Falling back into those old habits with Numbers comes to Wrench as easily as the oxygen in his own lungs. This is the routine; it's what they've always done. Sometimes talking in front of other people's faces is a matter of intimidation, but more often it's simply a means of convenience. And why not? Hearing people have their conversations out in the open all the time. It's an endless source of amusement to Wrench how touchy some will get when they're suddenly confronted with the inverse - when they're the ones who can't understand.
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.
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?