Ronan moved his fingers. He tried to think of how to get the piece of cloth over his stomach in place of his hand, but any time he imagined pulling his hand away the image of his intestines spilling out made him reconsider.

"I-- pick them-- fine," he rasped. In different circumstances, he'd be manning the turrets and ready to launch a fierce battle in defense of his boyfriend and his fine qualities, but in those circumstances, over a quarter of his blood wasn't outside of his body. It didn't help that he was pissed at Adam for keeping his gun aimed at Ivar.

"Adam--" He scrambled when Adam tried to carry him, which he fought at first. His feet slid on blood and his knees kept buckling. Too weak to resist, he had no choice but to rely on him. "You don't-- point your gun at-- at someone unless--"

Oh, fuck. He didn't have the energy to give a lecture on gun safety now. Not to mention he thought he might throw up if he opened his mouth again.