"Here." Reaching forward, he steadies the bottle, his hand over Felix's. "You're doing great." When he nods it's a go-on-and-drink nod and he's not lifting the bottle for the guy. Just making sure it doesn't spill all over the place, 'cause he doesn't see anyone here to... to clean up, to change the bedding, none of that.

Personally, he's not sure how anyone could have not followed the sound of Felix's voice. He swallows hard, pulls his hand back, nods again. He's out of words. If he knew the details of the situation -- if he'd done what Felix said he did, what that... that poor leg or what's left of it is evidence of -- would he feel better or worse? 'Cause he can't see himself shooting anyone unless there was damn good cause.

But he doesn't know the details and doesn't want to know. This place, it's an intersection of worlds, of time, of space. What if... what if Felix isn't from his world at all, but some... some alternate version of it? Or maybe he's just grasping at straws: he doesn't know, but that'd sure as frak make him feel a whole lot better.