Muttering angry apologies, Rory stomped upstairs.
‘Stop apologising, Rory,’ Jon said roughly, ‘it wasn’t your fault.’ He grasped the older man’s arm, inspected the cut, took off his shirt, ripped it into strips, and gave them to Rory. ‘Here, wrap it tight.’ Turning to me, he wet another strip of torn shirt, wiped away the blood, reckoned it was nothing to worry about, but bandaged it ‘just in case.’
Rory continued apologetic as he used the rest of Jon’s shirt to try to stem the flow of b