Physicality is a language all its own, and one that Wrench has learned to wield as fluently as ASL. More fluently, arguably, than English. When no others are shared, or when the message risks muddling on uncertain hands or lips, it's by far the quickest route to understanding. Sometimes that understanding is a negotiation, and sometimes it is a demand. Grady has been the recipient of both more times than most. Insisting touches, the clatter of stomps and pounded fists, and at times a full-body capture to act upon and on his own behalf. Wrench's hands know his partner at least as well as his heart, but five years is a long time.

He holds Grady past his protestations, the hand in his hair trembling against its own desire to soothe as his other palm brutally covers nose and mouth. It threatens his air and insists his cooperation until finally Wrench sees his adam's apple bob, and allows himself to be uprooted by the shove. Grady is more powerful than some might take him for, with his slicked hair, his scarves, and the well-tailored garments he tends toward. He has the look of a man built for conversation above action, but those who discount him rarely live to regret it. Still, Wrench doesn't anticipate so much power in the shove. Maybe he's gotten weaker. A half-decade forgetting how to care about anything has taken its toll.

Wrench lets himself be gathered up before he's pitched backward again. He's too interested in the state of his partner's skin to care about much else. I told you I'd explain if you ate! You were already starting to disappear. With no further preamble, Wrench grabs the letter off the countertop and shoves it toward Grady.