[He watches the water slosh unevenly from the bottle as it rolls across the floor, rather than stare at her huddled shape. Situations like this are the ones in which he has no idea what he's supposed to do. He still suspects he's about as comforting as a blanket woven from sandpaper - and he remembers sitting with Marco that night he came back shackled to a death penalty, resenting the feeling of uselessness that floundered inside him like it is now.
He starts with what is easiest, which is stooping to pick the nearly empty bottle up. He throws his eyes around the room for a spare towel to mop up the mess with, but he hesitates in actually going to fetch one when his eyes land on her again. He extends a hand to her. She's strong. She should be standing up.]
Can you get up? [His voice is now softened by both awkwardness and necessity.]
[action]
He starts with what is easiest, which is stooping to pick the nearly empty bottle up. He throws his eyes around the room for a spare towel to mop up the mess with, but he hesitates in actually going to fetch one when his eyes land on her again. He extends a hand to her. She's strong. She should be standing up.]
Can you get up? [His voice is now softened by both awkwardness and necessity.]