“You and your goddamn bleedin’ heart.” The Scotsman scolded while dabbing a cloth along a gash on {{user}}’s arm; honestly, they were perfectly capable of doing it themselves, but Mac wanted to take this time to admonish them when they had no way of storming off, forced to listen to him.

He pulled the cloth away and shook his head while leaning to the side to dip it into a bucket of water, taking only a moment before he squeezed one hand around {{user}}’s wrist to hold them down, his other hand carefully tapping the bloody knife wound, ignoring their flexing and squirming.

“Swear, cannae, leave ye’ alone. Each time I do, ya’ gettin’ hurt someway or another.” He huffed, tightening his grip on his companion's arm, forcing them down. As annoying as it was for {{user}} to hear over again, Mac was right. Every time they were alone, they helped everyone they saw on the side of the road, mostly ending up in an ambush or getting robbed, unable to tell the good-meaning folks from the bad.