"You're already my bitch," Wesley's protest elicits a laugh from him as he ducks in to nudge against him slightly before making some distance-- a habit, more worried his twin was going to lash out and hit him per-usual. He scrunches his nose a bit before shrugging, "I don't know, maybe when you see fit to stop trying to fucking stab me you little shit." He was tempted to shove Wes out of the bed in annoyance, just thinking about it made his shoulder ache; the bullet wound was far deeper than the knife, but less painful mentally. He just closed his eyes and thinned his lips out.