Mr. Numbers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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silentspringlogs2024-01-04 08:51 pm
workingthenumbers) wrote in silentspringlogs2024-01-04 08:51 pm
Entry tags:
meeting the family | closed
Who: Numbers, Wrench, and Teddy!
When: Late December, pre-event
Where: The Smiths Household
Open/Closed: Closed!
Applicable Warnings: Will add if necessary!
Following their separation after the fallout shelter, Numbers has spent the last day or so watching Wrench's house across the way. The initial relief of being reunited with his partner had been quickly overshadowed by more questions and a sense of deep dread. There was the fact that he was newly dead. Despite his stubbornness and unwillingness to accept it, it was difficult to think that he had survived after what Malvo had done. And there was also the fact that, for whatever reason, Wrench was suddenly a decade older, worn down by whatever slings and arrows life had battered him with.
He tries not to be obvious about what he's doing--even if he wasn't in Sweetwater, suburbanites have a tendency to gossip when a strange man is watching someone else's house in plain view. At first, he tries watching from the comfort of his house--no, not his house, the house he woke up in--but finds he can't see as well as he likes. So he bundles up and makes his way outside, trying to scope out a better place to peer inside without attracting too much attention.
He leaves out the back door and makes his way through his neighbors backyards, careful to remain behind the picket fences and trees. When he reaches the house Wrench is in, he stops, turns to crane his neck towards the window, and freezes.
He'd just assumed that the house was empty, like his, but there's a woman (?) in the house he doesn't recognize. She has a clear view of Numbers, standing outside in the backyard like a weirdo. God. Maybe if he just stays still, she won't notice him. He tries to obscure himself by shuffling behind a tree, but the movement makes it even more obvious.
When: Late December, pre-event
Where: The Smiths Household
Open/Closed: Closed!
Applicable Warnings: Will add if necessary!
Following their separation after the fallout shelter, Numbers has spent the last day or so watching Wrench's house across the way. The initial relief of being reunited with his partner had been quickly overshadowed by more questions and a sense of deep dread. There was the fact that he was newly dead. Despite his stubbornness and unwillingness to accept it, it was difficult to think that he had survived after what Malvo had done. And there was also the fact that, for whatever reason, Wrench was suddenly a decade older, worn down by whatever slings and arrows life had battered him with.
He tries not to be obvious about what he's doing--even if he wasn't in Sweetwater, suburbanites have a tendency to gossip when a strange man is watching someone else's house in plain view. At first, he tries watching from the comfort of his house--no, not his house, the house he woke up in--but finds he can't see as well as he likes. So he bundles up and makes his way outside, trying to scope out a better place to peer inside without attracting too much attention.
He leaves out the back door and makes his way through his neighbors backyards, careful to remain behind the picket fences and trees. When he reaches the house Wrench is in, he stops, turns to crane his neck towards the window, and freezes.
He'd just assumed that the house was empty, like his, but there's a woman (?) in the house he doesn't recognize. She has a clear view of Numbers, standing outside in the backyard like a weirdo. God. Maybe if he just stays still, she won't notice him. He tries to obscure himself by shuffling behind a tree, but the movement makes it even more obvious.
no subject
Teddy thinks that's a fair enough way to put it. It's creeping steadily on toward Christmas; there's a part of her that still half-expects every morning to wake up at home, just in time to tell everyone about the dream she had, full on Wizard of Oz style. (Only, with no and you were there! and you! -- some bizarro-land this is, doesn't even have her parents playing eerily cheery neighbors.)
She reckons if she was about to wake up, she wouldn't know several more signs than she did when she got here, including the one for food, which is what she's doing right now. Well. Sort of. Prepping things because she's not keen on spending two hours doing it later.
Something moves in the window and she freezes, on edge ever since -- well, ever since she arrived in a goddamn house with clothes that fit her exactly but aren't hers, a wedding ring slipped on her finger and a neighborhood who waves and smiles to Mrs. Smith -- but ever since the salesman, really. Moreso since the air raid. The gnawing doubt of knowing the US was never actually in danger from nuclear anything and the acid disbelief of what if -- that apparently sits somewhere in the back of her throat anyway; the sharp no-questions-asked directives in the shelter.
What is this place. Why do they want her, or Wrench, or any of the others (if they do, and he's not -- but Teddy doesn't think that, really; not because she trusts herself, but because she trusts Scout) --
Scout, true to her name, huffs a bark, letting out a low, questioning sort of growl: it makes Teddy a little more confident that she has in fact seen something, though it's not the sort of growl that makes her look to where she's been keeping her rifle ever since the other day. If they were at home, she'd write it off as a rabbit or something her girl wanted to chase. She rocks forward on her toes to glance out the window, still scrubbing potatoes so she can excuse it.
A man, dark-haired, dark-coated, held still like he's holding his breath. His eyes flicker toward the window and she glances down, keeping an eye on him obliquely. He shuffles sideways toward the tree and she can't help repressing a small smirk, though she's still suspicious. It can't be someone who's hired to get intel on them -- if it is, she might have to worry less about this place.
It's got to be one of them, or one of the townsfolk: just standing looking at the windows. Who -- Teddy tilts her head and glances around to see if Wrench is within waving distance. She might have a theory who would just show up in their backyard, but she's told Wrench about twice what he's gotten away with sharing with her. And anyway, she doesn't know shit about this town except it's fully fucked up.
She dries off her hands on the tea towel and opens the back door a crack, unnecessarily letting Scout get her head out. "You fixin to come to the door and introduce yourself, or you okay for now in the stalkers-and-exes parking?" she calls, just loud enough to carry.
no subject
Wrench assumes that everyone feels it, though he hasn't gotten around to asking. Even if he wanted to, how could he find a way of explaining that the house itself and its amenities feel stifling to him? It's not just the fact there are photographs of him here he absolutely never took or a person he's never met who's supposed to be his wife -- as if that were something he could want. No, it's the percale sheets on the bed, the food in the cupboard, and the wide mirror above the double-bowled sinks in the bathroom.
He's spent a lot of time staring into the latter. An inordinate amount, really, for a man whose very world has been turned on its head. Nuclear warfare, fallout shelters, murderous salesman... Setting all that aside, there's still too much Wrench can't cope with. A normalcy the last decade has totally robbed from him, and he's having a hard time coming around to now. The man hardly seems housebroken.
If he's seemed disconnected from everything around him, maybe that's the reason why. Wrench has no idea what kind of obligation he's meant to hold to a home or a wife or a town where people have begun to greet him by name. He'd sooner not see the same faces every time he steps out the front door. Save for one, of course. The sudden appearance of his ex-partner is simultaneously the most confusing and the most welcome part of this whole place, though Wrench knows he can't deflect Numbers' questions for very much longer. What happened to the man and what happened in the aftermath are facts he'd rather not rehash, but avoiding the short, volatile brunette is an impossibility. Wrench has been able to think of almost nothing else since they first ran into each other.
He doesn't hear the commotion, of course, but something pulls him toward the back of the house anyway. Calling it intuition wouldn't exactly be right, but after a lifetime of watching people too closely and finding what buttons to press against, he can feel that Teddy's unsettled. Wrench pokes his head around the corner in just enough time to see Scout scramble to locate something in the backyard. It's another kind of instinct that has him now checking for the presence of his handgun.
no subject
It's fine. He can recover from this. Numbers smooths down his hair and clears his throat, then steps out from behind the tree, hands raised in a falsely sheepish gesture.
"Hey, there," he says, trying to sound pleasant, as if they were having this conversation on the porch instead of across a snowy backyard. He pointedly avoids introducing himself. "Neither a stalker, nor an ex. I'm looking for a Deaf guy, 'bout yay high--" He demonstrates with his hand, raising it at least a half foot above his head. "--has curly hair and mutton chops. He wouldn't happen to live here, would he?"
His brain scrambles for a plan. If she says no, then he'll just walk away and come back at night. Less chance of being spotted. But now that he's made himself known, she'd probably be on alert for him returning. If she says yes...God, he has so much he needs to ask Wrench, and now this stranger is one more topic he wants to address.
no subject
The proper use of nor right next to ‘yay high’ is an odd one. Slightly…off-kilter, just like the charmingly self-effacing tone that doesn’t quite make it past Teddy’s bullshit-meter.
It would be easy to chalk it up to awkwardness, but he is sort of hiding in their yard. It doesn’t escape Teddy that he doesn’t give his name, and — honestly more concerning, he doesn’t give Wrench’s name, either: their mind flickers over the possibilities, eyebrows knitting, even as they can’t help a huffed chuckle when the man reaches a good half foot higher than himself to describe him.
None of that is shit you couldn’t tell by interacting for half a minute though. But then, if he was a townie, why wouldn’t he just ask for Mr. Smith or the man of the house or some crap?
It’s smart to be safe. They’ve probably given the answer away scrutinizing the man, but it is smarter. He does seem — genuinely — impatient, anxious even, maybe, which tracks if this is who it might be.
“I —“ The floor creaks with Wrench’s not terribly disguised presence, and their chest relaxes a little. Next to them, Scout wriggles and Teddy uses the moment to stall. “Scout —! Hold on,” they say, voice all apology. “Let me just put her up—“
Teddy mostly-closes the door, tugging Scout back in so they can turn to lift a hand in tentative hello. ‘Man’ , they sign, feeling clumsy and annoyed by not remembering more or learning faster, but their toddler signing is still faster than looking for paper. ‘Wants you.’ (They blink and make a little ‘well that was interesting phrasing’ face for a moment.) Teddy goes on,
“I don’t know him. Maybe your…”
Friend seems simplistic given even the little he’s told them: like a shitty relative talking about a boyfriend. Colleague is so clinical and they don’t know how to say it anyway. They can’t think of the sign they do want, either, and wryly, amused, sign 1-5 in quick succession for “Numbers” with a little ‘maybe?’ expression and shrug. Teddy mimes a little 50/50 risky motion with their hands, grimacing, but steps back so Wrench can go past them to the door, if he wants.
no subject
So he turns the corner to the kitchen with one hand hovering about hip-height, ready to grab into his waistband if circumstances require, and the other one prepared to strike on Teddy. He's got every good intention to grab a piece of her shirt and haul her back towards the hearth, but her hands are up before he even gets the chance. Something in his posture slackens as he watches the explanation come together, bits and pieces on hands and lips.
Who the fuck could want him? He's been doing his best to lay low. Done a pretty good job of it, as far as he's concerned, though not even the wardrobe of perfectly-tailored period costumes can make Wrench feel like he's fitting in. He can dress the part, but here's something about the 6'4" silent man that remains an anomaly. So whose attention has he captured?
His expression goes from furrowed to wide as he pieces together what Teddy's indicating. The man he mentioned to them in passing - someone from his world, someone he's known since they were both just little boys, but someone who ostensibly ought to be dead. Wrench nudges past Scout and appears in the doorway, his suspicion too marred by hope to seem at all hesitant. It still doesn't make sense. Maybe even less so than all the rest of it. But he'll take Numbers however he can get him. Another chance for last words, perhaps? Or at least, someone he trusts implicitly. Wrench raises a hand across the distance.
You know I almost shot you? Are you waiting for a stamped invitation? Come in.
cw: casual misgendering
"Didn't know you were that eager to have me die again." Maybe not the best joke to make, given the circumstances. He rolls his eyes and lets out a scoff, strolling across the lawn and into the house.
Numbers closes the door behind him, eyes flitting around the room to take in the details. It looks eerily similar to the home he found himself in when he woke up here. To think that people actually choose to live like this makes him want to shudder.
The stranger is still standing in the room with them. He turns to look towards them, that same pleasant smile on his face, and gives her a curt nod.
"Thanks. Appreciate it. Would you excuse us for a moment?"
And then he turns to look back at Wrench. The smile immediately drops, replaced with an annoyed expression. "Who is this woman?" he asks, bluntly. "How much does she know about you? About us?"
He doesn't make any particular effort to disguise the fact he's talking about Teddy, signing in their direction. He simply assumes they can't understand him.
Re: cw: casual misgendering
Wrench’s posture goes from tense and ready for a fight — was their own anxiety that evident from just their posture, Teddy wonders, or is he also dubious of just opening the door to someone? And how did he know? — to a little more neutral, and confused.
And then they explain their thought and his eyes go wide, expression clearing of anything else except maybe hope. Something in Teddy’s chest clenches, a little. That wide-eyed haste, the half-second of unmasked heartache: it resonates inside their ribcage in something less like an echo and more a harmonic.
Teddy gets out of his way; hovers a few steps behind with one eye on the knife drawer in case they’re very wrong.
(They’re not wrong.)
As stupidly soft about that momentary vulnerability as Teddy finds themself — Numbers, up close, continues to evoke the absolute opposite feeling. His smile is cordial enough, but it makes Teddy think of a politician. Especially as neatly as he’s dressed and coiffed. Somehow despite presumably arriving to the same wardrobe as Wrench, he’s managed to make it look more expensive; the effect of which just raises Teddy’s hackles in a deep, instinctively distrusting way (while simultaneously making them want to write their own preferred clothing bereaved come home from the war letters.) He looks at them in one sort of annoyed once over along with the house, like they’re an undesirable accessory that just appeared.
(Rationally, Teddy knows they DID just appear. And if he’s anxious to talk to Wrench, of course he wants to be alone. But he’s a stranger in effectively their house, and—)
Well, they don’t really have time to consider the pros and cons. Teddy’s barely given Numbers a small smile and nod and moved back a few steps into the kitchen before he’s signing…loudly isn’t properly the word, of course, but. Well. It is.
Teddy’s not a fast reader of sign — not yet: they have every intention of learning as much as they can. But the main words he’s using aren’t hard, and they’re being indicated, for fuck’s sake, like that much wouldn’t be obvious to someone who doesn’t know the first thing about ASL (Teddy is beginning to think Numbers is really bad at subtlety).
Who is this woman. this WOMAN It tastes like bile in the back of their throat. The word, but also the way it comes off, like they’re, maybe, some (appallingly bisexual?) affair Wrench was having (while Numbers was nominally dead! their brain supplies in Wrench’s non-applicable defense) or maybe just — extraneous, some nothing, a liability there to learn and give away secrets.
“Hey,” they snap without thinking it through, stepping over a little so they’re in both of their view and lifting a hand. “First of all? Not a woman.”
They tick off first naturally on their fingers, and then just keep signing as they talk. Wrench shouldn’t be left out anyway, and they sure as hell aren’t going to let Numbers pass along what they’re saying when he’s talking about them like that. And being unfair to Wrench, in their opinion: as though their being here is his doing.
In the pause after the end of the sentence Teddy is keenly and sickly aware that they haven’t spoken to anyone in town about their gender; there are numerous reasons for that, mostly really obvious. “Fuck,” they mutter, rubbing their eyes, and push their hair back from their face with one hand and let it fall.
Reckon they’re doing this, then.
“I’m right here,” they add, continuing to sign just as emphatically as they’re speaking. “I can fucking see you.”
no subject
Except that Teddy can, of course. Maybe not every word, and certainly not at the speed of full fluency that Wrench feels returning to his bones when standing before his oldest and closest friend, but enough that he doesn't want to risk very much more. Doesn't want to spill their life into that quaint kitchen for her to possibly over-see. Sure, Wrench has told her some things: admitted there's a man in town that's known to him. Close to him, even. That they've known each other for a lifetime and used to work together. Possibly he even admitted that that man is dead... should be dead, because that's the story he was told ten lonely years ago. But he's withheld the specifics. At least he thinks he has. How much more seeps out simply when he looks at the man he thought he lost.
T-E-D-D-Y... he starts to fingerspell, but finds himself overlapped. It's not in the way he's expecting, either. He and Teddy have had a fair few discussions, cobbled together in half-sign, simple gesture, and writing. He's mostly rebuffed any questions, but they've talked a bit about time and place. But matters of identity aren't anything they've really broached.
Hell, matters of identity aren't anything Wrench feels he's ever broached with himself. He's established his own identity based on what's needed of him. What's expected, what he's been trained up to do. Even now and even here, he's still Wrench. It's the only name he'll give, and the only one he feels he has that's worth anything. That ought to say plenty. But he looks at Teddy like he's seeing them for the first time, and like he's not quite sure what it is he's supposed to see. Then he looks at Numbers, and points back.
They sign.
Two rolled index fingers isn't the sign to indicate full fluency, but combined with Teddy's protestations, he figures Numbers will get the hint. They sign enough for it to make a difference, enough for the two men to proceed carefully. He looks back at Teddy and gives a quizzical expression, then draws quotes in the air.
"Not a woman." What do you mean? How old are you?
no subject
I can see that, he signs back, irked. Dammit. Of course, this isn't the first time this has happened. It was rare for anyone to actually speak ASL in the circles they frequented, much less understand it, but the handful of times that it's happened while discussing sensitive information has been mortifying for him.
Much like Wrench, he hasn't exactly spent a lot of time thinking about his identity. What mattered to him was was what he presented to other people, what he wanted them to think when they saw him--an insignificant drifter who could blend in with the crowd to a man who could kill you if you breathed the wrong way. He could embody it all. Numbers waits for Wrench to finish speaking to Teddy, then faces them again, head tilted to the side like a puzzled dog. He looks them up and down, trying to make sense of their comment.
"So...not a woman. Girl? Boy? Man? Person?" he continues, sounding slightly unsure and cycling through the different signs to demonstrate as he says them.
cw: gender and body feels, mild internalized transphobia, hyperawareness of being observed
They are, though, aren't they? Part of her. Them. (...Him? That one's like a gorgeous jacket cut too small for their shoulders: they oughta think about it less if they don't like the feel). The plain truth about this weird, fleshy container that houses whatever a Teddy is. What would be the point, if they could unsay them?
Only: it would be easier. She hadn't said it yet, has answered to Good afternoon, Miss (ugh) and ladies, (when even slightly close to another woman both passing an employee of anything) and Mrs. Smith (that one mostly makes her want to laugh bewilderedly). It's a little -- awful, maybe -- but it's awful in a way she barely notices for expecting it, like when she describes a seizure and people look horrified and she just shrugs. It's almost better, here, because it's all so wrong that she can just put it in a box together, woman and Mrs and Smith and the stupid dresses and this house she's half afraid to touch anything in and half wants to redecorate.
It would be easier, not to be looked at like Wrench and his -- partner, that covers bases -- are both looking at them now. Good job, Teds. Fixed the being looked at like a weird decoration problem real well, didn't you. They shift under it, wonder what the men see: what they're looking for or assessing. The hair, the dress; curves or the lack of them? The currently unhidden tattoos, the way they stand, their attitude? They find themselves widening their shoulders, settling in their stance, and can't even tell themselves if it's comforting or aggressive or trying to prove something.
And -- she shouldn't care, she barely knows him, but something sinks watching Wrench's expression shift and resettle, as though observing something new. In the last not-quite-two-weeks Wrench has watched her kill a man -- or something like a man; been there for three different panic attacks and (though they doubt he knew) a handful of focal aware seizures; somehow managed to not make literally sharing a bed or a home with a stranger terrifying. He's looking at her like he hasn't seen her, really, and she doesn't know if it's in a good or bad way.
Then he signs, confusedly. It takes Teddy a moment to render the question in their head: she doesn't recognize mean, but his expression and the rest of the signs coalesce. It takes a second moment to make sense: they breathe a ghost of a laugh, open their mouth and lift their hands to try to reply and just -- can't: she laughs, rubbing her eyes.
All the nerves and doubts and uncertainty at what he, they both are thinking; preparing to try to explain concepts they have no idea how to sign, all stacked up and then... abruptly punted out the goddamn window by the question. Which is, admittedly, a fair way you could interpret the alternative of woman.
Teddy takes a breath and just looks at Wrench for a second, schooling back the flash of an amused grin and signing back in a deadpan, That's me. Child bride. She doesn't know the sign for bride but little stands in the way of Teddy and sarcasm; she just finger spells it. She makes a wry face, shakes her head and pushes her fingers back through her hair, holding it away from her neck and letting it fall again; she takes advantage to run through numbers in her head. (Of course this is when she remembers the sign for numbers.)
Twenty six, she signs with a slightly softer expression, forming the beginning of the twenty and remembering hastily to attach ages to her chin, smiling despite herself.
Numbers is still tilting his head, looking increasingly like a dubious Scout. Or like Teddy's suddenly turned into one of those 3-D puzzles that were in the newspaper sometimes, and if he gets exactly the right angle suddenly they'll pop out of it and make sense.
She's expecting him to say -- she doesn't know what, but not this. His tone uncertain and curious, his signs demonstrating as much as translating. It throws them off almost as much as Wrench's did, and they smooth their skirt and sign, pursing their lips wryly, Yes...? with a self-effacing shrug and a helpless little flip-up of her palms.
Then, furrowing her brow to take the question more seriously, Teddy signs, Person. She hadn't quite thought of that one; she'd learned it mostly as a suffix that makes verbs into people -- teacher, a teach-person. Student, a learn-person. But...it is its own word, and it's better. She thinks about it, the simplicity, the total divorce from gendered regions of the face and having to pick or conjoin them somehow. Just: two hands indicating a body.
(A weird, fleshy container that houses whatever a Teddy is.)
"Yeah," they say aloud, a little soft and curious, nodding. They'd sort of accidentally dropped actually voicing the words so much as mouthing them along, earlier, and speaking it aloud as they follow it with a signed yes is a little bit for them, for that strange solidity that writes itself in muscle memory. "Person is...good."
Hastily, before Numbers can turn right back to Wrench and demand okay, who is this PERSON and what do they know about us -- she would totally do it, if it wasn't someone she gave a shit about -- she says, "Look--" and sighs a little, picking up in ASL. I'm sorry. I -- You -- She makes a face and starts over.
I woke up here. Same as him. I know that you're his... she pauses, glancing between them, and signs extremely precisely, friend. From work. After a moment she adds, And...something bad happened. She isn't sure if Numbers has been told what all happened, and she doesn't have the energy to make this all even weirder by exclaiming you're dead! at someone.
Wait. Teddy looks around, an idiosyncracy, a mime for thinking. Your house...you don't have a ... she wrinkles her nose and signs wife? and then makes scare quotes with her fingers, the way she would if she were speaking.
no subject
Or maybe it's Wrench who's lost. He wouldn't argue any differently. There's a hell of a lot he simply doesn't know. It's not that he thinks he's beyond learning; rather, his education got pointed in an entirely different direction early on. The lessons he's committed himself to are the ones not learned in the kinds of books people get handed in school. Being good at the sterner stuff has kept him alive, but it's also kept him ignorant. So he watches Teddy with some earnest effort to make sense of what they seem to be struggling to articulate themselves.
Eventually, though, they settle on 'person,' and that seems easy enough. Wrench's green gaze flickers to Numbers and he squints. It's possible he missed something in all of that, and he checks with his partner in a way that's always been second nature to him. An expectation that the other man will fill in the blanks. That he knows more — probably because he's had more opportunity to overhear it — and that he'll fill Wrench in so the tall man isn't caught looking like a total fool.
Person. O-K. Easy.
Too easy, maybe. Deceptively easy, as if Wrench hasn't fully grasped the weight of what's been shared with him. To the man, it's as easy as a name and a point. Maybe a brief description if necessary, but gendered markers are easily avoided, just like higher concepts of identity and philosophy and anything that doesn't relate directly to a person's immediate survival.
Coworkers, he tells Numbers, and when his shoulders shift to address the familiar man, Wrench's signing naturally picks up pace as well. It becomes looser. Lazier, Numbers might accuse. I didn't know what to say. There's a picture of me and them in the upstairs bedroom. We both have wedding rings. People call us S-M-I-T-H-S.
no subject
Numbers still isn't quite sure why it needed to be specified. It's not an unfamiliar idea, necessarily. It's not as if Numbers or Wrench are their 'real' names--through necessity, they took on the monikers, and now, he can't imagine introducing himself as anything else. Numbers looks back towards Wrench, also looking for something he missed--the big guy was more meticulous than he was, at times. But it's clear that both of them are somewhat out of their depth. The only answer he offers for now is a shrug.
That's fine. He can roll with it. He looks back towards Teddy, waiting for her to finish. Teddy's signing is halting and unsure at times, but Numbers can get the gist of it. But when she says "friend from work", it takes all his focus to not burst into laughter or crack a wayward smile. The rest of what Teddy says makes him furrow his brow in confusion.
His eyes flit back towards Wrench as he explains the situation further. He mouths 'Smith?', trying to wrap his head around it. Wrench Smith? The clumsy addition of the last name was like gluing a unicorn horn to a donkey.
One thing at a time. He rubs his face, pressing in on his eyes and shaking his head. He takes a small step back so both Wrench and Teddy can see what he's saying.
I died, he says towards Teddy, trying to slow down and prioritize sign clarity. I'm not dead now. And no wife or kids in house. Living as a bachelor. A pause. He repeats the sign, 'B' brushing down one cheek then the other, and spells it out. B-A-C-H-E-L-O-R.
He turns back towards Wrench abruptly, returning to his normal manner of signing. You still need to tell me what the hell you did those ten years, by the way. And you're gonna tell me everything.
Another pause.
This town is bad. We need to leave quickly. You discover anything? A question broadcast to the general group.
no subject
Is it easy? Is this all it takes?
And if that's all, why is it so fucking hard most of the time?
(Well. Most people don't normally refer to all other people the same way. It's nice, actually; that equalizing effect that ASL has when everyone just gets pointed at, whoever they are. They're not sure it'd fix other things -- like wife or girlfriend, or more complicated: you sure you don't want to go to prom, honey?; the way it's easier for them to get a gig playing indie folk-rock-something than punk. But it's still nice.)
It might as well be easy, anyway. It's better than it being resisted on principle, or any of what they'd been afraid were behind those stares when Numbers and Wrench turned and just looked at them. They can talk about it more later. If they care enough to, if it ever comes up. It hadn't been the point of what was bothering them, really.
Teddy signs OK back, with a small smile and a little nod of gratitude for them not fighting her on this, and continues. She can tell Numbers is schooling back a reaction, though she can't tell quite what, at Friend From Work; and her own mouth curls up at one corner just a little: it was meant to be sass, after all, in a fond way. (He's better at looking impassive than either of them are at looking like they're casual acquaintances.)
When the two of them turn back toward each other, there's a part of her that wants to -- is it still eavesdropping if you're watching? whatever -- if only because she wants to know more signs and she's been picking some things up from context. But they are -- whatever the hell they are, which amounts to closer than your average colleagues, and Numbers did ask for a moment, if not in the politest way possible. And also, she doesn't know what the rules are here. Is signing where someone can see you tantamount to talking loudly enough that someone can hear you? If they were standing where they were, just speaking at normal volume -- in her kitchen, basically -- she'd consider it her business, but then again, they're signing directly to each other and not at a speed she's meant to catch.
Teddy leans back against the console table and glances away politely. Scout has laid down, sort of, in the way she does when she knows she's supposed to be good but would really like to move; she's watching them sign, alert and curious. Teddy wonders if to a dog trained on hand signs, it looks like they're speaking a recognizable but foreign language. Teddy snaps quietly, barely a noise, and Scout picks up her head, thumping her tail, and when Teddy pats their thigh, scrambles up readily to come sit next to them and get petted.
Glancing back up to make sure they haven't missed anything aimed at them, Teddy catches the end of Wrench's fingerspelling and Numbers mouthing SMITH? and can't help a little huff of a laugh. They furrow their brow a little bit as Numbers steps back, lifting their head to watch carefully and nodding as they follow along, thankful if embarrassed about what in sign probably comes across as the equivalent of someone SPEAK...ING...LIIKE THIIIS.
I'm not dead now makes them smile a little.
I see that, she replies, unconsciously mirroring what Numbers had said earlier, and clarifies, You'd look good for dead, with a little laugh.
Bachelor provokes a knit brow: and then she lights up -- a little more than she means to -- when he repeats it and fingerspells, the clarity getting a long up and down oh sort nod. Teddy repeats it for practice. Bachelor. (A lot of signs are references to things and she wonders if there's some implication there that you shave for women, or maybe that married men don't bother? It's the same way she is about learning new words, honestly: she always wants to know where they come from.) She adds a quick, genuine, thank you! I like knowing.
He's turning back to sign something quickly at Wrench, emphatically enough that she can hear the smack of his hands against each other; again Teddy glances away studiously to look at something in the kitchen, but this time it's not quite as long before he turns back.
No joke, she says, and then glances at Wrench with a little shrug, wondering to what extent he means discover or what he already knows, even. There's still a little part of her that isn't sure who she can trust: all she knows about Wrench is what she's been told, after all, and he was already awake when she woke here, with a closet full of tailor-fitting clothes, a wedding band and pictures of her that she wasn't aware for.
And shouldn't it be even more unbelievable than this being 1960 that he's from almost but not quite her own time, and he knows Numbers, but Numbers should be dead ten years ago?
Somehow it isn't: it's grouped in with a sort of general insanity.
Teddy shrugs and sort of gestures at the whole house. They like G-A-S-L-I-G-H-T-I-N-G and C-A-P-I-T-A-L-I-S-M? they offer, with a strychnine grin, and affect a show-off pose so their slightly absurd engagement ring catches the sun and reflects rainbows across the tile, then roll their eyes and shrug, flipping their hand up into a one-handed what sign in a gesture of helplessness. S-A-L-E-S-M-E-N aren't very nice.
I don't know... There are others. New. Married. They add quotes to that one like they did for wife. Teddy presses their lips together, thinking. The ones I met are both on this street... they realize, thinking. Where is your house?
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Except out there, Numbers isn't alive anymore. So whatever the fuck this place is and however they ended up here, Wrench isn't so sure he's in a rush to leave it. If they manage to find their way out and their escape resets everything back to the way it was before, that means losing the only person who's ever really mattered a second time, and Wrench isn't sure he can do that. He's not sure he can admit to Numbers that the last ten years have been filled with mostly subsisting. Staying on the run, evading capture. And for what purpose? He doesn't want to admit how many days he couldn't really come up with one.
No, Wrench snaps his fingers shut, not quite sure what he's protesting. No, he doesn't want to tell Numbers how he spent that long, exhausting decade? No, he doesn't think they should find a way out? No, he's failed all his training and has nothing more to report about this place? He blinks, glancing from Numbers back to Teddy and watching his so-called spouse's assessment of their situation.
I woke up here with my gun and my knife. Why would they let us have our weapons, but not our clothes?
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Numbers gestures in the house's general direction and continues to sign, but then is cut off by Wrench. He blinks, looking over to him with a slightly startled expression and moves to protest, but then stops. He makes a good point--if they made the effort of bringing them here, why would they allow them to defend themselves?
I also woke up with my gun. And a pocket knife. He frowns, looking unsure. Maybe this is a game? A test? For...whoever is in charge of this place.
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment--he doesn't want to see anyone else talk for a bit, just process the whirlwind of thoughts running through his mind. Numbers hates this. He hates sitting idly in one place, not knowing what to do or who to shoot. He opens his eyes again, runs a hand through his hair, then starts to sign again.
What do we do, then? he continues, clearly frustrated. Sit around, twiddling our thumbs? A pause. And I guess you're involved too, now.
He points towards Teddy, still looking annoyed.
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Still, at least both Wrench and Numbers are signing slow and clear, even if Teddy feels like an idiot -- it makes it easier not just to recognize the words they do know, but to put together the ones they don't from context. Over where, they're trying to see if he clarifies, because the question is really are they all on the same street, and if they are what does that mean -- but Wrench cuts him off with a decisive no sign.
Teddy furrows their brow; Numbers looks equally startled and then a little annoyed, but they're not sure if he's confused about the same thing or not. Is that firm no in response to what Wrench had quickly signed to him, or about finding anything else out? To Teddy's own question about the street?
She knows woke up; she doesn't know gun or knife but the sign for gun, at least, is pretty self-explanatory. Knife loses her briefly because it looks enough like can't, but the other parts, the flow of the sentence, the and, Numbers agreeing and repeating: she figures it out.
And then he kind of shuts himself down, a little. Teddy can't find it in themself to blame him, even if it is a little like telling everyone to shut up. They've felt that way since they got here, sort of. They catch Wrench's eye and repeat back, hastily, an aside to make sure, You -- both -- have your knife and gun? Right? I don't know all the signs.
They add, thinking by talking, Three of us: three guns, two knives, Scout. It's not bad. They're suddenly and uncomfortably reminded of the effect of hunting ammo on human skull, and they take a breath in. Or...maybe it's very bad. Whatever the hell Teddy had expected when they woke up in a negligee in a strange bed in a strange house with a picture of themselves marrying a tall stranger: it wasn't needing an armory almost immediately. The fact that all three of them do have weapons and experience using them doesn't make them feel secure that it's not going to come back up.
Then Numbers is back and signing. The sign for twiddling your thumbs is more of a mime than anything else, and the expression, filtered through Numbers' annoyance, would have relaxed her nerves if the gist of what he says next didn't kind of piss her off and weirdly sting. Teddy rolls her eyes and spreads her hands with a clear what the fuck am I supposed to do about that shrug.
"Me?" she says aloud, signing at the same time with the attendant facial expression. "You two wanna go, go. I'm not..." she fails to find a word, spoken or signed, and just lifts her hands away and up, frustrated and done.
She shakes her head, crossing her arms across her stomach, dropping her eyes.
"I wasn't exactly fixin'a wake up some man's wife in suburban hell, you know," she says after a moment, still looking at the ground. It's rude of her; she knows it, too. But it's not meant for Wrench. He hasn't been anything but kind: cordial at worst. She doesn't even know why the I guess you're involved feels so bad. She's played house with this guy for less than three weeks and she didn't ask for it: it's reasonable for his colleague or best friend or boyfriend or what the fuck ever to be annoyed they've got a third wheel. Her eyes still sting though, and her accent's slipped further. Traitors.
"Not here to hold anyone back," she adds, roughly.
Something about that tone of voice has troubled Scout, and she stands up restlessly next to Teddy, making a grumble-huff noise that sounds so human that Teddy can't help but exhale a soft sigh-laugh of her own. After a moment's inspection assures her that Teddy herself is not in danger, Scout stretches, dissatisfied, and makes a casual perimeter, tipping her head up as she nears Wrench in a curious, slightly soliciting way that Teddy recognizes as 'wants attention but trying to be cool about it'. Teddy rubs her eyes and looks back up.
I'm sorry, Teddy signs to Wrench, and means it, but it's easier to say if she passes it off as about the dog. She really likes you.