Herbert looks sidelong at Foster for a moment, the return of the saliva reminding him almost of one of his experiments. It's fitting, but also puts Herbert very slightly on edge--moreso than Foster's other reactions. Those are as related to his brain damage as the drooling, he's aware, but there have been enough attacks from people dripping from the mouth on his person that it can't help but come to mind.

When it seems that Foster isn't going to stand, Herbert decides it will be best to deal with him on his knees anyway. He doesn't want to be caught by a flailing paw if Foster falls from drunken lack of balance. Instead, he starts to walk forward, still holding onto Foster's shoulder, intending to personally ferry him over to sit.

If he lets him, Herbert lets go once they reach the bed, propping a pillow if there's one there and stealing a pillow from whatever bed looks least like Reira's if it's not. Foster aspirating vomit into his trachea would completely defeat the purpose of being here to mind him.

"You're already losing fluids," he observes. "Get up. Back against the headboard. If you're, going to vomit do it over the edge of the bed." This is just validly Herbert's bedside manner. It's bad.