As much as he'd like the throw out an uncaring quip, he's got to concentrate just so he doesn't end up yelling through the pain, biting into the belt as he forces his arm to lay still, and he's breathless with sweat beading on his forehead by the time Michael is done.

Thankfully, the guy was mercifully fast.

"Thanks," he says, when he can speak past the buzzing of pain arcing up from his shoulder. "I've had to take care of a bullet wound once or twice, but I have to say, it's much easier with a handy guy like you around to patch me up."

Wasn't that how Michael had introduced himself, anyway?

He feels dizzy, and his skin is pale and clammy, but the stitches and gauze are a distinct improvement, and after a second, he tries moving his arm, wincing, then nodding in approval.

"Good as new."