Aware that this might, in fact, be the very first time Kurt's ever been allowed to verbalize what they're feeling, Corrigan waits patiently, settling his mate in his lap, cuddled close to his chest. One hand smooths up their back, chasing away the night chill, finding the back of their neck and slowly rubbing his thumb in small, massaging circles. It's been a while since Corrigan has cried -- much less as violently as Kurt just did -- but he remembers the wrung-out headache that follows.

"Not upset, little bird," he corrects gently, chin resting on Kurt's hair, coaxing away the last shivery hiccups. "Not at you. They're worried about you, that's all." Not strictly true -- the pack is enraged, but they're doing their best to project a sense of calm instead, rather than letting the anger bleed into the link. "You didn't do anything wrong, Kurt. If anything, they're more annoyed at me for spriting you away."

Corrigan slowly rises to his feet, easily carrying Kurt back towards the warmth of the cabin. "Close your eyes, beloved. Feel what they're truly thinking, what they want." Interpreting the pack link is a nuanced art -- wolves don't think in words, more emotions and senses and pictures, and everything that travels through that connection is pure wolf. There's a sense of unease, of concern, the impression of things being tidied up, put away -- no more broken glass or cracked bowls. There's the food over the fire and the fluffed-up furs, the pack clustered together and waiting.

And above it all, an eager, hopeful sense, so vivid it’s nearly an audible plea -- come back home. Come back to us. Come home.