A month and a half later, with a lengthy session a week or so, Wrench and Blake should find themselves excitedly pushing through to more and more advanced concepts. Unfortunately, with November comes cold winds and cold shoulders, too. Blake, normally warm and open and mindful, turns inward.
He's never mean, but it's clear he's short-tempered and irritated. By the second or third time around, it's probably insufferable. Since the beginning of November he's not only been facing the disappearance of his best friend, but also this awful influx of folks that don't seem to rightly belong in Deerington. His own father, who he hadn't seen since the guy's head was blown off (twenty-plus years prior, Blake reminds himself, the last time it wasn't just a memory) has even seen fit to make an appearance. Add in the fact that he'd caught wind of Jean-Paul's ever-increasing group if suitors including Wrench and his own worry over Jean-Paul going from no lovers to many lovers so quickly and of course he's going to be guarded. It's how he justifies himself. It's not optimal, comfortable, or kind in any way, and neither is Deerington. This is just how he chooses to deal with it.
Blake, still in his own head, doesn't hear Wrench coming and turns just in time to run head-first into the mountain of a man. The bowl of chilled heavy cream he carries tips back over Blake's clothes, instantly soaking through the layers.
He hisses, scuttling backwards a foot, but the liquid's already starting to puddle and spread around them. "Damn, how 'bout a little fuckin' warnin'?" he snipes, but he's looking down, not making it obvious he's talking to Wrench, not being mindful of all the things he's learned and been taught when dealing with the man.
Arms out, he holds the bowl in own hand and the other tries to fruitlessly wipe away some of the icy liquid. It's even in his shoes.
Evidently, one does not need much in the way of personal formal education to be accepted as a professor in Deerington. Wrench can't find it in himself to feel surprised over the lax nature of higher education in this dreamscape. What might shock others, however, is how eagerly a man who struggled through his own time in public schooling has taken on the role of educator. The lessons have kept his schedule full, but the guarantee of connection and communication have been motivation enough. Largely.
Never in his life has Wrench enjoyed the opportunity to have so many conversations. Just to be noticed and appreciated is something he could not have expected for himself some months ago. And so for the tall man, the lessons represent so much more. They aren't just a means of sharing a piece of knowledge he has that might serve Deerington as a whole. He gives something of himself to them each time. As much as Wrench hasn't consciously considered that, he's not able to disassociate the two. Commitment to the language is tantamount to a commitment to him. Lack thereof hits him deeply.
Wrench has felt some wariness of Blake since learning about his career before this place. Nevertheless, he's approached the reciprocal nature of their lessons with relative ease and has been mostly eager to learn the skills the other man has imparted. Those weekly sessions have been a bright spot thanks to Blake's generous nature, but he's noticed the difference lately. And while Deerington has a way of wearing at a person's psyche, it's hard not to think that maybe the other man has discovered something about him he'd rather not have known.
He feels the impact before he can raise warning, but Wrench stands solidly as the cream sloshes all over Blake. It draws a faint, wordless grumble from the man. A sound much too little and much too late. Wrench searches the space for a rag to offer.
Blake, now icy in more ways than one, turns that much cloudier and stormier with every passing moment. He withers into the gloom, dark eyes narrowing as he looks up at the very tall man in front of him. It's fitting, isn't it, that Blake would be covered while Wrench doesn't have a speck on him.
Huffing, Blake reaches out and takes the towel to mop less fruitlessly than before (but still fruitlessly), already trying to decide how long it'll take him to go home and change. Peeling out of his sweater, tossing it aside and into the trash, he's left with a gray t-shirt clinging to his skin, and dark trousers obviously stained. Even his socks and shoes aren't untouched, it seems, and as he stares down at the mess, he can't help but grumble more. No "thank you", no "I'm sorry", just a pissed off and unhappy Blake swearing quietly under his breath, inconvenient enough for their current arrangement.
Dipping down, Blake uses the towel to mop up the mess, but even that isn't going as planned. He's chasing the liquid, probably a good pint between him and the floor, but every time he moves his shoes trail more everywhere, and eventually the frustration becomes obvious.
He stands, barking out a sharp "fuck" before throwing the sodden towel. It splatters against the hood over the flattop and slides to the floor as Blake tosses his hands into the air and stalks out to the front room.
For weeks now, Wrench has been living in a cloud of his own guilt. Guilt that he couldn't save Kurt, and then again that he wasn't there to greet the man upon his return. Guilt that he was not better for Logan, both when the man was struggling against his own sense of self, and when he was shouldering the loss of his partner. And perhaps most profoundly, the guilt of once again losing his partner. Their time together was too short, short enough that it could have only been a trick of this place. And yet Wrench still feels the nagging in his chest that he might've given anything just for a longer time to spend with Grady. It's not fair that so many here should enjoy the company of loved ones while Wrench faces his own loss twice over. But there he feels guilt for his resentment for those who have more than he does.
There's no more room in his heart to hold any more guilt. Not today, and especially not over something so plainly accidental. Spilled milk and all of that. Wrench watches as Blake bats at himself with the kind of force he might expect to see the man wage against a monster in this place, clumsy and ineffective against such a mess. He looks for something to use to help, but he's barely made it out of his place when the man flings the towel and stalks out of the kitchen. Something in Wrench snaps like a string, and he feels a swell of frustration in his chest.
He's fucking trying, after all. Why can't anyone see how hard he's trying? And why should he keep trying if there's not enough good deeds in the world to make up for the life he's lived so far?
He's not far behind Blake, but Wrench stops at the first table in the main room of the café. He pounds his fist against the top of it, insisting the man's attention from the noise it makes. It was an accident! What's your problem?
They've come a ways in the past several weeks, but most of that might be over Blake's head.
The sound generated by Wrench's fist against the tabletop draws Blake's attention as intended, his head whipping around to stare first at the signing hands, then at the table, and finally back up at Wrench's face. As expected, he didn't catch much of any of it, boiling over instead over frightfully pointless reasons, disturbed and annoyed and overall pissy, really. He usually calls himself bitchy, but it's gotten a laugh before, so he neglects to use that phrasing outsider of close company, and even in his own head these days.
He shakes his head, not getting it, not even trying. Home he signs back, pointing to himself and then turning away again. Circling once, he's looking for his jacket, not wanting to go out into the cool air without something better than a t-shirt.
It's uncommon these days, but Blake can be thoughtless. He doesn't consider that Wrench may be taking this as personally as Blake, nor does he think there's any way the guy could have as much beef with Blake as Blake has with him. All accidents aside, there's more here than meets the eye and that's certainly not helping their communication issues.
Fine, I understand. The joint in Wrench's wrist cracks with the effort of his open palm pushed forward from his chest. Even his expression of comprehension seems less permissive than intended. Over the past couple of weeks he's come to really enjoy the little tasks that Blake has trusted him with as he prepares for the opening of the little restaurant for breakfast service. It's never very much, but it passes the time and lends a natural vocabulary to their lessons. Wrench knows the mishap puts the other man behind his schedule, but he still doesn't offer an apology. It would be such an easy thing to give, but the annoyance he feels from Blake makes him want to armor himself up and insist his own innocence.
Maybe he ought to leave too. Maybe it's just plain stubbornness that makes him take a seat instead. But while Blake circles the restaurant in search of his coat, Wrench slides into a vacant booth and sits there like a customer waiting with barely-restrained impatience for his turn to be served.
Of course, after all that, he understands, and Blake catches that just fine. It creates a knot of misery deep down, makes his stomach turn and churn, tightening in displeasure. It's not Wrench's fault that Dean's gone, not Wrench's fault that Blake's feeling haunted and targeted and downright miserable. Still, the anger doesn't dissipate and as the other man takes a seat, more a customer than a cohort, Blake convinces himself to double down on his upset. Fuck it.
Pulling on his jacket finally, he fusses with the sleeves and collar, having no luck in keeping himself from transferring some of that dampness over. All he can think about is how very little he wants to deal with any of this: with the stress between him and Bruce, with the future Tony had planted in Blake's head, with Jean-Paul being reckless and no one else bothering to call him on it, with Dean being gone and his family left behind, with all of that and more. So much more.
Expression souring, he casts one last glance at Wrench and barely stops himself from flipping the guy a bird for not taking the road already. He wants badly to hold on, to be mad, and he's succeeding better than a person like him should. It's not him, not truly, but Deerington facilitates such things pretty readily these days.
He's just about to walk out when a shadow passes across the door and lingers in the low light outside the restaurant. The time of year means the sun's not up yet, but for Blake there's no mistaking the face — the half a face — looking through the glass. The man, taller than Blake but similarly colored, shares enough of a resemblance even in part (no pun intended) it should be obvious he's family. Suddenly finding a change of clothes doesn't feel quite so desperate. The door doesn't open, neither side seems to want to make that move, and Blake, hoping to wait out the zombie version of his dead father, miserably returns to the argument he was having with Wrench.
J-P he signs on his way back, getting well ahead of any questions. He repeats the letters, points at Wrench, and then adds asshole for good measure. It's a little aggressive considering, but Blake isn't feeling much for pulling his punches all of a sudden.
He can tell that the idea of leaving him here doesn't sit well with Blake. The man seems to be vibrating with energy, and Wrench wonders briefly if he'll risk putting hands on him to extricate him from the restaurant. He's done nothing to prove himself untrustworthy to this man, but the nagging fear that Blake has somehow found out more about Wrench than anyone here knows is a biting paranoia that he can't shake loose from his psyche. It needles him like a cruel punishment, and so he continues to sit and seethe in his own manufactured ignorance.
Wrench has always been good at that. He feels no great sense of shame in leaning into the parts of people's misconceptions that serve him. If Blake or anyone else wants to imagine his social cues less than developed, they've got ample reason to. And he won't bother refuting what gives him the upper hand. Other people can make an effort once in a while, he thinks.
It's an ugly thought, considering the fact that Blake has done nothing but try since they first encountered one another in the Dome. Even when everything in their environment was insisting they make enemies out of one another, the other man put himself at risk to rescue Wrench. He displayed his patience time and time again. But as he watches the shorter man don his jacket and storm towards the door, he lets himself forget all that. Wrench watches with infuriating calm, right up to the point that Blake spins and lobs an accusation in his direction.
What? He doesn't recognize the name in those two letters at first, but the second time around realization sinks in. The insult is so misplaced that it curls his lips into a cruel smile. What about him? Are you jealous? J-E-A-L-O-U-S? he repeats, spelling the word that has found no reason to enter their shared vocabulary up to now.
How this could be easier, Blake doesn't know, but in turning his back on his father, he's left with few alternatives. This doesn't feel great either — he reads the word just fine when it's spelled out — and almost immediately he's shaking his head, refuting the accusation immediately.
No, he signs, and he says it aloud, too, not wanting to be mistaken. Read his lips, watch his hands, see his face; jealousy is not the issue. With a still-limited vocabulary and being relatively sleepless compared to most, he scrambles for a way to explain himself without having to write it all down. It's annoying enough to have to say anything at all, but not having the right words to do it is that much worse.
"We're friends," he says, and signs friend because he is learning, although it's far from natural. "What about you?" he asks pointedly, jabbing a finger in Wrench's direction.
Behind him the door shudders and shakes, the man on the other side bumping into it a few times, maybe trying the handle. It's locked, though, closed until they usually open the doors for breakfast or Wrench finds his way out.
"Tell me!" he demands, although raising his voice does neither of them any good at all. It's an ounce of defense against the sound of the door moving in its frame.
Yes, you're jealous, Wrench repeats. He means to goad. Means to jab the accusation back at Blake until it bruises him, because there's only one alternative he can see. If the man in front of him doesn't feel some kind of envy at the relationship he's only just begun to cultivate, then he must not trust Wrench. Blake must think there's some reason to protect Jean-Paul from him, and that thought comes with a host of others he doesn't want to entertain. It's bad enough the man is law enforcement. He's already found himself struggling to accept that someone with whom he feels the blossoming of actual friendship might pitch fundamental hatred against him. If Blake turns Jean-Paul away from him, it's easy to think of what could follow. Jean-Paul could turn Kurt and Logan just as easily, and then Wrench would be nowhere but profoundly alone in this hell.
Jealousy is easier to stomach. Wrench crosses his arms and sits back with a simple shrug. It's the truth, given as dismissal. He doesn't know what he and Jean-Paul is, or what they might become. What he does know is that he felt a kinship between them from their first interaction. He felt the other man's isolation and recognized it immediately. That alone has made Wrench want to reach out, and in that reaching, he's found a gentle and kind man who fascinates him. Someone who is much more than he claims to be.
With his attention turned, Wrench finally notices the commotion at the door. The sight of the shambling man makes him reach for his firearm instinctively but finding himself without it causes him to growl his frustration. He's gotten comfortable here. Much too comfortable for a place like this.
He sucked me off. Wrench doesn't need to have taught those words specifically for Blake to get the picture. The signs are as graphic as the act they represent. How strong is that door?
Despite his assertion otherwise, jealousy does play a role here. Hell if Blake's willing to admit that to himself, or anyone else, for that matter. Like Wrench, there's concern about the ripple effect, with Blake coming to many of the same conclusions, but much quicker. He skips Kurt and Logan, but he can't lose Jean-Paul, especially so soon after losing Dean. It's more than that, though. Having seen that man at his worst — after Logan had left, after his sister was dragged up, after he'd lost his goddamn skin, after so many time he'd gotten his head twisted up — it's hard not to be protective. And Blake, especially with people who mean the world to him, doesn't like to stop.
As Wrench turns crude, Blake's face contorts, twisting into something that's much more anger than disgust. He couldn't care less about the sex lives of ninety-nine percent of the whole entire universe, ultimately — although he'd listen, make no mistake — but something about the way it's plopped out there like a limp dick rubs him the wrong way. Wrong enough that he entirely disregards everything after it in favor of flipping Wrench off.
Heading back behind the counter, he's digging noisily for the whiteboard. The sound combined with the commotion inside draws on Blake's dearly departed, with his father's form more aggressively pushing on the glass, pulling on the handle. It should hold, but it's shaking the door in its frame, not to mention working Blake right out of his own skin.
DO NOT HURT HIM
He holds it up, mouth a tight line, glaring with dark eyes over the top of the board. If it's a warning, he doesn't provide any consequences. Hell, it's really just a demand, but he feels it through every part of him. Slamming it down on the counter a second later, he writes more, furiously adding a line before presenting it again.
HE NEEDS ALLIES
Of course, he couldn't know it, but Blake's not helping with the perception that all of this (or any of it) deals with what either of them did in the past. He's not saying Wrench isn't an ally to Jean-Paul, but there's nothing specific saying he can't hurt him anyway. Lord knows Blake's done his share despite his best efforts.
At the door, a hand appears on the glass. The handle stills, but there's a quiet pat, pat, pat where the undead man outside continues to request entry. Blake can't even look. He's not even willing to acknowledge the presence at this point. He's awfully dedicated to this argument.
It doesn't feel as good as he wanted to. It's a bit like kicking a puppy, in fact. Despite the assumptions he has about Blake, the man hasn't done anything to lose himself any amount of Wrench's trust or good favor. The barbs that he wants to hurl are misplaced when slung towards the other man. It's been weeks of feeling his own mounting uselessness and confronting loss after loss that has Wrench angry. If Blake means to stand in front of him as something else blocking him from forming a connection with someone else here, he can't let the man do it. But the desire to injure with his rebuttals is the dark, scared part of himself that he's been shoving down for a long time now.
The words bring him to his feet, clattering the table with the force he uses to shove himself upright. Wrench extends his hands as if he can't hold the weight of his own disbelief, and lets his hands slap at his sides. What makes you think I want to hurt him? he accuses. It's a complex vocabulary of words he's had no reason to teach, and he doesn't pull any punches. Instead he advances on Blake, intent on using the physicality of his language to intimidate even where understanding might fail them. He feels that ice-cold shock in his veins again. The terror that the man has him figured out, and that he'll tell the rest of them. When Blake shows the message a second time, Wrench steps close enough to rip the whiteboard out of his hand.
He uses the sleeve of his jacket to erase the words and snatches the marker up next. The phone would be easier, but he keeps it in his pocket. Wrench knows Blake's distrust for it, and somehow even as he stands like a mountainous statue over the other man, he has enough consideration to stick to that point.
I'm not going anywhere. We going to have a problem?
Emotions are high, Blake realizes this, but the extent of it doesn't hit home like it should. Between the cocoons, and the blood and gore, and the darkness, it's not surprising to think their any of them are turned around. And Blake, who prides himself in weathering all sorts of storms, doesn't feel like he's got his sea legs this time around.
He doesn't fall back or flinch away, tightening instead when he loses grip on the whiteboard, anticipating a fist before words written in response. Wrench cuts an intimidating figure and with the barbs Blake's been stabbing at him, it wouldn't be surprising if he were to strike out. More than that, there's nothing stopping him, up to and including Blake, who isn't helpless by any means (but probably figures he actually deserve it on some level).
Eyes flicking briefly, warily, he eyes Wrench's answer and yells, "Then don't!" He reads it again. Silence reigns. Even Blake's father has gone still for a moment, staring in with part of a frown. Blake jabs at the message. I'm not going anywhere. "He needs people," he accuses, "that will stick around." The last part is said slowly, pointedly, and when he's done saying it, Blake very nearly recoils from himself, shirking back away, wild-eyed and more terrified with himself than anything.
Friend. Family. Good egg.
He knows these words and they come second, like a pathetic addendum, execution messy.
The door jars violently, a hit that shakes the front window and startles Blake. He's more stricken by the moment.
"I need him to be okay," he says, shuddering it out quietly, the challenge in his gaze finally falling away. Better that than show his emotions, which he'd worked so long and hard on keeping under control. "Screw you if you can't see that," Deerington forces him to add.
Blake's contorting expression is all the provocation Wrench needs. He reaches out so quickly it's apparent he's given himself no time to think of an alternative. A big palm closes around the sopping material of the man's t-shirt, and he uses it to haul them even closer than decorum should allow. Wrench is far taller and more sturdily built, and he leans over the shorter man until the breath from their lungs mingles in the sliver of space between them. "Don't. Yell at me." The last three words of the statement compress, become a rounded "yullahme." It doesn't carry as much intimidation as he'd like. Wrench shoves Blake backward with the same fist to his shirt when he's finished with him, and wipes his damp hand on his jeans.
He can see the other man's concern for his friend. Wrench remembers Jean-Paul's initial discomfort in the nest, and the rough way the man spoke about himself when they shared a drink at his apartment. He thinks Jean-Paul needs that support, that reminder of his goodness. It's heartening to know how much someone like Blake seems to care about him. But rather than admitting that, he narrows his eyes at the route the shorter man takes to accomplish it. Fuck you too, he quips back, jus because Wrench can't be hit without serving it in kind. He thinks by now his companion should have a better idea of the kind of man he is.
The rattle at the restaurant window draws his attention again, and Wrench gives another scowl at the latest horror Deerington has cooked up. He passes his fist over the whiteboard and scribbles: You have a gun hidden here? Take care of that?
Staring warily, almost outside of himself, the squeak of the marker and the sound of the door fill his ears, behind it, the echo of Wrench's demand. Everything in between is red hot; he's ready to rumble. But then he reads the words, and it all drains away. Almost like a magic trick, he fills up with white as he shakes his head.
In the aftermath of all of that, the fuzzy static flares and falls away and Blake's left shaken in almost all the ways a person can be. He hasn't raised his voice at another person in a long time. Living with Bruce Banner, it's made him very aware of his reactions to things, and while he doesn't spare Bruce any of the bullshit he gives the rest of the world, he's terribly mindful now of the impact of raised tempers. He hasn't gotten heated over another person like this in a long time, either, and it's just proof of his own smoldering abandonment issues, constantly fanned at by Deerington whether Blake has the capacity to handle the flames or not.
It's certainly a shove back, not unlike the one the Wrench renders, leaving Blake jarred and smaller than he's been in a long time. Backslides suck, especially for a guy like him who's bound to take it personally. More than that, with everything that's happening in town, how can it not get worse before it gets better?
Blake shakes his head again, gaze lowering to the ground as he goes to pass Wrench. No apology yet. He means to escape out the back, and in moving away, it makes the banging at the door turn near-frantic, yet the expression on the of the man's gnarled face in the window never changes as he continues to seek acknowledgement.
He'd like to tell Blake that he doesn't have the corner on the market when it comes to loss. Maybe even encourage the man to see the benefit of all of them having their expanding network of companions in a place like this. But both statements would imply a sort of innocence Wrench can't rightly wear when his losses have been the product of his actions, and when he still worries about being discovered. Kurt and Logan have already seen and learned more than he'd like about where he's come from and the things he's left behind, but Wrench doesn't believe that most would greet his truth with as much implicit understanding.
It would be better if the other man would rise further into his anger. Give him an excuse to really get in his face and get angry about it. Blake's shrinking does him no good when every effort seems impotent. When the man puts his head down and pushes past, seemingly intent on ignoring everything he's stirred up, Wrench finally draws the phone from his pocket. He knows Blake hates it. He knows the technology is a representation of the dangers of accepting anything that this place willingly gives them. Yet it remains the easiest way for Wrench to ensure someone is listening to him.
He types out his message quickly, trailing a few steps behind as if he means to follow the whole way. Before he's finished he clicks up the volume button as if he means to be certain he can't be ignored. I DON'T BUY THAT. A POLICE OFFICER WITHOUT HIS SIDEARM? WHAT'S GOING ON WITH YOU?
Another place and time will prove that these two have more in common than not (a thing Blake has learned to notice about the world as a whole more and more), but this moment is rife with a heaviness that won't be lifted up or set aside. The erosion of Blake's patience has been startling aggressive this past couple weeks. Nothing sets him on edge more precisely than dragging up the ghosts of his past, and heaping on all these other concerns only stifles what little reserves he's managed to maintain.
At least when the electronic voice comes at him, he's part way into the kitchen, out of the line of sight of the front door. It relieves him some of the stress, but doesn't wipe away the memory of this never ending awful nightmare of a moment, especially when he finds his way right back to the milk he'd done a poor job of cleaning up.
Stopping short, his turns and gestures around them. Kitchen. C-O-O-K, he signs, pedantically, then gestures again. Clearly not the trappings of a police station.
"I'm going home," he tells Wrench, face on, clearly. "You should, too." And whether he means them to come back or not doesn't matter nearly so much as the deciding part, so Blake is fine with leaving things there, nothing so important unsolved, at least. Later, he'll explain, if asked, but for now he's much more interested in offering neither of them any quarter at all.
You want me to cook breakfast? Wrench questions disbelievingly. The misunderstanding is enough to make him snort air through his nose in a derisive reaction of just how well he imagines being able to salvage things in the kitchen for Blake while the man turns away from all of this. He trails a few paces behind, following towards the back where the majority of their lessons have happened over the stovetop, armed with cartons of eggs and nonstick cookware. Wrench imagines he could manage to keep things afloat for the very start of the morning crowd, if every one of them wants slightly underseasoned scrambled eggs. He's just imagining how he might go about it when the man whirls back to face him and levels a response directly towards him that changes the course of things.
The morning lesson is certainly ruined, but something about the easy way that Blake means to put him out makes Wrench rise back into his own disbelief. Maybe because he feels a fool for the eager way he bounded into today's lesson. Perhaps because he'd expected more from the man who has been so generous with him up to this point. Anger has always made an easy cover for shame, and the embarrassment of feeling that the man's frustration comes from some deficit on Wrench's part is certainly enough to put him on the defensive. But he's confused, and the man outside the door with half a face is an eerie reminder of how nothing in this town is ever normal or comfortable.
Wrench shakes his head and gestures at the floor. Go, he signs to Blake, drawing his hand with a flourish toward the back exit. But he's already reaching for a towel to deal with the mess on the ground.
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He's never mean, but it's clear he's short-tempered and irritated. By the second or third time around, it's probably insufferable. Since the beginning of November he's not only been facing the disappearance of his best friend, but also this awful influx of folks that don't seem to rightly belong in Deerington. His own father, who he hadn't seen since the guy's head was blown off (twenty-plus years prior, Blake reminds himself, the last time it wasn't just a memory) has even seen fit to make an appearance. Add in the fact that he'd caught wind of Jean-Paul's ever-increasing group if suitors including Wrench and his own worry over Jean-Paul going from no lovers to many lovers so quickly and of course he's going to be guarded. It's how he justifies himself. It's not optimal, comfortable, or kind in any way, and neither is Deerington. This is just how he chooses to deal with it.
Blake, still in his own head, doesn't hear Wrench coming and turns just in time to run head-first into the mountain of a man. The bowl of chilled heavy cream he carries tips back over Blake's clothes, instantly soaking through the layers.
He hisses, scuttling backwards a foot, but the liquid's already starting to puddle and spread around them. "Damn, how 'bout a little fuckin' warnin'?" he snipes, but he's looking down, not making it obvious he's talking to Wrench, not being mindful of all the things he's learned and been taught when dealing with the man.
Arms out, he holds the bowl in own hand and the other tries to fruitlessly wipe away some of the icy liquid. It's even in his shoes.
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Never in his life has Wrench enjoyed the opportunity to have so many conversations. Just to be noticed and appreciated is something he could not have expected for himself some months ago. And so for the tall man, the lessons represent so much more. They aren't just a means of sharing a piece of knowledge he has that might serve Deerington as a whole. He gives something of himself to them each time. As much as Wrench hasn't consciously considered that, he's not able to disassociate the two. Commitment to the language is tantamount to a commitment to him. Lack thereof hits him deeply.
Wrench has felt some wariness of Blake since learning about his career before this place. Nevertheless, he's approached the reciprocal nature of their lessons with relative ease and has been mostly eager to learn the skills the other man has imparted. Those weekly sessions have been a bright spot thanks to Blake's generous nature, but he's noticed the difference lately. And while Deerington has a way of wearing at a person's psyche, it's hard not to think that maybe the other man has discovered something about him he'd rather not have known.
He feels the impact before he can raise warning, but Wrench stands solidly as the cream sloshes all over Blake. It draws a faint, wordless grumble from the man. A sound much too little and much too late. Wrench searches the space for a rag to offer.
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Huffing, Blake reaches out and takes the towel to mop less fruitlessly than before (but still fruitlessly), already trying to decide how long it'll take him to go home and change. Peeling out of his sweater, tossing it aside and into the trash, he's left with a gray t-shirt clinging to his skin, and dark trousers obviously stained. Even his socks and shoes aren't untouched, it seems, and as he stares down at the mess, he can't help but grumble more. No "thank you", no "I'm sorry", just a pissed off and unhappy Blake swearing quietly under his breath, inconvenient enough for their current arrangement.
Dipping down, Blake uses the towel to mop up the mess, but even that isn't going as planned. He's chasing the liquid, probably a good pint between him and the floor, but every time he moves his shoes trail more everywhere, and eventually the frustration becomes obvious.
He stands, barking out a sharp "fuck" before throwing the sodden towel. It splatters against the hood over the flattop and slides to the floor as Blake tosses his hands into the air and stalks out to the front room.
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There's no more room in his heart to hold any more guilt. Not today, and especially not over something so plainly accidental. Spilled milk and all of that. Wrench watches as Blake bats at himself with the kind of force he might expect to see the man wage against a monster in this place, clumsy and ineffective against such a mess. He looks for something to use to help, but he's barely made it out of his place when the man flings the towel and stalks out of the kitchen. Something in Wrench snaps like a string, and he feels a swell of frustration in his chest.
He's fucking trying, after all. Why can't anyone see how hard he's trying? And why should he keep trying if there's not enough good deeds in the world to make up for the life he's lived so far?
He's not far behind Blake, but Wrench stops at the first table in the main room of the café. He pounds his fist against the top of it, insisting the man's attention from the noise it makes. It was an accident! What's your problem?
They've come a ways in the past several weeks, but most of that might be over Blake's head.
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He shakes his head, not getting it, not even trying. Home he signs back, pointing to himself and then turning away again. Circling once, he's looking for his jacket, not wanting to go out into the cool air without something better than a t-shirt.
It's uncommon these days, but Blake can be thoughtless. He doesn't consider that Wrench may be taking this as personally as Blake, nor does he think there's any way the guy could have as much beef with Blake as Blake has with him. All accidents aside, there's more here than meets the eye and that's certainly not helping their communication issues.
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Maybe he ought to leave too. Maybe it's just plain stubbornness that makes him take a seat instead. But while Blake circles the restaurant in search of his coat, Wrench slides into a vacant booth and sits there like a customer waiting with barely-restrained impatience for his turn to be served.
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Pulling on his jacket finally, he fusses with the sleeves and collar, having no luck in keeping himself from transferring some of that dampness over. All he can think about is how very little he wants to deal with any of this: with the stress between him and Bruce, with the future Tony had planted in Blake's head, with Jean-Paul being reckless and no one else bothering to call him on it, with Dean being gone and his family left behind, with all of that and more. So much more.
Expression souring, he casts one last glance at Wrench and barely stops himself from flipping the guy a bird for not taking the road already. He wants badly to hold on, to be mad, and he's succeeding better than a person like him should. It's not him, not truly, but Deerington facilitates such things pretty readily these days.
He's just about to walk out when a shadow passes across the door and lingers in the low light outside the restaurant. The time of year means the sun's not up yet, but for Blake there's no mistaking the face — the half a face — looking through the glass. The man, taller than Blake but similarly colored, shares enough of a resemblance even in part (no pun intended) it should be obvious he's family. Suddenly finding a change of clothes doesn't feel quite so desperate. The door doesn't open, neither side seems to want to make that move, and Blake, hoping to wait out the zombie version of his dead father, miserably returns to the argument he was having with Wrench.
J-P he signs on his way back, getting well ahead of any questions. He repeats the letters, points at Wrench, and then adds asshole for good measure. It's a little aggressive considering, but Blake isn't feeling much for pulling his punches all of a sudden.
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Wrench has always been good at that. He feels no great sense of shame in leaning into the parts of people's misconceptions that serve him. If Blake or anyone else wants to imagine his social cues less than developed, they've got ample reason to. And he won't bother refuting what gives him the upper hand. Other people can make an effort once in a while, he thinks.
It's an ugly thought, considering the fact that Blake has done nothing but try since they first encountered one another in the Dome. Even when everything in their environment was insisting they make enemies out of one another, the other man put himself at risk to rescue Wrench. He displayed his patience time and time again. But as he watches the shorter man don his jacket and storm towards the door, he lets himself forget all that. Wrench watches with infuriating calm, right up to the point that Blake spins and lobs an accusation in his direction.
What? He doesn't recognize the name in those two letters at first, but the second time around realization sinks in. The insult is so misplaced that it curls his lips into a cruel smile. What about him? Are you jealous? J-E-A-L-O-U-S? he repeats, spelling the word that has found no reason to enter their shared vocabulary up to now.
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No, he signs, and he says it aloud, too, not wanting to be mistaken. Read his lips, watch his hands, see his face; jealousy is not the issue. With a still-limited vocabulary and being relatively sleepless compared to most, he scrambles for a way to explain himself without having to write it all down. It's annoying enough to have to say anything at all, but not having the right words to do it is that much worse.
"We're friends," he says, and signs friend because he is learning, although it's far from natural. "What about you?" he asks pointedly, jabbing a finger in Wrench's direction.
Behind him the door shudders and shakes, the man on the other side bumping into it a few times, maybe trying the handle. It's locked, though, closed until they usually open the doors for breakfast or Wrench finds his way out.
"Tell me!" he demands, although raising his voice does neither of them any good at all. It's an ounce of defense against the sound of the door moving in its frame.
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Jealousy is easier to stomach. Wrench crosses his arms and sits back with a simple shrug. It's the truth, given as dismissal. He doesn't know what he and Jean-Paul is, or what they might become. What he does know is that he felt a kinship between them from their first interaction. He felt the other man's isolation and recognized it immediately. That alone has made Wrench want to reach out, and in that reaching, he's found a gentle and kind man who fascinates him. Someone who is much more than he claims to be.
With his attention turned, Wrench finally notices the commotion at the door. The sight of the shambling man makes him reach for his firearm instinctively but finding himself without it causes him to growl his frustration. He's gotten comfortable here. Much too comfortable for a place like this.
He sucked me off. Wrench doesn't need to have taught those words specifically for Blake to get the picture. The signs are as graphic as the act they represent. How strong is that door?
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As Wrench turns crude, Blake's face contorts, twisting into something that's much more anger than disgust. He couldn't care less about the sex lives of ninety-nine percent of the whole entire universe, ultimately — although he'd listen, make no mistake — but something about the way it's plopped out there like a limp dick rubs him the wrong way. Wrong enough that he entirely disregards everything after it in favor of flipping Wrench off.
Heading back behind the counter, he's digging noisily for the whiteboard. The sound combined with the commotion inside draws on Blake's dearly departed, with his father's form more aggressively pushing on the glass, pulling on the handle. It should hold, but it's shaking the door in its frame, not to mention working Blake right out of his own skin.
DO NOT HURT HIM
He holds it up, mouth a tight line, glaring with dark eyes over the top of the board. If it's a warning, he doesn't provide any consequences. Hell, it's really just a demand, but he feels it through every part of him. Slamming it down on the counter a second later, he writes more, furiously adding a line before presenting it again.
HE NEEDS ALLIES
Of course, he couldn't know it, but Blake's not helping with the perception that all of this (or any of it) deals with what either of them did in the past. He's not saying Wrench isn't an ally to Jean-Paul, but there's nothing specific saying he can't hurt him anyway. Lord knows Blake's done his share despite his best efforts.
At the door, a hand appears on the glass. The handle stills, but there's a quiet pat, pat, pat where the undead man outside continues to request entry. Blake can't even look. He's not even willing to acknowledge the presence at this point. He's awfully dedicated to this argument.
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The words bring him to his feet, clattering the table with the force he uses to shove himself upright. Wrench extends his hands as if he can't hold the weight of his own disbelief, and lets his hands slap at his sides. What makes you think I want to hurt him? he accuses. It's a complex vocabulary of words he's had no reason to teach, and he doesn't pull any punches. Instead he advances on Blake, intent on using the physicality of his language to intimidate even where understanding might fail them. He feels that ice-cold shock in his veins again. The terror that the man has him figured out, and that he'll tell the rest of them. When Blake shows the message a second time, Wrench steps close enough to rip the whiteboard out of his hand.
He uses the sleeve of his jacket to erase the words and snatches the marker up next. The phone would be easier, but he keeps it in his pocket. Wrench knows Blake's distrust for it, and somehow even as he stands like a mountainous statue over the other man, he has enough consideration to stick to that point.
I'm not going anywhere. We going to have a problem?
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He doesn't fall back or flinch away, tightening instead when he loses grip on the whiteboard, anticipating a fist before words written in response. Wrench cuts an intimidating figure and with the barbs Blake's been stabbing at him, it wouldn't be surprising if he were to strike out. More than that, there's nothing stopping him, up to and including Blake, who isn't helpless by any means (but probably figures he actually deserve it on some level).
Eyes flicking briefly, warily, he eyes Wrench's answer and yells, "Then don't!" He reads it again. Silence reigns. Even Blake's father has gone still for a moment, staring in with part of a frown. Blake jabs at the message. I'm not going anywhere. "He needs people," he accuses, "that will stick around." The last part is said slowly, pointedly, and when he's done saying it, Blake very nearly recoils from himself, shirking back away, wild-eyed and more terrified with himself than anything.
Friend. Family. Good egg.
He knows these words and they come second, like a pathetic addendum, execution messy.
The door jars violently, a hit that shakes the front window and startles Blake. He's more stricken by the moment.
"I need him to be okay," he says, shuddering it out quietly, the challenge in his gaze finally falling away. Better that than show his emotions, which he'd worked so long and hard on keeping under control. "Screw you if you can't see that," Deerington forces him to add.
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He can see the other man's concern for his friend. Wrench remembers Jean-Paul's initial discomfort in the nest, and the rough way the man spoke about himself when they shared a drink at his apartment. He thinks Jean-Paul needs that support, that reminder of his goodness. It's heartening to know how much someone like Blake seems to care about him. But rather than admitting that, he narrows his eyes at the route the shorter man takes to accomplish it. Fuck you too, he quips back, jus because Wrench can't be hit without serving it in kind. He thinks by now his companion should have a better idea of the kind of man he is.
The rattle at the restaurant window draws his attention again, and Wrench gives another scowl at the latest horror Deerington has cooked up. He passes his fist over the whiteboard and scribbles: You have a gun hidden here? Take care of that?
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In the aftermath of all of that, the fuzzy static flares and falls away and Blake's left shaken in almost all the ways a person can be. He hasn't raised his voice at another person in a long time. Living with Bruce Banner, it's made him very aware of his reactions to things, and while he doesn't spare Bruce any of the bullshit he gives the rest of the world, he's terribly mindful now of the impact of raised tempers. He hasn't gotten heated over another person like this in a long time, either, and it's just proof of his own smoldering abandonment issues, constantly fanned at by Deerington whether Blake has the capacity to handle the flames or not.
It's certainly a shove back, not unlike the one the Wrench renders, leaving Blake jarred and smaller than he's been in a long time. Backslides suck, especially for a guy like him who's bound to take it personally. More than that, with everything that's happening in town, how can it not get worse before it gets better?
Blake shakes his head again, gaze lowering to the ground as he goes to pass Wrench. No apology yet. He means to escape out the back, and in moving away, it makes the banging at the door turn near-frantic, yet the expression on the of the man's gnarled face in the window never changes as he continues to seek acknowledgement.
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It would be better if the other man would rise further into his anger. Give him an excuse to really get in his face and get angry about it. Blake's shrinking does him no good when every effort seems impotent. When the man puts his head down and pushes past, seemingly intent on ignoring everything he's stirred up, Wrench finally draws the phone from his pocket. He knows Blake hates it. He knows the technology is a representation of the dangers of accepting anything that this place willingly gives them. Yet it remains the easiest way for Wrench to ensure someone is listening to him.
He types out his message quickly, trailing a few steps behind as if he means to follow the whole way. Before he's finished he clicks up the volume button as if he means to be certain he can't be ignored. I DON'T BUY THAT. A POLICE OFFICER WITHOUT HIS SIDEARM? WHAT'S GOING ON WITH YOU?
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At least when the electronic voice comes at him, he's part way into the kitchen, out of the line of sight of the front door. It relieves him some of the stress, but doesn't wipe away the memory of this never ending awful nightmare of a moment, especially when he finds his way right back to the milk he'd done a poor job of cleaning up.
Stopping short, his turns and gestures around them. Kitchen. C-O-O-K, he signs, pedantically, then gestures again. Clearly not the trappings of a police station.
"I'm going home," he tells Wrench, face on, clearly. "You should, too." And whether he means them to come back or not doesn't matter nearly so much as the deciding part, so Blake is fine with leaving things there, nothing so important unsolved, at least. Later, he'll explain, if asked, but for now he's much more interested in offering neither of them any quarter at all.
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The morning lesson is certainly ruined, but something about the easy way that Blake means to put him out makes Wrench rise back into his own disbelief. Maybe because he feels a fool for the eager way he bounded into today's lesson. Perhaps because he'd expected more from the man who has been so generous with him up to this point. Anger has always made an easy cover for shame, and the embarrassment of feeling that the man's frustration comes from some deficit on Wrench's part is certainly enough to put him on the defensive. But he's confused, and the man outside the door with half a face is an eerie reminder of how nothing in this town is ever normal or comfortable.
Wrench shakes his head and gestures at the floor. Go, he signs to Blake, drawing his hand with a flourish toward the back exit. But he's already reaching for a towel to deal with the mess on the ground.