With as little as Wrench does to avoid things that would cause him pain, a person might be forgiven for thinking he actually enjoys it. Winter fashions make a great disguise for the more prominent of his scars, but the full picture points to a man who's been shot, stabbed, opened up, and hastily stitched back together more times than anyone could count. It's not that he likes the agony, though. Rather, avoiding things that cause him harm has never been a motivation of Wrench's.

As far as he's concerned, he is as his name suggests: a tool for others' use. He's designed to absorb impact so the people he serves don't have to. And frankly, there's no reason to try to keep himself pristine. It's not like he's likely to find another use for himself by now anyway.

Still, it fucking hurts to be rapped across the knuckles with a solid piece of iron. Reflexively, he opens his hand, and the sword tumbles to the ground. Wrench doesn't reach for it. He doesn't take his eyes off Sandor as he flexes out his fingers and glowers in momentary silence. He's not going to put his head down and wait for it to get chopped from his shoulders as he's bent to the ground. Fuck that.

Bet if I handed you a gun you'd shoot yourself in the foot immediately.

Show me how, then.

He's annoyed, but not angry. And obviously still willing to watch the man and learn something new.