Wrench is used to inspiring a reflexive sort of startle in people. So used to it, in fact, that it's hard to take offense. Something passes through the edges of his expression — a quirk of his lips, like he wonders what Teddy thinks he's going to do to them — and then it's gone. It's funny; he's never exactly taken pleasure in intimidation the way he sometimes thinks Numbers does, even though of the two of them Wrench feels far more able to unconsciously wield that power. He wonders if his partner thinks the same. What would Numbers be like if he were the mountain of a man instead?

He's almost equally as used to being asked to repeat himself, and that he does without so much as a blink of annoyance. Wrench wants to be understood, of course. He's frustrated at a situation that he can't comprehend and the feeling that the person he's living with is more a stranger to him now than when they woke up next to each other some weeks back. But he doesn't fault Teddy for her lack of fluency, so he does slow down and really try to ensure that every word lands. Usually, he'd judge by the light of recognition in someone's eyes, but looking at theirs now it's hard to tell what's actually getting through.

When they do finally usher him to the couch Wrench perches on the end, considerate of the instrument that's captivated the near-entirety of Teddy's attention since he first walked into their home and found her sitting here like a specter. He leans forward, watching her write and re-write the one word that needs the most clarification, that tells him nothing except to be wary. Wary of who, though?

Wrench grabs the pen and circles the first word three times in a quick, looping circle. Who? he signs, almost whistling with the intensity of his exhale between pursed lips. Who took you?