Kurt's personal sign vocabulary is steadily expanding, but there are still enough gaps that it's more the look of slightly amused acceptance in Wrench's expression than the movements of his hands that convince him he's got the man's grudging agreement. He nods, the gives into an impulse and reaches over to briefly take those fingers in his own, rubbing his thumb over Wrench's knuckles before releasing him.
O-K, he replies, before standing and moving back over to the stove. He takes up the kettle, pouring steaming water to fill up the bowl, then drops the scissors into it. A flip of his tail pours out a double measure of Logan's strong and floral-smelling gin into the mug, which he sets by Wrench's elbow. His movements are calm and efficient, falling into the routine of training and comfort. Again, he finds himself dwelling on gratitude, both concept and feeling; it reassures something within him, to be able to do this for Wrench. Not quite paying him back, since he feels Wrench would never accept such a payment, though he does undeniably owe something to the man -- but giving something, that he can and wants to give, and seeing it received. Material, measurable good.
When he returns to Wrench's side, he tries to let this feeling show in his expression. Hold still, is all the warning he gives before fishing the scissors out of the hot water with accustomed and sturdy fingers. It's awkward, but he manages, holding them with two hands as he lines the blades up with the fishing wire. Before he begins, his tail winds out and around Wrench's leg below the knee, a gentle and present pressure, as the spade once again returns to his lap.
Logan's stitches aren't, perhaps, the cleanest, but they are the product of a man who knew what he was doing, and offer little resistance to Kurt's deft fingers. He works as quickly as he can, letting the bits of wire drop onto the table, studiously ignoring the twitch and tug of Wrench's muscles. Still, he finds himself breathing a little easier once it's done, setting the scissors aside and taking up a sterile wipe to clean the red line of the wound. He holds Wrench's arm as he does so, palm supporting his elbow, feeling the smooth warmth of his skin.
He meets Wrench's eyes, hands occupied so he has to ask aloud, though with a brief squeeze of his tail to punctuate it.
cw: wound care
O-K, he replies, before standing and moving back over to the stove. He takes up the kettle, pouring steaming water to fill up the bowl, then drops the scissors into it. A flip of his tail pours out a double measure of Logan's strong and floral-smelling gin into the mug, which he sets by Wrench's elbow. His movements are calm and efficient, falling into the routine of training and comfort. Again, he finds himself dwelling on gratitude, both concept and feeling; it reassures something within him, to be able to do this for Wrench. Not quite paying him back, since he feels Wrench would never accept such a payment, though he does undeniably owe something to the man -- but giving something, that he can and wants to give, and seeing it received. Material, measurable good.
When he returns to Wrench's side, he tries to let this feeling show in his expression. Hold still, is all the warning he gives before fishing the scissors out of the hot water with accustomed and sturdy fingers. It's awkward, but he manages, holding them with two hands as he lines the blades up with the fishing wire. Before he begins, his tail winds out and around Wrench's leg below the knee, a gentle and present pressure, as the spade once again returns to his lap.
Logan's stitches aren't, perhaps, the cleanest, but they are the product of a man who knew what he was doing, and offer little resistance to Kurt's deft fingers. He works as quickly as he can, letting the bits of wire drop onto the table, studiously ignoring the twitch and tug of Wrench's muscles. Still, he finds himself breathing a little easier once it's done, setting the scissors aside and taking up a sterile wipe to clean the red line of the wound. He holds Wrench's arm as he does so, palm supporting his elbow, feeling the smooth warmth of his skin.
He meets Wrench's eyes, hands occupied so he has to ask aloud, though with a brief squeeze of his tail to punctuate it.
"OK?"