This was so stupid. So, so stupid. Teddy knows it as soon as it's hanging in the air; the words she can't unsay, more inexorable somehow for the way they're doubled through her hands, embodied: part of her.
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.
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.