Alcuin stepped back from the werewolf once his hand had been released and absentmindedly pressed it against his chest. He noticed right away that it wasn't just his hand that felt better and wondered just how much pain had escaped even his own notice to feel so relieved for the lack of it. It was easy for him to forget how long it had been since he had the opportunity to stretch out his legs, but muscle and sinew rarely forgot long term disuse. It wasn't as though his handlers allowed him to do much more than pace the holding pens – and that was when they weren't actively shipping him elsewhere. He was confined to his seat for hours on end during the shipping process.
It was disquieting to think that he might have become so used to pain and discomfort that he simply ceased to notice it anymore.
He chewed his lip at the contempt in the werewolf's voice for his master to silence the urge to place the blame on himself. How could his master be expected to know when he, himself, grossly underestimated his own needs? Scott couldn't read his mind – and even if he could it was becoming obvious that he very rarely thought of himself. Alcuin allowed his curiosity to take the helm instead. “What do you mean?”