Dutifully Rust stares at the teeth marks. He's distantly surprised de Guzman hasn't already put his hands on him: this seems like just the excuse. As the other man marvels at his own fucking injury, Rust lets his gaze drift to the other wound, the leg—see if it's any worse, if it's maybe bled through the denim. Then a quick check for the walkie, for weapons, and his eyes are back where de Guzman wants them.

He tips his chin with the touch, responsive. “Not on the hand.” He says it slow, eyes locked on de Guzman's. Walking up to that same edge he'd been at by the fire, his fingertips grazing against de Guzman's arm.

He shifts, dropping his gaze, bucking a little against the cuffs. Making a show of his discomfort for de Guzman to revel in. “What is this.”