Crane was so beautifully easy, and it's a slow blink, a dusting of lashes over his cheeks before Tate's eyes lift from the injury to the glee washing over him from the doctor's own gaze. Tate was more experienced with what a touch could do, why people did it. Why he, himself, did it. The comfort one could find in another human being, and how dangerous it could be.

He doesn't pull away from those artist's hands on his jaw. This was about what Crane was sharing with him, this was a glimmer of his mask, stitched and patched and ugly. Tate feels his insides lean toward it, greedy and predatory, though he doesn't physically move.

Instead, he smiles, and it's a soft thing that gently curves his mouth into a bow. Where he'd paused, his thumb smears blood and antiseptic across the older man's cheek. "I've got some experience with self entitled jerks," He says, teasing, as he restrains the urge to push down on the injury, watch the blood well to the surface. His fingers brush Crane's jaw when they fall away, like crushed butterfly wings. "I get it." He adds, just in case the guy was so socially inept he didn't understand. Tate got the impression he wasn't all that great with social interaction, despite how smart he was.