"Want to see," he agreed amiably, and when Wren climbed off of him he reached up, rubbing absently at the back of his ear where he could still feel that tickle of breath, the heaviness of it. Wren, the little incubus who had no idea what he was doing. Aiden never pushed him away, but it did make him take a long, long look at himself in the mirror each day they spent together and wonder what kind of person he'd be if he gave in to what he felt.
He linked hands with Wren because he knew it made him feel safer, made him feel like Aiden was more tangible and wasn't going anywhere. His fingers laced with the slim white ones in a cat's cradle, palms pressed tight, and Aiden waited for Wren to lead the way out of the medical ward and into the general population.
He was expecting a small cell; if Wren was bunking with anyone, which was doubtful, it would be someone who Aiden would likely have to set straight in a physical way. Even on their travels when they'd been heading to Sing Sing, crossing the country on foot for months, he'd seen the way other traveling bands had eyed both of them. Aiden, a strapping, handsome guy with the brawn to back up his forbidding gaze, and Wren, slim and girlish and overly sexualized. He could only imagine the kind of people who'd want to bunk with Wren, especially in the end of the world and particularly once they found out about his Roman hands and Russian fingers.