[ When Archangel swoons, Mordin is on it with a snap of reflexes impressive even from a salarian, shoulder gliding forward to support his not-inconsiderable weight. Even through a glove, he can feel the heat rolling off the turian's body where he's supporting him, palm solid and fingers splayed over the narrowest part of his torso. Turians are like salarians; they run hot, particularly in the wake of deadly firefights.

It's a good thing that Archangel's doing. ]

Bedrest.

[ And he says that with a twist of his lips, like he knows full well that there's nothing he could demand that would be worse. ]

Can expect fever response to injury as it heals. Minor infection due to waiting, hasty application of omni-gel. Have done what I can for now, Should have come immediately after skirmish.

[ Being scolded by a doctor might be humiliating in every culture, who knows. ]

No need to worry about clinic. Safest place to be at present; choke points fortified by armed mechs. If Suns not already aware... [ Sniff. His cheer about it is maybe vaguely macabre. ] Will be.

At any rate, welcome to stay. No, inaccurate. Not welcome. Must insist, actually. As your physician.