Another thing Wrench will probably never admit: this line of communication, while obviously convenient, feels impersonal. He misses the physicality of his own, the way that shaping words gave them life. Simply having to think his message blunts it in ways he doesn't always appreciate. But the upside of the brain texting? Sandor can't simply walk away from it. Wrench doesn't have to ensure the man is facing him before he starts snarking back.

You weren't saying that when I was saving your life.

All right, he probably didn't save Sandor's life, but Wrench knows he helped the man from an unnecessary amount of pain. Without stopping to think, he'd proven he has the other man's back. That counts for something, he thinks. Even if he knows better than to try to make Sandor admit it, even jokingly.

The weight of the blade in his hand feels unnatural, and Wrench doesn't know what to do with a weapon that's so much larger than his usual buck knives, yet requires him to be in near-constant contact with his sparring partner. Inside the abandoned goat pen he weighs the thing and wobbles it back and forth like he's watched one too many pirate films where the swashbuckling lead thought that they were fencing instead.