At least he stopped and is listening, if still arguing. Considering James has no real authority here at all, and he's never been the type of leader who's opposed to entertaining reasonable opposition to orders anyway, he'll take what he can get.
"That can wait until first light." He says it instead of what he thinks, which is that there's no point, there's no sealing anything, and the best that can be hoped for is to control the bleeding. The wounds themselves won't close, and the bandages won't last more than several hours without needing replaced anyway, this is a slow way to die, he's already done this once, it's just going to happen all over again, it was supposed to be over--
He takes a breath that feels like a knife has been put through his ribs, struggles to maintain what composure he still has, and holds his bad arm against his injured side with his other hand. The pressure helps, a little, but now something is jamming against his other side in a feeling that's more annoying than actually painful, and he lets go of his arm for a moment to reach into the pocket of his great coat.
It's the flares he'd found earlier, unfamiliar to him for the most part aside from passing similarity to some other things he's seen before, so he doesn't realize they're a potential solution to at least one of the problems with going outside. They are therefore simply tossed lightly onto the ground beside him, though the gesture is less out of irritation and more just exasperation.
no subject
"That can wait until first light." He says it instead of what he thinks, which is that there's no point, there's no sealing anything, and the best that can be hoped for is to control the bleeding. The wounds themselves won't close, and the bandages won't last more than several hours without needing replaced anyway, this is a slow way to die, he's already done this once, it's just going to happen all over again, it was supposed to be over--
He takes a breath that feels like a knife has been put through his ribs, struggles to maintain what composure he still has, and holds his bad arm against his injured side with his other hand. The pressure helps, a little, but now something is jamming against his other side in a feeling that's more annoying than actually painful, and he lets go of his arm for a moment to reach into the pocket of his great coat.
It's the flares he'd found earlier, unfamiliar to him for the most part aside from passing similarity to some other things he's seen before, so he doesn't realize they're a potential solution to at least one of the problems with going outside. They are therefore simply tossed lightly onto the ground beside him, though the gesture is less out of irritation and more just exasperation.