Kurt leaves his hand on his stomach after Wrench releases him, fingertips brushing over the rough fabric of the bandages, his face hidden for a moment under a fall of increasingly unruly dark curls as he looks down at himself. Blue, white, blue, then the soft flannel check of the pyjama pants rescued from the thrift shop and darned into usefulness, mostly in the tail area. He passes his hand across the site where Laura's claws had killed him, for a moment, and wonders if there will be a scar or two. Not that anyone will be able to see it under his fur. Like Logan, he can hide the cost of his bravado. Or his foolishness.
He lifts his head and looks at Wrench, already smiling. O-K, he replies. Thank you.
The gratitude is wholehearted, and though he thinks the words aren't necessarily required every time Wrench does something for him, he says them anyway. Fastening them in his memory, so the gestures become as fluid as a tumbling trick.
Now you. This, he knows, will be trickier. The man hasn't so much as shifted his shirt since arriving, at least not in front of anyone except himself. He doesn't give Wrench room to argue, pointing at his shoulder, where he had touched and felt the other man flinch away when Fern had arrived. You're hurt. Let me see.
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He lifts his head and looks at Wrench, already smiling. O-K, he replies. Thank you.
The gratitude is wholehearted, and though he thinks the words aren't necessarily required every time Wrench does something for him, he says them anyway. Fastening them in his memory, so the gestures become as fluid as a tumbling trick.
Now you. This, he knows, will be trickier. The man hasn't so much as shifted his shirt since arriving, at least not in front of anyone except himself. He doesn't give Wrench room to argue, pointing at his shoulder, where he had touched and felt the other man flinch away when Fern had arrived. You're hurt. Let me see.