Warmth was what she felt. Strange sensation – no, not entirely strange. It was different. She was not unfamiliar with the synaptic response, nor the emotional susceptibility. It was just an odd sensation when one were to put into context that it derived from an individual who was cold-aligned. Hël'würgen were hellhounds who used hellfire – an icy cold variant to those who rather watch the burn to the ground in a roaring flame than the chill of silence. She had been in company of others that were more warm than herself; the feeling of Wrex’s hand (and fist) against her skin, the way Damien shook her hand in greeting, when she bumped into that stranger at the maul. This one was different. Her soft, delicate hands grazed against the surface of the skin of the other and the heat radiated from it. It felt like the temperature of water just as it reaches that threshold of the scolding but room temperature around it keeps it balanced enough. No hot shower could match it, she could only recall it whenever she washed the dishes. Another strange thought, she actually washed her own dishes now. The ghoul placed her hand gentle against the skin of the other, the muscles rippled and adjusted under her palm as the shoulder blades shifted to a comfortable resting state. A soft hiss from the other as she placed her second hand. She offered a quiet apology as she worked ointment onto the blues and blacks, marks scarring the smooth anatomy of one with a strong back. Her hands moved up to tend to a gash on a shoulder. With wide set shoulders, the individual would walk in a way that someone would have to turn just a bit to allow passage. With each tentative squeeze and knead, she could feel tension as taut as wound rope tied to a docked ship. The other offered hisses and complaints, she shushed him with reprimands and commands. The other's arm bent up as it held onto an icepack against short, ebony hair. She rounded the boil she was tending to get a better look at the alumni. His front was as bruised as his back, his eye darkened around the socket, but the central, heterochromatic eyes remained sharp and focused as he glanced up to meet her gaze. She shook her head as she raised his large hands in her two smaller ones. The knuckles red and raw, scratched up and bleeding. The touch of the cool ointment drew out another hiss from the boil as she smeared generous amounts to the wound. The strong hands threatening to clench around her own as she casually worked in the medicine. Strong hands she had held. Strong hands she had seen protect. Strong hands she had seen bring down others to their knees. With a soft tap to the boil's knee, he complied by straightening them. Boils were such a strange phenomena in the sexual dimorphism - not in just their reaper-like state, but in their natural forms. This boil was much larger than herself. His chest was thicker and larger than her own. He had small grazing of fur that came through on his reaper appearance's chest and arms, especially his lower body such as the legs while she had none at all. Such a strange difference. She scrunched her nose at the oozing, long gash upon the other's calf looked like if it were not dodged properly could have resulted in one losing said leg. Reckless. She gasped in surprise when the boil's hand clutched her wrist, pulling it back as she came to the opening with another handful of ointment. He looked at her with a stern expression. Yet she could see the concern, the worry, the fall wall of confidence dissolving to reveal the nervous male on the other side. Reluctantly, the grasp slackened as she went to tend the leg. With wrappings done, she resorted to less invasive methods of fixing the other cuts on the boil - butterfly stitches, bandages, gauze and tape.

Standing, she turned to look at the boil who sat in his house on a little stool in his black boxers covered in cuts, bruises, basic first aid treatment, and an icepack pressed against his right temple. "Serves you right." She said as she returned the kit back into the bathroom. Her voice did not waver from her determination, to make it clear that her brother was an absolute idiot, a pride of a demon with a reckless of a monster, and a cocky git. "You thought you could take on a monster alumni and think it'd be cake?"

"I've taken on alumni before." He countered with a glower as she approached, eyeing the bottle and rag carefully. The smell of alcohol - sharp and strong, made him wince long before the spray even hit the wound. Before the burn registered in his receptors that the alcohol was lowering its heat registry. He hissed as soon as the rag pressed up against his flesh. "'Ey, easy..."

"Shut it. Cleaning you up so you don't bleed all over your floor." She retorted, having the boil raise his arm with a tap. Three long cuts wrapped around his chest to his back. It was as if he rolled into the attack. Unfortunately, she noticed how the cuts did not go over the tattoo mark there - the trio of skulls that proved his victory over their mother. If it had, maybe they could forget about that time in their lives. However, as she dragged the rag across the alumni, she knew that he did not want to forget about it. He was a strong fighter, strong willed, determined, and focused. Had been most of his life. The only time he saw sides of him she never imagined he even had was when he was around that green-eyed boil. She noticed how his heart quickens in his presence, his attention shifting when his scent is on the wind, or how light he laughed. That was also a thing, he laughed. He smiled. He genuinely smiled that even his eyes did so as well. Only once had he laughed that he rocked his body back, clutching at chest, throwing his head back. Ridiculous. "I know you don't turn down challenges, but... could you at least pick fights with creeple that won't leave you for dead in your house after?"

"You weren't suppose to be here, it's Saturday..." He replied after a pause. She could see the deflection, the redirection of the conversation, attempting to switch the rails of her train of thought. She allowed it as she loosened her shoulders she hadn't realized she was holding.

"I smelled your blood and came over." Brenna answered "If this is the way I am finding my brother beaten and battered, imagine Damien when he sees you. At least the place will be cleaned and you're patched up."

A hand fell onto her head, ruffling it gentle as he huffed. "That'll do, Bren." She smiled under his palm, his body radiated a warmth she had come to familiarize with family. It was her brother's. It was comfort. She may be the next to be alpha of a pack, she had political power, but she could still do nothing to bring her brother back into the fold. At least, she felt, she was helping him in some ways. She certainly felt appreciated. She could ask for more, but this was okay. She lifted her gaze to see his, smiling in turn. "That'll do."