'No,' he says, from the chair.

'I wan' t'draw the curtains, stay in 'ere an' die. Or go home t'bed.'

He doesn't move. His eyelids are starting to droop and even dragging himself up to walk downstairs seems like an unbearable effort. Hell, his damp hair is making his collar wet which feels horrible but he doesn't have the energy to lift his head, let alone anything else.

No one said a hungover Gene was nice to be around.