It's difficult to say which of the two is more stubborn. Wrench would bestow that title on his partner without hesitation, pointing to thousands of instances over the course of a lifetime of knowing one another. Though he'd be loath to admit it to his partner, though, he knows how often Grady shapes himself for the sake of the two of them. Like the language that sometimes blunts his thoughts and presents an inconvenience. Like serving as Wrench's de facto mouthpiece. Like bearing the brunt of the shit that's hurled at them because of that, while the tall blond makes a case for his own ignorance. Sleeping arrangements, after-hours activities, cups of morning coffee... The men he's come to know in this place might not believe that Wrench could be so particular, but it takes a certain comfort and familiarity to let those edges show.

For five years he's dulled himself. He's slept even less hours, eaten far fewer meals, and had virtually no conversations. He's cried tears he wouldn't even admit to Grady, cursed God, cursed Yahweh, blamed Malvo and himself. And now, after listening to Kurt and Logan both independently share their stories of resurrection and connection, his partner is in front of him. Becoming more and more incorporeal by the moment. And Wrench will be damned before he'll be selfless now.

"Listen to me!" His voice echoes in the pale light, off the pristine countertops and around the swirl of Grady's dissipating body. It rumbles with the gravel of atrophy and decay, and of pure desperate terror. Wrench shoves his hand down the neck of the bottle and captures those blueberries in his fist. He sets the jar on the counter, and then he grabs Grady by his hair and shoves the food into his face.