The Balladeer is accustomed to fierce glares, and bristles in response. "You heard what I said. Have someone else get your stuff, but you can't just run around sticking your hands in - hey!"

He certainly had no intention of leaving the OR, but it seems one of the others has a different idea. There's a firm hand on his upper arm tugging him away, and without Greta's grip on his wrist he loses his own on the side of the gurney. "Can't handle the pressure," mutters someone nearby. "Bad case for a newbie - a stab wound like that."

"I am not new to this!" he points out, trying to take his arm back. What, like he's upset just because there's blood?

He's not resisting as hard as he could; he doesn't really want to kick up such a fuss that he distracts from helping Greta. As long as they're actually helping her and not just spreading pestilence! Or worse!