teresa tway, the original gone girl. (mermazing) wrote in fableless, @ 2016-07-09 01:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! log/thread, jonathan peal, sumner grace |
WHO: Jonathan Peal, Sumner Grace, and whoever was in Jon's ASL 1 class in the Summer 2015 semester.
WHEN: Mid-July 015.
WHERE: ASL 1 Lecture Hall, Woodsbridge Academy.
SUMMARY: Sumner disrupts Jon's ASL 1 class, makes a terrible first impression; Jon is distinctly unimpressed, until he very, very almost is (First meeting).
DISCLAIMERS: ASL is obviously its own language, not signed English, but for the purposes of neither us of knowing ASL, it's shown here in italics, as English.
STATUS: Complete!
Don’t get him wrong, it’s great to be back in Woodsbridge full-time — home of most of his favourite people in the world, including Leona, and damn right the men of Woodsbridge better look out because not only are they living in the same city for the first time since become Super Best Friends, they’re actually going to be sharing an apartment. But the point still stands: he’s been spoiled by Gallaudet, being part of the majority instead of the minority for the first time in basically ever, and yeah, his Dad was right. It redefined crazy amazing, it really did, to be surrounded by Deafies, and all Hearings were fluent in his favourite language. So yes, maybe he got a little excited when he realised that that the guy whose ASL classes Leona had taken had a new summer class that was starting like, an hour before his class next door was wrapping up. Everyone knew the first hour of the first class was just busywork, and it wasn’t like he was going to be even auditing the class anyway. Really he should’ve just written for an hour and a half and snuck in for the finale, but Jackson was being silent in his head, and there was no talking to him when he needed some time to himself (Allison really was MUCH easier). So — no, he didn’t feel that bad about forgoeing some Oceans Part 2 time in order to tramp into the ASL I class an hour and a bit late, instead of two and a half. A scattering of people turned and looked at him; he shot at a small wave at the clump of people he knew best, but they were on the far side and he didn’t want to thoroughly disrupt class by trying to get to them. Sumner bounded down to the second row, which was just the right side of sparsely occupied, and took the seat on the end, unlooping his messenger bag from around his shoulder and dumping it between his set. Then he set his elbow on the desk in front of him, his chin on top of his knuckles and peered with naked interest at the younger-than-he’d-expected Professor at the front of the lecture hall. The pair of blue eyes that stared back at him were shrewdly narrowed. Expressions on Jonathan Peal's face were generally tempered, particularly in his classroom, but this one rated somewhere between duly resigned and supremely unimpressed. There was often a student in the beginner classes: one that took it because it looked easy, or had to for a degree requirement, someone who was there not because of interest or anything resembling dedication, but for a letter on a transcript. He'd had them before. Showed up late, forged excuses, maybe even showed up at office hours once or twice just so they could say they went. This was the first time a student had nonchalantly—not even, had proudly, loudly—marched into his classroom over an hour late, plopped himself down near the front, and looked up at him with wide innocent eyes as if he had no idea what he'd done wrong. After a long moment, one that had settled over the classroom and was punctuated only by nervous titters from others, Peal continued the lecture: an introduction, an explanation, an overview of the syllabus and class goals, and every word he spoke accompanied by the translation of his hands. The look on this guy’s was familiar in a way that rooted down below his skin. For the three seconds he couldn’t even place what it even was, Sumner regretted not looking up if the ASL Professor was registered. Then he realised — DUH — it was just that it was the sort of stare that perfectly encapsulated the phrase Who’s been eating my porridge?. He filed that away, just in case he was one of those Professors who challenged you to guess their Tale. The rest of those scant seconds was taken up by studying ASL Professor’s face — which was undeniably interesting, if not classically handsome — and wondering what he looked like when he was smiling. And then his hands started to speak, and Sumner’s focus zeroed in. What he was actually saying was mildly interesting, but not half as much as the way he spoke: fluid, and measured, and — definitely, definitely, his hands were unquestionably attractive. Sumner’s own hand gradually slipped down, until his arms were linked together, flat on his desk, and his head resting almost on his shoulder. It was soothing and kind of hot, listening to the swoop and fall of his hands, with their long, strong fingers. It was that and the no coffee and the regular kind of hot (Samantha Cross must be having a bikini day, with this weather) that made him yawn, long enough that he had to press his mouth to the bare skin of his arm to stop it. Absorbing himself back into his lecture had taken work: Jonathan had nearly been to the end of the goals he set for a beginner class (generic, to be sure, but impassioned nonetheless—he'd already gone on about the power of language, the fluidity of ASL when spoken properly, the cultures foreign only for now) when his eye caught again on the almost-certainly-freshman newcomer. Asleep. On his desktop. The look he gave was severe—the pause equally so. His beginners didn't know how to react to their self-proclaimed 'Peal' staring, intently, taken aback by the disrespect, at the dozing adolescent. His voice reverberated a moment later, only through Sumner Grace's head: If you intend to sleep through class, you may leave. Sumner flailed out of warm, light sleep, headlong into a racing heart and unfamiliar panic that made him grasp, desperately, at his ears. He wasn’t wearing his hearing aid, he usually didn’t just — because. But he’d heard, clearer than he’d ever heard in his life. There was a tightness in his throat and in his eyes, near tears at the prospect of his deafness being taken from him. And then — it registered, the silence all around him, the utter stillness punctioned only by the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He was still deaf. Nobody had ‘healed’ him without his consent. Sumner’s breathing steadied out and his fingers slipped, tentatively, from his ears. He was left staring at the Professor with eyes like saucers, too stunned to sign a question, an apology, a complaint. The man standing at the front of the classroom was equally stunned for a long moment at the ferocity of that response. All at once, things began to come together: the harsh smack of the door against the rubber jamb as he entered, the clatter of his things against and onto the desk, the casual arrogance with which the freshman (he had to be a freshman, he barely looked old enough for that) sauntered into a beginner's course for American Sign Language as if he were scoping out the territory. The answer why was because he was. His blue eyes surprised but newly filled with comprehension, he signed, with furrowed brows, and in true blunt fashion, you're deaf. Seeking confirmation. Later, he’d be interested in the mind-speaking, later he’d pick it apart to examine it from every angle, to experiment and talk about it to death and just have fun with it. But for now— it was an unquestionably relief, to have the question signed, and not blasting in his head. Sumner nodded, eyes on the hands in front of him, as his own flashed in response: Severe in my left, profound in my left. From birth! My dad’s deaf, my mom’s Hearing. It was just habit to start going into detail right away about these things, when asked, especially via ASL. Are you Hearing? You SEEM Hearing, but He waved a hand out and stuck his bottom lip out, a combination that was neither ASL nor BSL, but entirely his own, Cochlear’s can do wonders. It was an absurd amount of chatter for the first twenty seconds, at center attention in their classroom, where the professor hadn't even been speaking the words out loud for the entire class to hear as he projected and as he signed the question. Jon hadn't lost sight of that, even with the series of realizations regarding this particular student. He had to be a student. Speaking out loud, his brow furrowed, "Forgive me for the interruption, class," signing all the while back to him Hearing. We'll continue after the lecture concludes. Still there was a brief pause as Peal turned from the small sea of students, combination confused, indifferent, interested, back up to the board. Gathering himself again. "As I was saying…" ————— For the millionth time, Sumner was reminded that it was completely possible to itch with excitement. It was a bit like having what his nan called ‘pins and needles’, and paired nicely with the way he jumped up out of his seat when ASL Professor (Jonathan! He’d googled) announced they were DONE. He flung his messenger bag on to his shoulder, coasted his fingers through his buzzed hair and ran straight into the arm of the girl in the seat behind him, who was trying to get his attention. He blinked at her, waiting, and she gestured a few rows back. Sumner followed her arm with his eyes, brightening once he realised who she was pointing out. He waved enthusiastically, and Brian who worked a lot of lates at his favourite grocery gave a lazy wave back, mouthing something Sumner couldn’t make out from this distance; too far away, too many people in between them. He gave up squinting and shook his head, letting a question crowd over his facial features. Managed to keep his eyes trained on Brian, and successfully ignore the impulse to twist around and check Jonathan was still there. The ‘tipping back a drink’ gesture was easily interpreted and, so, thankfully, was the way Sumner pulled a frowning face, shook his head, and held his little finger and thumb to his ear in the universal gesture for ‘call me’. Thumbs up were exchanged, and Sumner finally got out of the way of the guy was trying to get out of their row, and pranced on down to the front where Jonathan was. Up close, it was clear that he wasn’t, actually, that much taller than Sumner himself. Not that much older, either, as far as Professors went; he’d guess somewhere in age between Roz and Charlie. He stopped in front of the lecturn, waiting with one of his concentrated displays of courtesy, for Jonathan to give him his attention. He'd been answering basic questions about the syllabus for another student, a grateful-looking girl who nearly turned into Sumner as she finished up with the professor, stammering nervous apologies as she made her way past and out of the classroom. Rapidly the space was emptying, Jonathan and Sumner some of the few that lingered for one reason or another: the former's blue eyes were taking in the younger man, now that he didn't have a lecture hall full of other students to pay attention to. He was young, certainly, shorter even than Jon. Had come, Jon was sure, to a beginner's level ASL class simply to scope him out, to find out the details he'd already pressed for. Hearing, he signed again, as if resuming the conversation held a half hour earlier, Just language-oriented. Sumner stepped casually out of the way of the girl (fresher?) he didn’t know, smiling at her apologies, and then looked back to Jonathan, and his hands. He thought mournfully of his own skinny, kitten claws for a half-second, and then began: his hands fast and fluid in the way he’d usually only use with other long-term deaf people, It’s part of your Tale? Or are you just that smart? A slightly rude question, one his mom might frown at him for, but no one had ever accused Sumner of having excellent manners. Besides, he had used his powers pretty casually. I don’t think I’ve ever seen sim-com done that well, definitely not by someone Hearing! I thought for sure you mustn’t have been talking English at the same time, your ASL was still SO GOOD. His hands had got away from him slightly, going bigger and looser in that way that agreed with the bright alertness in his face: he was excited. You realise you’re going to make them think they’ll be able to sign and talk at the same time.. Sumner knew deaf and Deaf people alike who might’ve look disgruntled when saying that, but for now he was only inquisitive and a little amused. No reason to pull out the scolding card, not when Smile With an L had come out of this class with less misconceptions and better signing than when she’d gone in. The answering smile was just a tiny bit cold—smug, maybe, a better word for it. It was hard enough keeping up with all the questions, let alone getting a moment to answer them. If you'd been here for the beginning of the lecture, you might know what I'd said regarding it. Disdainful, Jon tossed blond hair out of his eyes before continuing. I can speak telepathically. As if that were an answer to the query about his Tale or his intelligence. Still, he left it at that: Jon had a feeling that if he let the young man ahead of him have the chance to respond, it would be a long time before he got it back. The disdainful hairtoss; Sumner knew it well, had seen it on guys and girls alike, at Mensa meetings and at Gallauet, regarding intelligence and good looks alike. Doubtless, it meant this guy was well used to being one of the most intelligent people in any given room, and man was there an itch under Sumner’s skin to just go and play with that. But he could be reasonably well-behaved, bite back a smile and sign back, at a slightly more relaxed pace: It intefered with a class I’m actually taking. Is your name Hairtoss with a J? The sour frown that answered made his face much less attractive. Is yours question with a— And almost abruptly, his hands stopped moving, the words instead echoing less severely than before, inside Sumner's head. Are you going to introduce yourself? Even though he was half-way expecting it, Sumner still visibly startled at the intrusion of spoken word in his head. Immediately, he wondered if Jonathan controlled the method of telepathic speaking, or if his own brain allowed it to be in spoken form because written English and ASL would mix too thoroughly with how he himself thought. Why With An S He signed back, a little distracted by the joint re-realisations that he could be spoken to without having to look at him and that this dude would make an absolute killer Speech Therapy teacher. S-U-M-N-E-R-G-R-A-C-E came light on his fingers, the inevitable next question, especially where Hearing people were concerned. His frown still lingered, though his fingers were carelessly graceful signing back, haughty with a J: almost deliberately, his voice echoed through Sumner's mind again just moments later with, Jonathan Peal. As if not to linger on the similarity between the namesign accusation and its own reality. The next question came in terse movements of his fingers. You're a freshman, then? Sumner nodded, altogether unsurprised by the bluntness of the namesign. Personally, he thought it was wonderful how they cut right to the quick of someone’s primary identifer, but he knew that some people didn’t agree. It could be hard, he acknowledged, to have a less than flattering one. I knew a guy who was Murder with a Z. Even now, he winced making the Slasher-Like motion that signified ‘Murder’ in ASL. His last name’s Burder, and you know how these things can go. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that question, not by half, and it confirmed that Jonathan was likely not a lifer. Woodsbridge was a small town, and the deaf, genius Beauty was reasonably well-known, especially among people who had lived there for more than a handful of years. He shook his head a tiny fraction in a no, smiling a little as he did so. Where did you do your degrees? It wasn’t Gallaudet, was it? As his eyebrows knitted together, Jon's hands came up to halt him, not able to follow so many tracks of conversation without focusing on the one that he'd stumbled over. You're not a freshman? It was his turn for a flurry of confused questions. What are you doing here? How old are you? Insomuch as it was possible to blink sweetly, Sumner did precisely that. It was a more alarmed reaction than he’d anticipated, which was a little disappointing, though not altogether surprising. Jonathan had clearly not even entertained the idea that he was a Sophomore. He ran a self-conscious hand over the buzz of his hair, wondering if putting up with hair ruffles from Jas might be worth it in return for making him look slightly older. He sighed, and, already knowing it was going to be one of those reactions, signed out a somewhat lackadaisical response: I’m doing my masters. My Neurolinguistics class is next door. I saw your class was still ongoing when it let out, so I dropped in. Jon was having none of it. Even having met the man (boy? Man? Both?) mere minutes ago, he was unforgiving in, again, cutting in on his answer. You knew my name started with a J, and that this was an ASL class. His hands somehow moved harsher, his expression taut. You're here for your masters? Sumner threw his hands up, a ‘so sue me’ gesture if there ever was one. And right on the heels of it, quick and firm: I checked the class schedule. My super best friend did your class last year. I wanted to see what you were about. And your full name is on the school website. I checked it on my phone after I woke up. A pause, and then a sigh through his nose, the reigning in of the urge to roll his eyes, question Jonathan’s lack of chill and over-use the word ‘duh’. Yes, I’m doing my MA. It’s in Linguistics. My undergraduate degrees are from Gallaudet, in Deaf Studies and Communication Studies. Do you need to see my student ID? His frown was sudden and deep, his own hands - and voice - having stilled in response to that flurry of answer. No, the motion sharp and quick and dismissive. I don't need to see your ID. It was curiosity creeping up his spine, irritating him, making him quick to overreact. Why are you in my classroom? The look Sumner levelled at him was utterly steady, now absent of exasperation. Whatever his deal was, it clearly required a more simple touch. I'm a deaf student in a Hearing school, and you speak my first language fluently. Why wouldn't I be in your classroom? That, at last, seemed to shut Jon up. After a moment, he gave a deep nod, and a flash of his hands signified well, all right. And then he was reaching for his lecture materials, continuing to pack up what he'd brought, bewildered but at least somewhat more settled than he had been. The simple acceptance after a lot of resistance was - unexpected. Sumner took a moment to consider the man in front of him and the uneasy sense that he, himself, had actually done something wrong. He felt, abrubtly, like Allison when she’d just dropped a stick out of her mouth she’d been gnawing on, and he couldn’t place why. Another moment, and then he tapped lightly on Jonathan’s hand, waiting until he had his attention before signing, simple and almost hesistant. Am I bothering you? It was the disappearance and reappearance of that frown that seemed to characterize the professor, rather than any range of emotion. No, he signed with a hand, the other hefting the worn leather strap of a messenger bag onto his shoulder, overfull with books and materials. I just figured you'd follow me. The smile that unfurled on Sumner’s lips was accompanied by a bounce up on to his heels, a vivid light in his eyes, a gentle sweep of his hands to form You get me. At least his huffed laugh couldn't be heard by the younger man. I don't know about that. Still, they were moving side-by-side, still signing in flurried bursts, all the way down to his office. |