He was right, it was worse; but if Wichita could still stand and talk after all that, it was unlikely to have pierced a lung or someplace equally dire. Kirk watched the other man as he tried to soothe her, and was reminded from his firm but gentle demeanour (and his appearance, a little) of watching Bones with a patient. This man was younger than his friend, probably around their age, but like Bones would've been, he was hardly shaken by what had just transpired. Good.

"You'll be okay," Kirk echoed. He stepped away further to give them both as much room to breathe as they could get in this pantry. He'd been around Bones enough to know that if someone else had the situation in hand, crowding them wouldn't help. "Just put pressure on the wound. Maybe sit her down too. You can use... ah..."

Kirk's flashlight swung around the room but there was nothing in here except packaged food. Shaking his head, he lifted his hand from his bleeding arm and tugged his uniform shirt off, leaving him in the black undershirt he'd worn for much of the chaotic trip he'd had before landing in Landel's. He tossed the bundle of gold fabric over to the bespectacled man.

"Apply pressure. I'll look around outside for something we can use, unless you both want to follow me too." Kirk smiled reassuringly as he nudged the door open to the kitchen. "I'm Kirk, by the way. Her name's Wichita." Longer introductions could be made later.