He isn’t dead. He might wish that he was later, when he’s battered and hungover and completely miserable. But at the moment, he’s alive. His heartbeat is strong, surprisingly so, considering that it’s defective and broken, easily felt when Anna checks his pulse.

There’s a cut on his forehead, right above his temple, that bleeds freely but not dangerously. He won’t bleed out from it, and while the knock to his head may have resulted in a concussion, it hasn’t cracked his skull or sent him into a coma. His clothes are torn and thoroughly soaked, and if she looks, she’ll notice the faint glow of the arc reactor from beneath his shirt.

For a moment, it seems as though he’s not breathing. His chest doesn’t rise or fall, no air passes through his nose or his mouth. But then, as the seconds tick by, he starts coughing, weak, sluggish coughing that ends with him turning his head and retching up the salt water he’s swallowed. His eyes open once, unfocused and dazed, not really seeing her even though they turn in her direction, before they close again and he falls limply back against the ground, unconscious but alive.