"I said hold still, not use head gestures," he says. He has no idea what a Big Blue class hit is, but he expects it's the sort of thing that pulverizes normal humans into dog chow upon impact (a.k.a. something he's seriously not interested in experiencing). He chances a look over his shoulder and is a few shades more than relieved that Superboy 2.0, Now With More Hostility, is occupying himself elsewhere.

He undoes his belt and wraps up around Kon's thigh, a bit above the wound, then draws it into a tight tourniquet. He pulls compression bandages out of the kit and sets them aside for near-immediate use. "This is not going to feel good. You ready?"

Were Howard a nicer person, or a person not afraid that Kon could crush his finger bones with a stray twitch, he might offer to let Kon squeeze his free hand before he yanks the pipe out. But he isn't, so he doesn't. All he offers is a quick advice of "okay, keep your tongue away from your teeth now".