Hanna slowly blinks at him, the offer of water, and he's sure this isn't going to be fun.

"Did...did you die? Jesus fucking Christ." Moving his sick bowl to the side, Hanna shifts, tiredly throwing one leg after the other over the side of the bed so he can face him, "I really shouldn't put this conversation off but...are you going to be okay?"

Taking stock of the room, he can see the scattered flowers around, the scrubbing that Vincent did to get most of the circle off the floor, but traces of it are still there, rug still rolled up. God. This is going to fucking suck.