There weren't a lot of situations that Sitwell could remember reacting as instinctually and animalistically as he did, but Coulson's panic was met with panic and where he pushed, Sitwell pulled. Before he could enact any escape plans, Sitwell was grabbing his collar and snarling aggressively, ready to slam him back down if he had to. Then Coulson blinked, and so did Sitwell, brow furrowing into anxiety and twisted lips pressing into an apologetic pout.
"Sorry. You were sleeping. I mean, obviously," he croaked, voice scratchy and raw like his whole throat had dried up. He had to lick his lips, then withdrew, crouched on the floor of the tent with his arms tucked around his knees and clutching white-knuckled to the fringes of the fur around his shoulders. He had never been so hungry in his life; he chewed on his own tongue, now that Coulson was awake and nothing else seemed to be moving, to keep his stomach from leaping out and foraging for itself. Once the wave of crippling pain subsided for whatever brief blessing, Sitwell turned to tug weakly at the sled, searching the bloodied blankets for whatever Coulson had left for him. Whatever he had woken Coulson for was distantly nagging but so laughably unimportant then that Sitwell didn't even bother with an excuse.