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Red lines burned bright and unrelenting, a beacon in the fog of cheap interior lighting: 2:42 AM. Wrench didn't know what he'd been expecting to happen when he turned his head yet again to stare at the digital clock situated between their skinny, barely-used beds. An explosion, maybe? A psychic vision? Anything more exciting than the two of them just sitting there, waiting.
A single bar shifted in what felt like the span of an hour: 2:43. No matter how hard he glared, he couldn't do a goddamn thing to make the job move faster.
But he had to try something. If the boredom didn't do him in, he was almost positive the atmosphere would. The room was bland as all fuck—faded green bedcoverings, ugly paintings of daisies in plastic frames, rabbit-eared television set little more than a glorified snow globe—and the air within reeked of stale coffee and pizza and tension so thick Wrench thought he might choke on it.
Numbers wasn't faring any better. When Wrench looked back across the table at his partner, he was still anxiously turning the pager over in his hands, pausing every few seconds and grimacing like he was considering hurling the thing at the wall. He would occasionally shoot an annoyed glance in Wrench's direction, but if he'd been the sole cause of his irritation, Numbers wouldn't say. Neither had talked much over the past three weeks.
Wrench's hands twitched restlessly. He tried occupying them by strumming his pen against the open notebook in front of him, though he froze once he caught Numbers' heated gaze. His eyes instantly pulled downward, away from the flames and into the cool white of the paper.
The page was blank, useless. With few options left, he decided to take a stab at filling it.
I'm bored.
He rotated the book, sliding it and the pen across to his companion. Numbers set the pager aside and wrote a curt reply.
So? Go to bed then.
He'd suggested that about a dozen times since they'd checked in, and Wrench no longer had the patience to flip and point to the page where he'd detailed why he wasn't going to just 'go to bed.' If Numbers had taken more than three seconds to read it in the first place, he'd know the answer was that they'd been told to be ready at a moment's notice—to drop everything and head out once their contact got in touch with them—and Wrench hadn't thought it fair that Numbers should be the only one staying awake all night watching for the pager to go off. It was all right there in black and white.
There was another answer, though, one Wrench hadn't dared to mention despite Numbers' obvious disinterest in what he'd had to say on the matter: More than anything, he wanted to prove himself useful. And judging by how smoothly that had been going, Wrench figured he might as well continue his losing streak.
Tell me a bedtime story first.
Numbers scoffed at the message, and said something along the lines of "What are you, a five-year-old?" before shoving the book back without a written response.
Wrench wasn't deterred; he scowled, writing as fast as he could.
Can't we just talk? Please?
"About what?" Numbers began, but he snatched the pen before Wrench could reclaim it. Once he'd finished his furious scrawl, he practically threw the notebook at him, pages fluttering to older, lighter snippets of small talk. Nothing as harsh as what awaited him now.
I've told you that this is a bad idea. But you don't fucking listen to me. You keep asking personal questions about my name and my past like it's nothing. Do you know how dangerous that kind of information can be? In our line of work?
No, Wrench didn't understand what harm could come from simply knowing someone's first name, or why Numbers had become so upset when he'd shown him his in the alley that night. If they were going to be living and working together, Wrench had thought Numbers would want to learn at least that much about him. But he'd torn the piece of paper to shreds and tossed it to the wind, insisting that "Wrench" was his name now, and that was all he cared to know.
He teased the corner of the page with the tip of his index finger. It was too cramped, too angry, and he flipped to the other side, carefully plotting his choice of words. Hardly an easy task, given how tired and stressed their 'line of work' had made him.
I know you don't like me asking certain questions. But I thought if we got to know each other a little bit, we could be better partners.
He'd had the book turned around for all of an instant before Numbers was clutching at his face and mouthing what he could only assume were the same colorful swears he'd seen him shout on more than one occasion. Wrench forced his hand to keep writing. Something he spit out was sure to make things right.
He hoped.
It took some prodding and tapping of his fingers on the table to get Numbers to look at him again, but when he finally did, Wrench's first action was to lift his fist to his chest and sign Sorry, pointing at the corresponding word on the page.
In case what he'd written wasn't apology enough.
I'm sorry the first two jobs went bad. I was reckless and I didn't pay attention and I fucked things up. But I swear I took what you said to heart. I want to make this work. WE can make this work. PARTNERS.
Numbers regarded him with a drowsy, half-lidded stare. He gripped the pen tightly, his face expressionless, and his lettering equally as crisp and unemotional.
You obviously DIDN'T if you think we have any choice BUT to make this work. The only way this partnership is going to end is if one or both of us are dead. If the job doesn't kill us, then you bet your ass Fargo will. We keep up this performance, they won't think twice before making an example out of us. Understand?
Of course not. Not a damn thing made sense to him lately. One day he was homeless, the next he was sitting at some stranger's kitchen table, shoveling bacon and eggs into his mouth while his new "partner" meticulously penned their itinerary: Clothes shopping at 9. Pick up car at 11. Meet J for briefing at noon. If necessary, contact S for additional weapons and ammunition. He'd gone from staring down the barrel of a gun to being asked if he'd had any experience firing one.
A little. Mostly revolvers and shotguns, hunting rifles. The AR-15...not so much. Though he assumed he'd get the hang of it before anyone took notice.
The whole situation was strange, but he'd rolled with it, stumbling and bullshitting his way through life like he always did; an endless chain of bad decisions.
And firing at those two guards behind that warehouse—when Numbers specifically told him to fucking wait—was just another addition to the grand tally.
He'd lay awake at night, tossing and turning on Numbers' futon, wondering why the guy hadn't killed him already, why he'd even pleaded for that hideous man—Tripoli or Mr. Fargo or whatever the fuck his name was—to spare his sorry ass to begin with. He wondered how he'd managed to get off with just a black eye and a lecture after fucking that job up as royally as he'd done. They both could have died that day. But they didn't.
None of it made any sense.
His fingers grazed the skin above his left cheekbone. The bruise from Numbers' fist had long since vanished, but Wrench made it his habit to touch the spot at least once a day, to remind himself to stop repeating the same dumb mistakes. The first job was poor judgment; the second, bad timing. He wouldn't let the third stray down the same path. Lord knew he was trying.
And fuck Numbers if he couldn't see that.
Pen struck paper defiantly. He passed it back with a smoldering glare.
No. Not us. We're different. We're going to live.
Numbers' brows knit together as he read Wrench's reply. He mumbled things Wrench couldn't make out—all exasperated huffs and teeth tearing into lips—his penmanship deteriorating into a sloppy slant.
You think you're the first partner I've ever had? That you're different from the other stubborn fucks? Do you have any idea how many guys I've seen get killed because of their hubris? Because they talked too much? Because they were too stupid to realize that every word, every last little bit of information could be a weapon against them? They couldn't follow two simple fucking rules: 1. Keep your secrets SECRET and 2. Know when to shut up.
Bullshit! Wrench slammed his hands down after signing it, causing both Numbers and the pen to jump, the latter skittering over the edge and onto the floor. He would have located it sooner, had he not been fumbling around blindly with one arm beneath the table, neck craned so he could continue his glower.
Bullshit. I think you like talking. You couldn't keep your mouth shut when you found me out by that dumpster.
Numbers hesitated, jaw clenched and hand hovering above the page. Wrench wasn't sure if his anger was stunting him, or if he'd successfully caught him in a lie.
I risked enough just trying to keep you out of all this. And look what good that did us.
What a fucking cop-out. Wrench snorted a laugh.
A real inconvenience, ain't it? Having to act like a human being.
Oh so you're an expert now? You want to tell me I'm wrong? That I haven't lived through this long enough? I knew a guy once, didn't last a month. Loved to run his mouth. Had a family too. All gone. Do you get it now? All of these notebooks—GONE. Too dangerous to keep around. I don't care if it's job related or a list of your favorite takeout items. DO YOU GET IT?
So that's the problem? I swore I only ever lied to you about my age, but you still don't trust me?
I don't have a choice! They saddled me with you. If I can't trust you, I might as well put a bullet through both our heads right now.
Maybe if you'd let us have a simple fucking conversation, you wouldn't feel that way.
The notebook absorbed the brunt of their rage: Paper was torn in place of clothing, pages scratched and bruised with ink, sparing flesh and blood. Wrench recalled that stupid childhood mantra about words not hurting, thought of how much of a fucking lie that had turned out to be. Christ, he'd take Numbers' fists over this any day. At least those aches were superficial. But words always found a way to burrow deep into his brain, so deep he sometimes forgot they were there, until they leapt out again at the worst possible moment.
And Numbers was proving to have quite a way with words.
I didn't choose this job because I wanted to form lasting connections with people. I need to know your alias, your blood type, and how good your aim is. Everything else is a liability. You think we need shit to get any more complicated than it already is? BOTTOM LINE: We keep to ourselves, we work more efficiently, we stay alive . I'm not interested in making friends or developing attachments.
Are you serious? His hands flew through the air, unable to contain his frustration. You say you don't want to get attached yet you took me in that night! Why? Because you felt sorry for me? I was doing just fine without your sympathy, you moody asshole! But I guess we're stuck together now, aren't we? Whose fault is that?
He grabbed the notebook and hastily added You should try. You might like it. before flinging it to his stunned companion.
Numbers gave it a cursory glance, running his tongue over his top teeth, his eyes narrowing almost as quickly as they'd widened. "Are you finished?"
Wrench offered a dismissive wave and dragged the book closer, flipping to a sheet unmarred by misguided intentions. Yeah, he was finished. Why the hell should he waste his energy fighting when nothing he said seemed to earn him Numbers' respect?
Instead, he put pen to use doodling in the margins, black crosshatches and waves and squiggly spirals designed to clear his mind. But his mind wasn't up to behaving, churned to a sickening tempest by all they'd said, all the pointless barriers and boundaries Numbers had insisted on constructing. And soon, he found himself scribbling out yet another apology.
Sorry. Let's just forget the whole thing.
He felt foolish for arguing, childish for even attempting to patch things up, and like a child, he tore out the page, crumpled it into a ball and rolled it over to Numbers without lifting his head. The pen was worthless now, so he dropped that, too, opting to thumb through corner after corner of tiny, abstract drawings to pass the remainder of his time. A boring end to a boring start.
Until he noticed the wrinkled sheet of paper edging towards him.
You wanted to talk, right? So talk.
He looked up at Numbers, who was now leaning forward with his elbows on the table, lips pressed together in guilt or who the fuck knew what. Wrench couldn't be bothered to delve into his expression; he was too busy rebuffing the offer, shaking his head vigorously and pushing the note aside. He wasn't in the mood for it anymore.
Numbers took back the piece of paper and kept writing.
That night I brought you in, you told the boss you once killed a guy with a wrench. Wanna tell me about that?
He waved him off again, but Numbers was persistent, wagging the pen right in front of his face.
Fine. If Numbers was going to make a half-assed attempt at camaraderie, then Wrench would just have to one-up him by using his whole ass. Wasn't like he had anything better to do.
He snagged the pen and, swallowing any reservations, started with two simple words:
My dad.
Wrench spread the fingers of his right hand and touched his thumb to his forehead. He pointed back at the word "dad."
Numbers squinted, wrinkling his nose like Wrench had somehow managed to disgust him despite all the blood and guts they'd seen over the past few weeks. Despite all he'd probably seen in his career. And it hit Wrench like a knife to the chest.
It's OK, he signed. He was a bad man. As if that were excuse enough for killing one's kin.
It wasn't, of course, so Wrench turned the notebook around and began the rough process of picking through his memories. He crossed out words, scribbled over entire sentences, backtracked and reconsidered, omitted certain details he feared would make Numbers flat-out cringe.
Numbers may have been right in a way. Maybe there were things about each other they didn't need to know. Everything else, Wrench laid out as legibly and straightforward as possible.
Dad was a bad man. He liked to drink too much, liked to beat me and my mom. I was a little smartass, maybe I deserved it every once in a while, but she didn't. Sure, she still had her problems, but she'd been off the heroin for years. She was just doing the best she could to stay clean and raise a good kid. It was never easy with dad around, though. Everything she wanted for me for us, he was against it. He hated me using sign language at home. Said he didn't want his son waving his hands around like a fucking faggot, and that school was making me look like even more of a retard than I already was. If it wasn't for him, maybe mom would have made more of an effort to learn. She stood up to him sometimes, but it never ended well. And after a while, she just kind of stopped fighting altogether.
Maybe once or twice a month, dad would make a pathetic attempt at male bonding by taking me hunting or having me help with fixing the truck or something like that, though halfway through he'd start bitching about how I was doing it wrong. The day it happened, he had us working on the kitchen sink. He was on his back, with his head underneath, inside the cabinet. At one point, I remember he had his hand out, flexing his fingers like he was waiting for me to give him something. There were dirty rags all around, tools, sections of pipe. I couldn't even begin to figure out what it was he wanted because I couldn't see his lips. I passed him part of the drain trap, but it must have been wrong. He dropped it and shook his hand harder. So I picked up something else—a pipe wrench. It was this huge thing, maybe a foot long, I can't remember. I liked how heavy and cool the metal felt in my hand. I guess I kind of zoned out while holding it, because when dad finally slid out from under the sink, he was shouting at me like he always did, like he thought it would magically make my deafness disappear. He went to sit up, still yelling and balling up his fists. And that's when I swung my arm and struck him in the face with it.
It caught him on the bridge of his nose, maybe a little higher, like between the eyes. He was out right away, but I kept on hitting him. I don't know why I did it. I mean, I guess it had been building up for a while, but at the time, I didn't feel anything inside. I just felt I felt his skull breaking. I felt my wrist starting to cramp. I felt his blood splattering my skin. I didn't even SEE IT on my shirt or on the walls. Didn't see it puddling all over the floor. I just f I just FELT.
Afterwards, I stood there staring at him for God knows how long. Just kind of looking. It was like I wasn't even shocked by it.
But mom was. I was still in the kitchen, still standing over dad's body when she got home from work. She grabbed my shoulders and shook me, and then she started crying, hugging me, cupping my face in her hands. Once she'd calmed down, she told me to go wash up. When I got out of the shower, I found her in my room, shoving clothes and a wad of cash into my backpack. She handed it to me and said to take the truck and run, ditch it once I'd crossed the state line, find somewhere safe to hide. Said she'd take care of dad.
I drove most of the night, pulled off to sleep for a couple hours, then drove some more. Spent some money on a hotel, stole one of the cars in the lot once it got dark. I left it off the highway, a few miles out from Kansas. Whoever owned it had a revolver hidden under the seat, so I took it and started hitchhiking. Kept going until I was far enough to comprehend the mess I'd gotten myself into. Too fucking late. All I could do was keep asking myself why.
Funny thing is, I still don't know the answer. I thought I could take all of dad's shit, no problem. It never seemed to get to me. I knew I wasn't stupid. I had friends, I went on dates, I had a part-time job. I never once wished I could be different. I never hated who I was. But I did it. I killed the bastard. And my only regret is that I still don't know what happened to mom. I didn't even think to argue with her. I just ran.
And eventually you found me.
A knot the size of a Mack truck twisted in the pit of Wrench's stomach, worsening with each minute spent in the shadow of Numbers' persistent frown. He'd given him a lot to process, sure, but did he have to pore over each fucking line? Wrench was close to gnawing a hole in the side of his cheek by the time Numbers finally lifted his head and reached for the pen.
How old were you?
Wrench let out a captive breath.
Seventeen.
"Christ." Numbers brought trembling fingers up to his chin, stroking his beard and the very bottom of his lip, a speck of white peeking out above pale pink. He threw one last, nervous glance at Wrench before slumping back into his seat. Then, he tilted his head towards the ceiling and just stared.
Wrench sighed, rolling his shoulders in a How the hell did you expect him to take it? sort of shrug, and returned to his previous activity of pointless doodling. He didn't want to think right now, not about dad or mom or the trip north or that guy who'd picked him up outside Wichita and sucked his dick in the backseat somewhere off 81, right before Wrench pulled the revolver and forced him out of the car. And it had nothing to do with his own demons and everything to do with that sickly, sympathetic look he'd seen plastered all over Numbers' face.
Since when did he let some stranger's opinion of him carry so much weight? Numbers shouldn't have been any different.
But for some inexplicable reason, he was. And all the crap-fucking-doodles in the world couldn't make that fact easier for Wrench to cope with.
He was well into a constellation of lopsided stars when he spotted movement from Numbers' end: A careful slithering of fingers, blunt tips pressing into paper, gently tugging. Wrench didn't have the urge to resist, so he lifted his hands and allowed Numbers to slide the book out from beneath him.
He hadn't thought there was anything left to say, but whatever was on Numbers' mind spilled from one line onto two, then three, four, and by that point Wrench's curiosity no longer had the strength to continue butting heads with his apprehension. There were still a few drops of courage left in him, though, and he used them to keep his eyes trained on Numbers' face, taking stock of each wrinkle that crossed his forehead, measuring every breath squeezed between parted lips, adding it all up into a rough estimate of a reaction. All the while, his hands twisted in the hem of the brown sweater Numbers had picked out for him, too eager for their own good.
He wasn't kept waiting long. Numbers finished up quickly, but, rather than pass the book back, he braced his hands on the edge of the table, shoving himself—body and chair—away from everything, and leaving Wrench to reach out and take what he wasn't sure he'd wanted in the first place. He skimmed the page cautiously.
I dropped out of college my senior year.
No, that didn't seem right. Had he missed something?
Wrench blinked several times, rereading the first sentence. He flashed Numbers a confused look, but Numbers was impassive, lounging in his seat with his arms folded across his chest and his lips clamped tightly together, as though the few paragraphs Wrench held were all the answer he needed.
Well, then.
I dropped out of college my senior year. Though it wasn't exactly like I was dying to be there. My parents pressured me into it. They said they'd pay for everything, fed me that old "We're only looking out for your future" bullshit. Of course they just used it as an excuse to keep me under their thumbs. Squash the rebellion before it even happens, shit like that. I got so sick of them constantly trying to micromanage every aspect of my life, from the subjects I majored in, to the girls they thought I should date, to how I was expected to spend my free time. Fucking sociopaths would threaten to cut me off if I got lower than a B in any of my classes. So one day I said "Fuck it, I'll save you the trouble." And I left.
I crashed with some friends after that. Enjoyed my freedom. Partied a lot. Picked up a coke habit. Managed to get myself fired from any job that would hire me. Pissed off way too many people. I was close to broke before the year was over, and my friends threw me out on my ass. But I sure as fuck wasn't about to go crawling back home, so I packed up what little crap I had and drove west.
I spent several months bouncing around from place to place, burning through my list of acquaintances, friends of friends, distant cousins, people I barely knew, people I wouldn't feel too bad leeching off of. Which was anyone, really. It was all I knew how to do at the time. And when I couldn't find anyone else willing to take me in, I started living out of my car, stealing, scamming, doing whatever I needed to survive.
And like you said, eventually we both ended up here.
The words felt odd, though he read them again and again, lingering on those that settled heaviest inside his head. Across from him, Numbers sat low in his chair, legs spread and arms still crossed. He was staring down into his lap, calm if not for the way his fingers plucked at the folds of shirt bunched in the crease of his elbow. When he saw Wrench watching, he immediately stiffened, straightening his posture. He pulled the chair closer and laid his hands atop the table, palms angled slightly upwards, inviting a response.
Wrench could come up with a slew of different things to say right off the bat, but upon second thought he realized they were all alike—all echoes of the same three-lettered question. So he chose the one he felt was the simplest, and prayed Numbers wouldn't take it the wrong way.
You didn't have to tell me this.
Numbers looked worse for wear—tired, but thankfully not angry. He rubbed at his eyes with his unoccupied hand.
I know. But I wanted to. Or maybe I just needed to for my own sake. For whatever it's worth.
Wrench gazed into the tiny window Numbers had given him, peering through cracks and gaps, clouded glass held together by a flimsy frame of stars. There were bits he thought he understood, fragments he ached to draw into the light, pieces he worried he'd never get the chance to assemble. But he didn't have the heart to press forward. He'd been so wrapped up in the notion that Numbers couldn't or shouldn't talk about his past, he never stopped to consider that maybe he simply hadn't wanted to. That maybe it just hurt too much.
His fingers sought his lips first, then the pen.
Thank you. You're a good person.
Numbers laughed, shaking his head as he pushed the notebook away. "I'm not."
You are! Wrench's hands cut through his weariness, desperate to convey the things he couldn't express with ink and paper. You gave me a place to stay. You fed me. You bought me clothes. You're a good person.
"Stop." He held up his palms, frowning. "I'm not, OK? I'm a murderer...you got a sign for that?"
There was no doubt in Wrench's mind that he'd meant it as a joke—the arch of his brow, the slight kink at the corner of his mouth more than subtle hints—but he couldn't stand another second of just sitting quietly while Numbers' gaze wavered and his hands knotted uncomfortably in front of him. So he demonstrated the sign regardless, coupling 'KILL' with 'PERSON,' and then, for good measure, jotted down the only commiseration he could think of.
So am I, partner.
For a long time—much longer than it should have taken to read—Numbers merely stared at it, his face vacant and motionless. Wrench couldn't blame him; he probably would have reacted the same, had he been presented with such an embarrassingly pointless note.
And yet, for all its pointlessness, it was enough to gradually coax a smile from Numbers' lips, a weak little thing that grew into a toothy grin with each letter he wrote.
How do you say "Wrench?"
The question caught him by surprise, but it was that smile—free of insincerity and malice and the promise of a painful death—that practically floored him. It was vastly different from the type Numbers sometimes affected during work, and if Wrench had to classify it, he'd say it was almost kind. Almost like the one he'd seen the first time they'd run into each other.
Whether he'd asked out of pity or boredom or honest-to-God interest, Wrench didn't care. He would have shown him a textbook's worth if it meant more moments like this.
He spread the index and middle fingers of his right hand into a "V" shape, then slipped the same fingers of his left between them, twisting the former as if tightening a bolt.
What happened next damn near made his jaw drop.
With a slight quiver, Numbers brought up his hands and clumsily attempted to repeat it.
Wrench couldn't contain his delight as he cycled through the motions over and over, encouraging Numbers to follow suit. By the time Numbers had settled into a rhythm, they were both beaming, their shoulders shaking with laughter. Wrench waited for him to set his hands down, keeping his own raised as he pressed thumbs and fingers of each together. He inverted one, tapping the tips once then flipping their positions and tapping a second time. He then pointed at Numbers.
"Is that me? Numbers?" He pointed back at Wrench, eyes wide.
Wrench nodded, knocking a quick Yes with his right hand; Numbers laughed and eagerly wiggled his fingers for the notebook.
Could you show me some more?
A glance at the clock told Wrench they were about twenty minutes out from 4AM. With a cup or two of cold coffee, he reckoned he could hold Numbers' attention long enough to walk him through the alphabet; throw in a slice of leftover pizza, and they might have the energy for a few basic phrases.
Sure. I think we've got some time.
Numbers spun around to check for himself, then sighed, poking the pager with the tip of the pen.
Fuck, is this asshole ever going to call?
Wrench considered showing him the sign for 'ASSHOLE,' but chose to save it for later. Maybe he'd make an entire lesson out of swear words, if Numbers was still interested once the job was over.
Right? Almost feels like we're waiting for Godot.
Numbers raised an eyebrow at that and wrote a short reply. The book had barely slipped from his grasp before he spat out "Shit!" and scrambled to pull it back. Even with fatigue bearing down on him, Wrench's reflexes were sharp as nails; he caught the edge with his fingers at the exact same time, leaving them both locked in a comical tug-of-war, Numbers stretched half across the table, mouthing the same word:
"Sorry...sorry…"
Only after he was able to pry the notebook away did Wrench realize why Numbers had been so determined to keep it from him.
You read?
Wrench had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. He squinted and pursed his lips, a look that said Really? We're going back to asking these questions again?
"That's not—" Numbers stopped himself, instead lifting his fist and striking it repeatedly against his chest. He looked more like a frustrated gorilla than someone with a poor grasp of ASL, and Wrench chuckled, moving his own fist in the proper motion of 'SORRY.' A valiant effort, though. Wrench reminded himself to compliment Numbers later.
But for now, simply for the hell of it, he decided to screw with him some more.
So homeless people can't get books? There's a reason it's called a Free Public Library.
Numbers rolled his eyes.
I know, I'm sorry. I'm full of dumb questions. It's just that I think I might have a copy of that back home. I used to read all the time, but not so much anymore.
He wasn't sure if Numbers had meant it as I don't read much now that I've got this annoying deaf asshole around, or if it was just another sliver of his past Wrench had yet to uncover. That kind of ambiguity came standard with note-passing; chalk it up to the obvious fact that paper didn't emote all too well. As practiced as he was, there was still a limit to the amount of feeling Wrench could inject into his handwriting, so he wrestled with his next comment, lest they should end up back at square one.
Yeah, I noticed you have a lot of books. I was going to ask you if I could maybe borrow a few sometime.
Wrench was fully prepared to defend his snooping—They were kind of hard to miss; It's not like I touched them or anything; You can't expect me to just watch TV all the time—but, to his relief, Numbers only smirked, running his tongue over his lips as he wrote.
How about this: You teach me how to sign, and I'll let you borrow as many books as you want. Think you'd be up for that?
The words were of little importance to him, their meaning disappearing in a looping script. All that mattered was the gleam in Numbers' weary eyes, the eagerness fighting through exhaustion, the way he curled and uncurled his fingers, as if demonstrating the potential they possessed. As if he knew how long Wrench had yearned for someone to talk to.
Numbers was right about being full of dumb questions.
It's a deal...
He waited for him to look up.
...Partner.
And he smiled as Numbers tried his best to sign it back.