After hitting the water, Sitwell had gone limp, making him easy to haul up aside from the sputtering and shaking. He didn't particularly want to be saved from his willful drowning then (could he drown? He couldn't even properly remember if witches were supposed to sink or float), especially by the woman he would rather die than confront, but also didn't trust his own locomotion and couldn't bring himself to put up any resistance.
Weakly, brow knit in a poor expression of how deeply and diversely apologetic he was, Sitwell nodded at Rogue's succinct instruction, accepting the glove and her, at least comparatively, more reasonable leadership. It wasn't so easy to accept, though, when he could tear his wide, bright gaze away from her and took in the unfolding tragedy that their conflict had only been a small part of-- Magneto still stalking through what was once a beautiful reception and was now gruesome chaos. Sitwell hesitated, crouched at the edge of the pool, and glanced back Rogue's way for moral guidance. She was probably right; Sitwell hadn't exactly done much good for this situation by being part of it.