For years now he's been nowhere, and anywhere at all. "Home" is a concept that's left Wrench now, even if his grasp on the fragile sentiment had been tenuous at best all along. He wonders about the company that Kurt keeps here and the company that he's used to keeping. A former priest, a man of great faith, who stands vigil for another with blades in his hands. It relieves him, Wrench realizes, to know how little this man must understand about the company he keeps. He imagines the narrowing of Kurt's golden eyes, the swish-and-flick of his tail turned hostile. He thinks of the words the man might say if he were to learn where Wrench was bound. That the only place he'd been expecting to go was to prison.

The universe must be intolerably indifferent. Who can find reason for a man bound to confinement to find himself now moving about a cozy little wooden shack by the edge of a lake, fishing freely, interacting quietly with men he's been classed too dangerous to live among, and occasionally fighting for his life against horrors from the pages of story books? Somewhere, Wrench hopes that someone is laughing.

Curiosity makes him wish he could see himself through Kurt's eyes, though concern tells him it's better not to wonder. Wrench's evaluating gaze is distracted by the man's signing, and he nips his own smile back before responding in kind. Better. Not the best. The emphasis on the upward movement shows the difference, a reiteration in the concepts of magnitude he'd been playfully teaching as he cooked. How do you feel? Wrench gingerly palpates the area and watches Kurt's shifting expression with a furrowed brow. He gathers fewer supplies tonight, but still motions his intent to change the bandages. This time there's no scalding water, no bite of pure alcohol, and no demanding palm hitching up against internal organs. Wrench is efficient and careful.