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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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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.