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Something was up. You only know that because the garage has been quiet for the past hour. At first, you hadn’t realized what that tickle in the back of your head had been, but you realize now that it’s the lack of power tools and robotic sounding ‘fucks’ coming from Wrench’s ‘special’ corner that troubles you. When that particular black cloud decided to hang over your head - which happened at random, lasting however long it wanted - you rarely paid much attention to the outside world. The fact that Wrench’s garage is dead silent, and that you noticed it at all, could only mean he’d stepped out when you weren’t looking or… more realistically, that a bomb was about to go off.
From behind your shoulder, you peer across the bright, dusty expanse of the hangar, spotting Josh’s green hooded-back, researching HaDoCk’s latest batch of emails in his own quiet way. You blink with a slow measure of bleakness, exhaling darkly against the blanket you had draped over your head for the past twenty-four hours. Saftey; you think morosely. The scratchy weight of the fabric doesn’t really help, but you feel a little less like falling into the floor with it blocking out the world around you.
Same principle as hiding under the blankets to escape the monster when you were a kid. The monster was gonna eat you if it wanted, and even as a kid you knew that, but you still hid under the covers anyway. Looking out across the messy garage, you realize why you were more able to keep your chin up in this corner than if you’d been camped out on the hood of the old caddy - the place was pure chaos. Like a grenade went off in here, you think, frowning.
It was Wrench’s garage after all. Maybe a grenade had gone off at some point.
Fuck it… you think, twisting back towards your computer screen with a loud, metal screech. You don’t startle, just wheeze at the animated sight before you - spikes, leather and mischief. There, sitting cross-legged on the desk is Wrench; emotes of double carets staring at you and one of those party crackers in his hands.
Please… no….
“Congratulations!” He exclaims, pushing on the plunger, showering you in confetti and cheap paper streamers. For a second, emotion flickers in your chest, but it’s definitely not the type meant to be in response to party favors. In a deep, mocking announcer voice, he continues, “What has she won Jimmy?! What’s that? Is it - it’s a neeeewwww… no, it’s not new, but it is handsome if not a little rough around the edges.”
Wrench gives you a tilde-caret wink as the last of the party fodder drifts down around you. Your heart flutters just enough to tell you you’re not completely dead inside, but your lips just don’t care to twitch, let alone smile. Poised there, on your desk, Wrench leans forward as if waiting for the laughter you must surely be about to rip.
With a heavy breath, you blink and part your lips, demanding, “What?”
Even to you, the question sounds dead. Not even your prescribed medication, meant for moments like this, have helped any. If Wrench wants some attention, then he’s better off finding it anywhere but here. You’ll only disappoint him and that, you’ve come to realize, is not something you want to do. Wrench won’t help, just like the pills haven’t helped and if anything, his little attempt at cheering you up just annoys you.
In all honesty, these past few days of feeling empty nearly allows you some perverse enjoyment in being frustrated by him. It’s something at least, though it sucks about as much as that raw, hungry sensation in your core.
Wrench clears his throat, double carets flattening out into underscores before he - inelegantly - reaches forward to sweep the confetti and crap off your blanket-covered shoulders. You side-eye his hand, watching the bones and veins flutter underneath his incognito dude tattoo.
“Well, I’ve done all I can. Time to take you out to pasture,” he tells you, voice chipper but hesitant as he flicks a bit of paper off the top of your head. Double x’s pop up and with a short huff of laughter, he kicks a foot up on the edge of the desk, throwing an arm over his knee before finishing with, “I bought a dozen donuts as a backup plan, you know… in case I had to raise this situation to a DEFCON two.”
As if to clarify he adds, “I’m not going to put you down… just FYI.”
Most of that passes through one ear and out the other. A voice in the back of your head whispers that whatever Wrench is doing is meant to make you feel better, but it’s not worth it. You sigh, billow out your blanket of shiny crap, rearrange it over your forehead and huddle back into code-compiling mode.
Left without a response Wrench twitches, shifting on the desk; legs collapsing over the edge. His ankles swing back and forth. He hums off-key, eventually whistling something that sounds like ‘It’s a Small World’ until you send a pointed glare his way.
Instead of leaving you alone to wallow in misery, his mask blinks double carets, “I know what you need!”
In a short second - so fast the computer screen shakes - he’s off the desk and darting away like a fucking felon, but he’s gone and that deflated part of you that was trying to be social sighs in relief, settling back into a dark pit; making itself scarce once again. Some part of you appreciates the effort, but a greater part of you doesn’t care at all about Wrench trying to ‘cheer’ you up.
He comes back five minutes later with a cardboard box in his hands. You watch with half-lidded eyes as he crawls up over the desk, knocking over a speaker.
“Oo, sorry,” Wrench mumbles, sounding… a little cute, but mostly you exhale, realizing he doesn’t sound like much of anything. He leaves black scuff marks as he skids up, standing on the desk with only a slight wobble. Your fingers pause, hovering over the shift key as he steps over the screen, legs spread with one foot on either side of the keyboard. Gently, Wrench lowers the cardboard box over the monitor with double zero’s and x’s flipping back and forth over his mask.
You blink slowly, watching him crouch behind the monitor, knees on either side of the cardboard box that happily reads, ‘SuNshiNE & PiZZa.’
“My treat, but if we don’t get pineapple on half, I’ll leave your ass at the Pier.”
It takes a lot of effort, but you manage a weak, “…not hungry.”
If you were capable of feeling any worse, you’d feel shitty for the dejected way Wrench plucks his custom made monitor cover off the screen, shuffles his way off your desk and accidentally kicks over the speaker for a second time, before hopping out of sight.
Two more times he shows up - once with a dirty apron on, holding a car jack like a dog while spouting off hammed up lines from ‘Silence of the Lambs.’ The second attempt at cheering you up ends with fire. You’re not sure how he manages to set the cement floor on fire, but it’s only sorta, not really amusing to watch him out the corner of your eye as he stomps out flames with ‘Come Sail Away’ on full blast behind him.
After the smell of burning rubber fades away and the garage is silent once again, you decide it’s safe to say Wrench has finally given up.
For ten solid minutes, you’re left alone… or maybe the time on the computer is off, and it’s been four hours. It feels like it’s been forever when the reassuring keys under your fingers rip away - someone is dragging you by the back of your chair. The computer screen grows smaller and smaller and stagnant air ripples the edges of your safety blanket. Without reason, a blush rushes into your cheeks as Wrench’s mask slips close against the back of your neck. You can hear his static-laced breath beyond the thick blanket as he drags you and your chair across the garage.
Fingers white on the armrest and knees tucked up; you hold on with muted surprise as Wrench spins you around. Your world swirls like a bad drunken night for a few seconds before he halts your chair; your body jerking at the sudden stop.
Laid out in front of you is his table saw, cleared of all the metal dust and plastic chips. For a moment it almost looks like he’s scrubbed it down, but you blink at the telltale smudge of oil and feel your eyebrows pinch.
“Voila! Welcome to Casa de Wrench,” the forced French accent doesn’t work when filtered through his mask. He sounds like if HAL and Mario had a baby… wait Mario was Italian… ugh, you can feel your brain literally sigh as a tattooed hand, sporting rubber black bracelets, starts waving across the ‘spread.’
“We’ve got these round things with sugar. These - these are… also round, but! - these are fitted with the choicest of dulce and sprinkles. Just imagine the poor unicorn that had to cry those things out for you.”
It’s nice - it really is but-
“I also got you a black coffee with two sugars and a shot of battery acid,” he rants off, so quick and… awkward that it actually throws you for a loop. With a curious expression, you peer up at him past the drape of the simple checker-print blanket and find him looking down at you with running ellipsis.
Say something; you’re more apt mind whispers.
With a frown, you look back at the mess of donuts - most of them crushed as if Wrench had accidentally sat on the box at some point - and the extra large paper cup of coffee.
There’s a little plastic seal sitting off to the side… you note that it’s been placed further away as if Wrench hadn’t wanted to make the little extra addition as obvious as the donuts and coffee.
Coffee and donuts were easy to pass off as a friend looking out for another friend, but a little trinket like that? With a careful hand, you reach out, crossing the spectacle of sugar and caffeine to pluck up the plastic seal. It’s cheap - one of the gimmicky things those t-shirt vendors by the waterfronts sell to tourists, but… it tickles your chest; makes you feel just a little bit lighter, and while you can just barely hear Wrench mumble excuses for the gift, your lips twitch upwards.
Beside you, Wrench goes quiet.
For the first time today, you slip the weight of your blanket off your head and smile. The gesture doesn’t even feel forced - it doesn’t hurt to make, and the soft sound of Wrench’s exhale only makes the faint smile curl further. There’s still a pit in your stomach - a heaviness weighing you down, but it doesn’t feel as dark. Even the world seems a little less gray and pallid.
When you turn towards him, he’s leaning back with two thumbs up, swaying them to and fro in a silent question. Better or worse?
“…better,” you whisper, eyes crinkling with a little wave of contentment.
Your weak response literally causes Wrench to jump for joy, arms in the air, releasing a loud ‘whoop’ of noise.
“Fucking awesome!” he shouts, turning at the waist just to throw a finger at Josh across the garage, who’s staring blankly at the two of you, “Fucking told you I had the magic touch.”
“I,” Wrench inhales dramatically, “am The Whisperer.”
“Usually that term is meant to follow a noun, also acting as an adjective-” Josh interjects.
Beside you, Wrench’s mask drops into underscores, followed by inward arrows of frustration, “Oh my god, shut’the’fuck’up. It’s an overall term.”
To demonstrate said ‘overall’ term, Wrench caresses the air into a circle, spiked shoulders hunched forward. It’s serious and yet not - much like Wrench’s personality is. He’s always full of piss and vinegar - rainbows and dynamite. It’s infectious.
An amused sound trickles into your ears as Wrench mimes his ‘overall term’ while Josh grimaces. It isn’t until Wrench is looking at you with question marks and Josh is staring wide-eyed that you realized you’d laughed. Giggles bubble up under your oversized hoodie, and they only rise into fits of laughter as Wrench’s fist pumps the air, whispering about how majestic he is.
By the time your throat is raw - breathless with laughter - it feels like all that black tar settled in your gut is gone. You shift in your chair, smiling, feeling ten times lighter with the little toy seal gripped in your hands. Colors come back - the world brimming with crisp edges and glitter. The tuned down thrashcore in the corner filters into your ears and as if on cue, your stomach grumbles.
When was the last time you’d eaten? Yesterday morning, maybe.
Only slightly oblivious to Wrench watching you eat - hiding the heart emotes under his hoodie - you take a sip of perfect, hot coffee and ready your tongue for a round hollow disk of deliciousness.
Wrench, you decide, is a fucking national treasure.