For a man as big as he, Wrench needs remarkably little space. He's well-adapted to fitting his long limbs into the hollows of corners left by others. Ice fishing huts, tents pitched under the boundless expanse of a night's sky, attics and cellars, and once or twice even the narrow backseat of a a rental car. Despite the introduction he gave Jim's headache when he first crawled out of the canopy of trees, he knows how to be quiet too. It takes a considerable effort, and there are times it must be apparent to the two other men who occupy this space how hard he's trying. The way he swallows back his own breath and moves like every footstep is laced with his intentionality is almost comical, but he's trying. Not to shrink himself away or to disappear. Wrench hasn't done much to concern himself with the open invitation he's been handed. But he's fashioned himself with the respectful posture of a man who must hope to be understood as less than he appears, and more than he's been taken for.
It feels wrong to appreciate the quiet of those lingering days when another member of the cabin is suffering, but Wrench finds relief in caretaking like he might never have known. Anything seems better than the Deerington that waits for them beyond the dead-bolted door, but steeping leaves for tea and running cloths under cool water makes him muse over what else his hands are capable of. Wrench has only considered them in two dimensions before: tools of aggression, and weavers of language. Now he finds his energy in watching how they can draw out a smile, or move a grimace towards something more relaxed. He knows he's a fool to hold this place in any sort of regard. It's captured them, tortured them, and now it's made the most impervious among them weak and sick with its illness, but it's still a far cry from the wandering dark of the woods or the creeping realization that a lifetime of captivity is all that's waiting for him elsewhere, too.
Wrench barely sleeps. It comes as no surprise to Kurt, he's sure, and he doubt Jim minds the restlessness that keeps their bed a space of limited occupancy. The hours the two men spend fighting their demons for precious moments of rest, he reads, devises puzzles on the sheets of paper that once contained their written conversations, and stalks the area around the cabin for what he can trap and gather. A few times Wrench has put his mind to cleaning or shuffling cabinets, but a harsh word from the man whose head still pounds quickly put an end to the more enthusiastic of his activities.
He doesn't always keep his distance, though. Sometimes he's overt about it, and once or twice Kurt has stumbled out of bed to find Wrench curled up on the floorboards. Even more often, he takes refuge with them on the sofa and traps them both with his legs or his arms wound around them, refusing to see any protestation. But usually it's enough just to know where they are, to keep them in his easy sights should he look up from a page and find himself wanting in the moonlight. He's drifted on and off a few times already tonight. The change in barometric pressure and the heavy streaks and trembles across the night sky might keep others awake, but to Wrench they're a beckoning lullaby in his chest. When he startles awake for the third time he sits up from the couch, passes a hand over his lips, and turns to peer from the back of the furniture towards the bedroom.
the sky was dark but you were clear - cw: watch out for voyeurs
It feels wrong to appreciate the quiet of those lingering days when another member of the cabin is suffering, but Wrench finds relief in caretaking like he might never have known. Anything seems better than the Deerington that waits for them beyond the dead-bolted door, but steeping leaves for tea and running cloths under cool water makes him muse over what else his hands are capable of. Wrench has only considered them in two dimensions before: tools of aggression, and weavers of language. Now he finds his energy in watching how they can draw out a smile, or move a grimace towards something more relaxed. He knows he's a fool to hold this place in any sort of regard. It's captured them, tortured them, and now it's made the most impervious among them weak and sick with its illness, but it's still a far cry from the wandering dark of the woods or the creeping realization that a lifetime of captivity is all that's waiting for him elsewhere, too.
Wrench barely sleeps. It comes as no surprise to Kurt, he's sure, and he doubt Jim minds the restlessness that keeps their bed a space of limited occupancy. The hours the two men spend fighting their demons for precious moments of rest, he reads, devises puzzles on the sheets of paper that once contained their written conversations, and stalks the area around the cabin for what he can trap and gather. A few times Wrench has put his mind to cleaning or shuffling cabinets, but a harsh word from the man whose head still pounds quickly put an end to the more enthusiastic of his activities.
He doesn't always keep his distance, though. Sometimes he's overt about it, and once or twice Kurt has stumbled out of bed to find Wrench curled up on the floorboards. Even more often, he takes refuge with them on the sofa and traps them both with his legs or his arms wound around them, refusing to see any protestation. But usually it's enough just to know where they are, to keep them in his easy sights should he look up from a page and find himself wanting in the moonlight. He's drifted on and off a few times already tonight. The change in barometric pressure and the heavy streaks and trembles across the night sky might keep others awake, but to Wrench they're a beckoning lullaby in his chest. When he startles awake for the third time he sits up from the couch, passes a hand over his lips, and turns to peer from the back of the furniture towards the bedroom.