Given the option, Wrench watches with sharp green eyes. Having Kurt beside him provides a kind of relief from the anxiety of only being able to guess the man's next aim as he worked at his back. Now he keeps his companion in his line of sight as he moves with practiced efficiency about the tools. Watching the way he works the medical scissors, Wrench can't help but think how much of what seems normal to him was not designed with the man in mind. He's used to feeling like an outsider, but he sees now Kurt's need for adaptation. The way the other man has learned to utilize the tools that do little to make his job even easier. He's underestimated the man, he realizes again. Not because he's thought him any less capable, but because he hasn't wanted to let his mind play over explanations of how Kurt has come by his talents. What circumstances in life have conspired to make him so good at dressing wounds or protecting himself from danger.
He finds the end of the tail again under his fingers, and Wrench lets his curious hand fascinate over its texture. The tugging of the skin on his upper arm is enough to make him sick, but he shifts his focus to what else is tangible. The warmth of the other man leaned over him, the sturdiness of the boots on his feet, the scent of juniper and antiseptic under his nose, and Kurt's tail still moving gently under his fingers. Wrench holds the air in his throat so tightly he quiets any sound of his discomfort. Any will to grumble or complain gets stuck there, deep beneath the knot of breath waiting to be exhaled. By the end his whole arm is shaking, and the fingers that hold Kurt tremble against that appendage, but he smiles thinly and nods his head at the question.
"Okay," he mouths, and wipes tiredly at his face before reaching for the glass of gin. Wrench thinks of the tenderness inherent in the brutality. The will of them left to put one another back together again. Born out of necessity, maybe, but there's trust here too. Both he and Kurt could have turned each other away. Instead they've found it within themselves to lean in closer. To hold on that much more firmly. Mop up each other's blood, piece skin back together. Wrench shudders over his next breath and reaches for his companion's hand. Drawing it close, Wrench holds it between both of his hands a moment before settling Kurt's fingers in the space over his heart.
no subject
He finds the end of the tail again under his fingers, and Wrench lets his curious hand fascinate over its texture. The tugging of the skin on his upper arm is enough to make him sick, but he shifts his focus to what else is tangible. The warmth of the other man leaned over him, the sturdiness of the boots on his feet, the scent of juniper and antiseptic under his nose, and Kurt's tail still moving gently under his fingers. Wrench holds the air in his throat so tightly he quiets any sound of his discomfort. Any will to grumble or complain gets stuck there, deep beneath the knot of breath waiting to be exhaled. By the end his whole arm is shaking, and the fingers that hold Kurt tremble against that appendage, but he smiles thinly and nods his head at the question.
"Okay," he mouths, and wipes tiredly at his face before reaching for the glass of gin. Wrench thinks of the tenderness inherent in the brutality. The will of them left to put one another back together again. Born out of necessity, maybe, but there's trust here too. Both he and Kurt could have turned each other away. Instead they've found it within themselves to lean in closer. To hold on that much more firmly. Mop up each other's blood, piece skin back together. Wrench shudders over his next breath and reaches for his companion's hand. Drawing it close, Wrench holds it between both of his hands a moment before settling Kurt's fingers in the space over his heart.