The first thing he thinks is that she's goddamn nuts.

It's a funny thing, though, death, and there's no normal reaction to something like this, dying and then waking up, washed up like debris on the shore. He blew himself up on the bottom of the ocean floor, dying in the line of duty like a part of him always knew he would. It isn't hard to guess from the sight of her that she didn't get that much say in the matter. Dead girls don't usually wrap themselves in plastic and throw themselves into whatever body of water she'd been in before she got here.

So he sets his jaw, hating himself a little for being here, for letting himself get involved in whatever is going on here, but he crouches in the sand, still maintaining a careful distance so as hopefully not to seem like a threat. Shit like this doesn't exactly come easily to him, but maybe because she seems to have turned up the same way he did, he thinks he might as well make an effort.

"Maybe you were, but you aren't anymore," he says, voice without its typical brusque edge. Shrugging, he slips off his bomber jacket, the one that he once found here not too far from where they are now, and offers it to her. "Here."