkled his nose at Roger as the bottle was plucked away. "Bloody hell, you're a cranky bastard when you've fallen on your head. You could at least manage a 'hullo, George, thanks for bringing me food and booze'," he complained.
He stepped in, swapping the bag into both arms before he carried it over to drop it down on the coffee table next to Roger's journal. Or rather on top of it. It was the journal's fault for being in the way. Besides, a little stray Thai-food-grease wouldn't hurt it. Just make it greasy.
He eyed Roger speculatively. "You look like shite," he announced. "I mean, you're barely even good looking these days. It's sad. I don't think it's all because you flew into a goalpost while trying to stare at your reflection in a mirror, either. Probably." He dropped down next to Roger. "Shouldn't you have something?" he asked. He gestured toward Roger's arm, trying to make a "sling" gesture, but it really came out more "crazy octopus arm" than anything else. Pantomime wasn't one of George's many and impressive skills.
He peered at the telly. "What's this?" George and Fred had a telly, but they'd broken it two days after they got it when they'd tried to see if they could charm it to display them instead of whatever was on the channels. And then the insides had exploded. They used it to set things on, now. So he didn't actually follow many shows or know what any of them were.