Knowing something implicitly is a far cry from seeing it spelled out in black and white. To read Luna's assessment of John's hope for him feels like a punch to the very center of his chest. For a second, Wrench scarcely feels like he can draw in a breath. The weight of it is too much to bear. For all they bickered and disagreed and fought, he knows John cared for him at least as much as he did for the man as well. And now it all feels for naught. Another person lost forever. Someone else destined only to live in his memories.

He's so tired of outlasting them all. Of the curse of being the one left standing when everyone else fades away. Wrench sucks in a hard breath and feels the moisture in the backs of his eyes swell past the reservoir and down his cheeks. With a huff of annoyance, he swipes them away and balls his hands into fists. It's too easy from there to raise one to his chest. I'm sorry, he signs, without quite knowing why. For the emotion he can hardly keep a handle on? For his mere presence in this place? For their shared loss of John?

Wrench gestures for the notebook and pen like he could hide his pained expression in a downward gaze at the page. Only as long as you say I can, he barters. I can help out. Whatever you need. Maybe not with all the magic stuff. He was teaching me, but I don't know much. I'm good with my hands, though.