Not the best, Kurt repeats back, his grin faltering a little as Wrench's hands move across his abdomen, making him pull in a sharp breath as they find a particularly sore spot. He follows Wrench's fingers, touching the back of his hand lightly to stop him in a couple of places. Still hurts here.

These, too, had been necessary words to learn. Pain, dizziness, nausea, headache. The vocabulary of a patient or, as Kurt prefers to think of himself, a friend in need. He hopes that these words will be least used between them, but the pragmatic part of himself -- which always sounds like Logan in his thoughts -- notes that probably isn't going to happen.

He looks down at Wrench's hands as they pass over him, noting not for the first time the small scars that stretch across his knuckles. They are not the hands of a man who has had a peaceful life. Kurt remembers the way Wrench had gone for his weapon, the first time they'd met, and again when Fern had surprised them. The actions of someone who is used to defending himself, used to being attacked, so much so that he can do it as easily as breathing.

A second chance. Kurt looks up to meet his eyes and wonders what the first one cost him.

The unwound bandages reveal fur that's cleaner than it was and gauze only a little spotted by blood, though Kurt still makes a face of mild disgust at the sight of it all. It reminds him of too many times when he's been laid low and vulnerable, a feeling he doesn't much like.

He shivers a little as Wrench's fingertips move through his fur, and touches the back of his wrist to get his attention.

"Ticklish," he murmurs, accompanying the word with a wriggle of his fingers in the air, a wry smile on his face.