Kurt forgets -- or perhaps they aren't aware yet -- that Corrigan’s senses aren't those of an ordinary man. He can hear their pulse immediately skyrocket when he touches them, the soft hitch in their breath when they move, the swallowed-back wince of pain when they speak. More than that, he can smell it -- the mixture of fear and pain that had been clouded by desire the day before. He's privately glad the pack is away, because they would've been inconsolable at their mate's discomfort of any kind, much less the full-body scent of pain.

He's a little inconsolable himself, but he hides it well, arm immediately going out to support Kurt’s upper back, strong and warm and immovable. "Easy, go slowly," he murmurs, reaching for the water bowl first and bringing it to Kurt's lips. "Sip, little at a time," he prompts, moving around to sit behind the small human, supporting them with his body. "The pack's out on a hunt, they'll be back soon. Don't fret."

Their heart is still beating far too fast, and Corrigan resists the urge to demand why. His mark is on their neck, vivid and angry-red, but undeniable -- they're his, nothing and nobody can hurt them. Why does he still smell fear on them? Instead he simply let's himself assume it's due to the pain, the after effects of a truly raucous claiming. Pain heals, as do wounds. No reason for him to get worked up.

Pressing his lips to the mark, Corrigan resists the urge to turn back into a wolf and clean the wounds again and again, until that tight, pained note leaves Kurt's hoarse voice. Instead, gently: "Tell me what hurts the most. Naseer's been stocking up on remedies for weeks now, we have more than enough."