But better? Wrench finds it easier than expected to tease. The humor of a man who earns his living through such violence would seem quite logically to either fall morbid or nonexistent, but he bites back a knowing grin that conceals some delight at the wisdom inherent in their little game. The teaching holds the reality at a distance, if only for a time. It allows Wrench to unwind bandages and check the temperature of Kurt's skin without thinking what put those punctures there. The kinds of things this word seems bound and determined to turn them into. Instead he feels what it's like to know something, to have and possess it and hold it out like a treasured gift. Wrench watches it land in Kurt's hands and knows the man means to treat it with its due importance.

Your skin is warm, he notes of the space around the injuries. Warm, like the mug of tea meant to settle Kurt's stomach and ease his headache. Warm, like the pan on the stove, or the steam from the shower that morning. A string of associations that build meaning when reiterated. It's good, he thinks. It means that Kurt is healing. Wrench parts the fur between his careful fingers and examines the base of skin directly around the cuts. He's learning from the other man, too. Coming to understand his unique physiology and the benefit of his body. Learning, too, when his own tendencies become too overbearing. Wrench still feels embarrassment for what happened earlier that morning, with Fern.

The fingers on his own draw his gaze upward again, and he shakes his head good-naturedly at Kurt's complaint. I'll be quick, he promises. A swipe of a sterile wipe, the reapplication of more antiseptic, and fresh gauze to the site of the injury. Wrench reaches for the other man and guides his hand into place to hold onto the gauze until he's bound him in, white bandage a shock of contrast against the blue. He checks his work, and steps back to look the man over. Feel O-K? Too tight?