There's no sign to say "you're welcome" in American Sign Language. There's an expression to welcome someone, or to make them feel welcomed in your space. But to excuse someone's gratitude from them takes a different kind of pronouncement. A thumbs-up, perhaps, or a wave of a hand to dismiss the very gesture. Or, in Wrench's case, the same amount of thanks given back. He expresses it no less earnestly, the touch of his fingers under his chin and the extension outward. Thank you, he says in turn. For trusting me, for not turning me out. For seeing in me something more than I feel capable of showing.

Wench means to move away. Perhaps to the table, to clear their mugs or to deal a hand of cards. Or maybe to the couch, where he's left The Art of War opened to chapter nine: the movement of troops through enemy territory. Kurt's hands stop him, and he watches with curiosity as the man shapes the vocabulary he's learned into sentences. The gesture towards himself makes Wrench seize up. He draws back, turning his shoulder protectively away from the other man. As eagerly as he's wanted to help and as quick as he's been to take up the job on Kurt's behalf, he struggles here. Wrench's reflex is still that of a skittish animal, poised to oppose to quick a movement over its own head.

I'm fine, his hands say, but Kurt's finger is still held there, gesturing to his shoulder like he knows better. Wrench pins him in his steady, unblinking gaze for several seconds before finally relenting. He unbuttons the long sleeved shirt and slings it over the back of a near chair. Again at the thermal top he hesitates, but that comes over his head eventually as well. The man underneath the garments is not so broad after all. His skin still holds the color of the sun, radiating a golden warmth save for the places where the scarring has taken hold. There worst of it is centered around his abdomen, where the skin puckers just northeast of his navel. It's a wound that could have only been caused by the entry point of a hollow-tipped bullet. The embedding and expansion still lives there in the hollow. Other spots of scarring are faded -- patches of light across a tan landscape -- but numerous nonetheless. Along his right bicep, one of the newest stretches and is pieced together with a dozen stitches of fishing wire. At his back, near the shoulder Kurt's grasp meant to reassure, another laceration is haphazardly patched.

Wrench watches Kurt watch him, and can only think of one thing to say: It doesn't matter. Tools aren't meant to be revered.