He's a lot heavier than Malcolm but the thought doesn't really occur to him. Not much occurs to him when he takes that bony wrist and lifts himself out of perdition and self-imposed exile. At least Malcolm doesn't fall flat on his face. Small blessings.

Dragging his feet through the water, he makes it into the living room and leaves a wet trail from the garage to the kitchen. Out here he's under no illusion that he's not in the well anymore. It's a lot brighter inside the house but his hat helps shield him from the brunt of the glare. They haven't informally assigned seats but Doc always likes the barstool closest to the front and back doors of the house. He feels safest there.

He sits down and as he starts dripping, he notices belatedly that he's made a bit of a mess. His gaze drops to the wet shoeprints on the floor and he clings to the top of his soaked jeans, anxiety settling in his furrowed brows over just-- sitting there... dripping. Doc feels that way about his life sometimes - that he's just drifting on through and upsetting the natural state of things everywhere he goes. His left hand clutches onto his right elbow as though it might stave off the dripping somehow.