Flat faced in the dirty dank ditch, drunk, sick and yet nonetheless alive. Hands tugging against his shirt, he could tell it was a woman, from how hard she seemed to be tugging as he muttered curses and a few choice words.

But he could tell it wasn't Dana. Wasn't the same hands he's grown so used to feeling tug him from the cold hands of death. He coughed, a wet cough almost sickly. His hands clasping air weakly as he felt the body of the woman. Or at this point he didn't care he was too weak, too sickly.

The rain seemed to pour harder but his body felt like it was on fire as he coughed and hacked into her shoulder, clutching her tightly. Her dark tone blended in too well with the haze of his vision. He couldn't tell but he could feel.

It went dark.

He woke up hacking and coughing, feverish but not in the bed he expected to be in, it was soft, warm yes but not his bed.

He woke up bleary eyed, feverish, nonetheless alive somehow. Where was Dana? Where was... who was this? As he fixed his gaze on the woman using a cold towel to ease the fever from his head. He groaned softly - that felt amazing, but who was this woman? Where was her... no, nonetheless... but she wore something that he could tell might relate to Dana's time but he was unsure.

He shifted on the bed bleary eyed and weak as he gazed up at her. "Who are you?" he questioned weakly, his voice slightly shot, rough, unfocused but he was alive.