It's another couple of seconds before River sits up.

(She can't push emotions back very well, nowadays. Which means momentary distractions are more effective than they might otherwise be, if they're genuinely distracting -- but means that the rest of her feelings crowd in the rest of the time. And right now, what's in the back of her mind is Milliways.

How many friends will they never see again? How many are dead? And Boukephalos, Tequila, Bar herself -- some friends must have died with it no matter what.)

Then she nods a little, and pushes herself -- inclines herself upright (ow, shoulder) and scoots forward towards the stream.

Handkerchief in hand. Her face is going to need some good rinsing, or everything she drinks is going to taste like possibly poisonous ichor.