The way Wrench backs up away from Kurt's reaching hand is familiar. Kurt has seen it before, in friends and strangers alike, mutants and humans who have found their way to the care of the X-Men. Heroes who refuse to peel back the layers of their uniform so their friends don't have to see the extent of the bruising rippling around their ribcage; children who cry when asked to show the burns that their new powers have made on their hands. It is the movement of a scared, hurt animal, who fears to be hurt again.
Kurt's heart aches to see it -- aches worse to be the cause of it -- but he steels himself with the necessity and ignores Wrench's attempt at a lie that his face betrays as easily as his hands say it. He glances away, though, as the man begins to undress, turning slightly to the table to arrange and examine the medical supplies. He's no Hank McCoy or Dr. Reyes, but he is a trained field medic -- they all had to be, in those early days, all of Xavier's children -- and deftly sorts through what he judges he needs.
When he turns back, Wrench is undressed, somehow taller and less so without the layers of fabric bulking him out. Kurt's gaze travels over his scars, not hiding the concern and unhappiness in his expression at seeing the man's body so torn about. The cut along his arm looks bad and Kurt almost recognises those stitches -- another unasked question answered by the ghost of the man whose space they inhabit -- and the slice across his back is worse, if only for being so clearly worked on by someone who can't quite see what he's doing.
Wrench's hands rise and fall; Kurt watches him and sighs. "Oh, mein Freund."
He takes a step forward, then brings his right hand to his chest, extending his left to hover near the other man's arm. Not touching, not yet, not without permission. Please.
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Kurt's heart aches to see it -- aches worse to be the cause of it -- but he steels himself with the necessity and ignores Wrench's attempt at a lie that his face betrays as easily as his hands say it. He glances away, though, as the man begins to undress, turning slightly to the table to arrange and examine the medical supplies. He's no Hank McCoy or Dr. Reyes, but he is a trained field medic -- they all had to be, in those early days, all of Xavier's children -- and deftly sorts through what he judges he needs.
When he turns back, Wrench is undressed, somehow taller and less so without the layers of fabric bulking him out. Kurt's gaze travels over his scars, not hiding the concern and unhappiness in his expression at seeing the man's body so torn about. The cut along his arm looks bad and Kurt almost recognises those stitches -- another unasked question answered by the ghost of the man whose space they inhabit -- and the slice across his back is worse, if only for being so clearly worked on by someone who can't quite see what he's doing.
Wrench's hands rise and fall; Kurt watches him and sighs. "Oh, mein Freund."
He takes a step forward, then brings his right hand to his chest, extending his left to hover near the other man's arm. Not touching, not yet, not without permission. Please.