Teddy is frowning at the neck of the guitar. Something about the placement of her pinky finger and her third finger makes their hand want to spasm, the way they are right now, every time they try. They blink, setting one finger down at a time as though spelling a word out. It's hard to concentrate actively, much less stay aware of other things the way they normally would; Teddy doesn't even notice when Wrench leans on the archway between the living room and the hall for a moment, watching: despite him taking up a good most of the height, a solid diagonal.
And then he stamps, loud, and they jump, their whole body going tense and jerky. Their arms want to snap up in front of themself, hands trying to clench in some half-protective, half-fight instinct, and they half-fumble the guitar before they're able to clench their hands around it. "Jesus fuck," they say, setting it down on top of its case, and try to slow their heart down. It doesn't really care what they think.
They look back up, a little sullenly. It is good that it's Wrench: for half a second they thought someone had come back for them. It's also shitty that Wrench made them think someone had come back for them, and is this a thing he does, and also, does he have any idea how fucking big he is? Teddy's not with it enough to even do anything with the thoughts but let them happen.
They furrow their brow at his hands, the confused, upset draw together of his expression, trying to understand, blinking. It's not even a hard sentence, it's like -- it's like after some unaware seizures, when they know they know a word but they can't get it from their brain to their mouth.
Teddy shakes her head, wearily, and signs repeat with a face and a sigh. Her hands are shaking, a constant, Parkinsonian tremor that goes away occasionally if she focuses hard and tenses, or if she relaxes enough to sleep; but in those states, the jerks sometimes just become larger: more space between them but more aggressive. -- slow? .
It strikes them abruptly that it feels a little weird. They haven't signed much in almost a week, between the mall, and being at city hall, and then that...place. They haven't seen each other much at all; they've talked a little crossing paths, but just small talk. They wince and, hoping he'll get it, put a flat palm to their chest, please -- creating a smooth circle might be easy, who knows, but it feels overwhelming, exhausting, most things do but especially movement -- and then they fold it into a fist, repeating the word over top. I'm sorry.
When he asks again, slower and clearer, if maybe a little emphatic, she takes a breath. That was sort of what she assumed the gist was, but it's so hard for her to think.
...Does she know any signs that apply here?
There's a real part of Teddy that just wants to sign drugs and leave it, the way Wrench alludes to working but won't say what he did (which leaves like, four possibilities, maybe ten or twelve if they get inventive). There are a couple of reasons that's not happening; primary among them that they don't know the sign for drugs (except by fingerspelling which sounds very hard right now and also somewhat less funny, if it was a good joke to start with, which it isn't actually).
Teddy chews on their lip for a second and then jerks their head toward the couch, shifting their eyes away from his without quite meaning to, anxious. Come here. Their notebook is on the coffee table, and writing's going to suck but it might be better anyway.
They reach forward for it and the pen, to steady themselves and to try and clear their head: then they open to the next blank page, ahead of him getting closer. They write, slowly, in the middle of the page, like a title. It feels like they're watching a movie, peering over their own shoulder, breath held for the big reveal: as though writing it out makes it real.
Teddy goes over the first word a few times, making it blocky and bold.
Re: drill it in... (*borat voice* my wiiiiife)
And then he stamps, loud, and they jump, their whole body going tense and jerky. Their arms want to snap up in front of themself, hands trying to clench in some half-protective, half-fight instinct, and they half-fumble the guitar before they're able to clench their hands around it. "Jesus fuck," they say, setting it down on top of its case, and try to slow their heart down. It doesn't really care what they think.
They look back up, a little sullenly. It is good that it's Wrench: for half a second they thought someone had come back for them. It's also shitty that Wrench made them think someone had come back for them, and is this a thing he does, and also, does he have any idea how fucking big he is? Teddy's not with it enough to even do anything with the thoughts but let them happen.
They furrow their brow at his hands, the confused, upset draw together of his expression, trying to understand, blinking. It's not even a hard sentence, it's like -- it's like after some unaware seizures, when they know they know a word but they can't get it from their brain to their mouth.
Teddy shakes her head, wearily, and signs repeat with a face and a sigh. Her hands are shaking, a constant, Parkinsonian tremor that goes away occasionally if she focuses hard and tenses, or if she relaxes enough to sleep; but in those states, the jerks sometimes just become larger: more space between them but more aggressive. -- slow? .
It strikes them abruptly that it feels a little weird. They haven't signed much in almost a week, between the mall, and being at city hall, and then that...place. They haven't seen each other much at all; they've talked a little crossing paths, but just small talk. They wince and, hoping he'll get it, put a flat palm to their chest, please -- creating a smooth circle might be easy, who knows, but it feels overwhelming, exhausting, most things do but especially movement -- and then they fold it into a fist, repeating the word over top. I'm sorry.
When he asks again, slower and clearer, if maybe a little emphatic, she takes a breath. That was sort of what she assumed the gist was, but it's so hard for her to think.
...Does she know any signs that apply here?
There's a real part of Teddy that just wants to sign drugs and leave it, the way Wrench alludes to working but won't say what he did (which leaves like, four possibilities, maybe ten or twelve if they get inventive). There are a couple of reasons that's not happening; primary among them that they don't know the sign for drugs (except by fingerspelling which sounds very hard right now and also somewhat less funny, if it was a good joke to start with, which it isn't actually).
Teddy chews on their lip for a second and then jerks their head toward the couch, shifting their eyes away from his without quite meaning to, anxious. Come here. Their notebook is on the coffee table, and writing's going to suck but it might be better anyway.
They reach forward for it and the pen, to steady themselves and to try and clear their head: then they open to the next blank page, ahead of him getting closer. They write, slowly, in the middle of the page, like a title. It feels like they're watching a movie, peering over their own shoulder, breath held for the big reveal: as though writing it out makes it real.
Teddy goes over the first word a few times, making it blocky and bold.
took me.