log: ford/louis, coffee shop Who: Ford and Louis What: A date! Where: A coffee shop. When: Backdated to before the plot. Warnings/Rating: Cuteness?
Ford thought this was going to be a total disaster. Nobody wanted to date stupid kids that didn't talk. What were they going to do, make gestures at each other? It would have been much better if Russell just got the guy drunk in a dark club and then it would have been fine. Ford knew what to do with drunk, hot guys in dark clubs, and no talking was required. Ford thought that the idea he and this Sam's-brother-Louis guy were going to have some sort of movie relationship was absolutely ridiculous. The guy sounded messed up, and outside of sex, Ford knew he just came with a bundle of problems. Why would anybody sign up for that?
But Ford knew he owed Russell big time. His big brother was letting him crash on his couch and eat his food even though Ford hadn't found a job yet, andFord was still kind of messed up about the man he'd been at the mall, so it wasn't like he was good company. If Russell wanted him to meet some nice guy, then he would. Sam was nice, and he fully expected that anyone related to her would be as well. The woman had been really decent on the journals and asked him nice questions about how he was, so he felt like he owed her too. Nice people deserved nice things.
Ford put on his best shirt, which was the same thing as his cleanest shirt, a sort of blue-gray thing that was the same color as the rest of his clothes, but it had a v-neck and wasn't too stretched out. He had new jeans after the mall, better ones, and after the whole zombie nightmare Ford knew how to appreciate a good shower. He knew he looked good, but he wasn't sure about coffee shop good. Didn't people who bought expensive coffee wear ties?
He stood outside the front window without going in, sticking both hands in his pockets and unconsciously imitating Russell's slow shift of weight from side to side as he waited. It didn't occur to him to go inside and puzzle out something to buy. Every once and a while someone would go in, and they all looked sort of expensive, but not everybody had a tie. He relaxed a little more, and wished he had his headphones, but he left them in his bag. Had to make a good impression and seem like he was listening.
Louis had no idea that so much anguish was going into a meeting with him. He would have expected that from himself, only, and no one else. Whatever Russ said about his younger brother, he expected someone much like him, that brash confidence, that intensity. Ford was meant to be young - how young was ‘young’? He had no idea.
In truth, he felt more than a little ridiculous accepting Russ’s invitation. Whether this was matchmaking or just Russ’s intense way of getting his little brother to make friends, having a meeting set up by your older brother had to be awkward for Ford, and as it came closer to the time to meet him, Louis began to worry, as was his wont. What if Ford came begrudgingly, only because Russ had asked him to? Then they were in for a terribly awkward visit. It was easier for him to put unfortunate social situations into perspective than it had been once, when remaining professional and clipped had been his only real defense against dissolving under the pressure of feeling like he didn’t belong somewhere or wasn’t wanted. There were worse things, and he had weathered enough that some of those old softnesses had been shored up, calcified hard.
Still, when he stepped up to the window and saw the boy looking inside, he felt strangely out of his league. So young was young indeed. He wore a light jacket and a button down shirt, because old habits died very hard, and tried to decide whether he ought to notice how ethereally gorgeous Ford was in his half-cleaned shirt. Very young. It made him wonder after what Russ had been playing at - was he even legal to drink? He was beginning to feel suspiciously like Russ was playing a grand prank on them both. None of that meant, though, that he couldn’t talk to him, or that he didn’t at least owe it to Russ to be kind. It wouldn’t have been a stretch anyway. It was difficult imagining being cruel to someone with such a vulnerable look on their face as they peered into the coffeehouse like a candy store. “Ford?” he asked. Perhaps he had his intended all wrong - but no, he did have that look, he did share enough with his brother that he knew him on sight.
Ford looked away from the interior of the coffee shop to the man standing next to him. It wouldn't have mattered very much who had stepped up, he would have looked anyway, but the movement from a glass to a few blinks' worth of a stare, and Ford smiled automatically, with a distinctively flirtatious glint in his eye. The expression he wore was welcoming, especially after he got a good look at Louis, who was definitely at least a seven, and would probably go up when they got to know each other better. Did he smile?
Ford's smile went from a curve of lips to a grin, and he put out his hand with blue eyes flashing. He and Russell had similar blue eyes, something about the confident way they stood, but otherwise there wasn't much of their mother in them. Probably a good thing. Ford didn't verbally reply to the greeting (of course), because he didn't want to ruin his first impression. He was sure that Russell would have mentioned the no-talking thing, just to prepare Louis for the weirdness. He mouthed "hey" and let his eyes drift over those cheekbones and briefly down the front of Louis' shirt, mildly admiring, blatant in a young but not innocent way. We had escalated to a definite eight.
When he had his hand free again from a calloused warm squeeze, he indicated the general vicinity of Louis' chest and tipped his head in exaggerated question, mouthing "Sam?" Asking for confirmation of Louis' family. He wondered if she looked like Louis, but couldn't really imagine. Louis didn't talk like Sam talked on the journal.
Louis wasn’t quite expecting to see Ford’s expression go from open to flirtatious at quite that speed, but he would be hard pressed to say it was unwelcome. He did smile, warmly, with a hint of the old cautiousness he only thought he’d completely kicked to the curb. He took Ford’s hand with his own and shook, and Russ had been right - they had the blue eyes and some common kindness in them, and not much more. Nothing wrong with that.
Russ hadn’t mentioned a thing about Ford not talking, but Louis blinked and took the open assessment in stride, quickly rearranging his assumptions after that rather blunt and appealing once-over. He caught him at it and smiled a little more widely when their eyes met. The mop of hair, darker than Russ's suited him, and those lips. He wasn't in the habit of rating with numbers, but Ford scored well.
The vague gesture at his person and mouthing Sam's name earned a nod. “Yes, my sister. Several members of my family know your brother, but I’m sure you already know that.” As he was speaking, he was still trying to put the pieces together. Why was Ford mouthing his words? Perhaps he’d lost his voice. That would make sense. It didn’t seem right to draw attention to it, though, not when he didn’t seem inclined to explain or make an issue of it, so he would let it drift for the moment. He could always ask later, and right now was for first impressions. More than ever, after meeting him in person, he decided he wanted to make a good one. He gestured to the door. “So. Coffee?”
The smile pleased Ford to no end. He wasn't hard to please, true, but everyone likes being smiled at by a handsome (though surprised) blind date. Ford's expressions were always completely transparent, and though a moment before he had been a little at a loss when it came to the coffee shop, where the man was concerned, he didn't feel nearly so out of his depth. Louis looked substantially more relaxed when he smiled, and a few more times and Ford was sure he'd laugh a little with his eyes, too. That would be nice. Louis had nice eyes. Ford was extremely trusting of people who had nice eyes, and with Russell's recommendation, Louis could practically do no wrong.
It was clear by Ford's raised eyebrows and exaggerated tip of his chin to one side that he hadn't been aware Russell was acquainted with more members of Louis' family. For a couple seconds he imagined a little kitchen table with children and curly blond parents, a rattle of chatter and Brady Bunch refrigerator, but then his eyes widened and his face relaxed into a vaguely exasperated narrowing of eyes and mouth. "Shane," he mouthed clearly, letting his tongue visibly touch the roof of his mouth in the last syllable to be clear who he was referring to. He shook his head, though not angrily, and then faced the glass portal to the coffee sanctuary.
Ford let Louis lead the way into the coffee shop, pressing a little close to his shoulder in the manner to which he was accustomed with his "dates" and also to give himself some time to assess the place. The blue eyes roved over the foreign menu (what language was that, anyway?) and then at the confusing arrangement of machinery. There seemed to be three different lines, one of them at a counter, another one at a register, and a third one over by a tiny table with condiments. Flummoxed, Ford stood still in the middle of the room and shadowed Louis, letting him pick which line they were supposed to be in. All this for coffee?
Accustomed to "dates" buying him drinks, Ford leaned into Louis' shoulder companionably, bringing with him the hard smell of Irish Spring bar soap and clean male under dryer sheets. He pointed to a sign at random, not wanting to fight his way through the menu. It had a pink frothy drink on it. Whatever. He slid Louis a vague smile on carved lips.
There was a real sweetness to Ford's smile and his open pleasure at being in someone's company, and he held the door for him as they went inside. At the mention of Shane, his lips twitched. "Yes, Shane too." Ford's headshake reminded him quite a bit of his own early impressions of the other man, someone who was almost as difficult to deal with as he was completely unpleasant. Sam's favorite sibling, for childhood reasons that still escaped Louis, that likely always would. In the weeks since he had returned from the door with the zombies in it, things had improved between them. Something about sharing a plush penthouse, perhaps. But he hadn't forgotten all the prickliness of before, the outright fighting that had driven him to swear he'd never speak to him again. He didn't often stick to such promises, still willing to bend at the edges. Shane, at least, hadn't done the things Iris had done, hadn't earned that kind of clean cut. Writing her out of the book, what a drama queen he'd been. But those had been hard times, life or death times, and maybe a little theatrical swanning was allowed in such circumstances. Nothing had changed, though. He spoke to Iris, but he didn't consider her.
But what was he doing thinking on family when he had such pretty company? Louis wasn't accustomed to having people press close to him in public unless they were drunk or the room was dark. He hadn't really had relationships like that. He tended to find himself with the sort of aloof men who would hold affection over him because they knew what he was willing to do to get it. The thought of it made him wince a little. That was behind him, now.
Ford seemed utterly baffled by the coffeeshop in general. Was it actually possible he'd never been in one before? Louis hadn't even considered the idea. Hadn't everyone who lived in a major city been dragged through a Starbucks by a junkie friend? He gently steered Ford to the line at the counter with his shoulder, giving him ample time to look at the menu. He looked down, and Ford was looking back at him. Oh. He wasn't accustomed to buying for dates, himself. Usually, his dates would rather have died than let someone else choose a coffee for them over their own rather specific preferences. "Do you like sweet coffee?" he asked him. He could get him something with chocolate in, he supposed. Or a flavoring, that might be good. Something about Ford made him think he would want something less bitter.
Louis was distracted from worrying about the drinks, though, by Ford's warm lean, the length of him close and radiating quiet heat even in the warm coffee shop, the bright smell of soap and nothing else. He blinked a little, fast, and smiled, and he did try to cover it as tightly as he could, but he'd never really gotten over a slightly teenage way of falling in when someone attractive was nearby.
He followed Ford's pointing finger up at the pink frothy thing, and nodded, pursing his lips a little. If the cashier so much as batted a lash at the two of them purchasing frothy pink drinks, he'd know where to take his money next time.
No, Ford did not have friends to drag him into a coffee place that charged seven dollars for a cup. At best, Ford had temporary coworkers that would bring him to a beer at the local bar after work and tolerate his too-young, too-silent, probably-gay presence. He didn’t have any coworkers now, of course, but he had a Russell, and he was happy about that. He tried not to think too much of the abandoned penthouse of the last rich guy he’d slept with, and he tried to reassure himself that his thoughts about sex and people were not Mason’s. Louis seemed… very smart and rich and put together. Ford wasn’t sure what it was about him that said any of those things, but that was his impression.
Ford smiled into Louis’s question, and shrugged a little, both shoulders, thick muscle, uncertain opinion. Ford didn’t mind sweet coffee, but he didn’t want to fight with the menu to find something he really wanted. Again the sea-blue eyes roamed the board, again without understanding. It wasn’t numbers, and he could read it okay, but none of it made any sense. He didn’t know the difference between a frappuccino and a latte, and he couldn’t ask. He raised both eyebrows and indicated Louis, touching the button of his shirt against the man’s sternum with one finger. “Do you?” he mouthed, without sound, smiling faintly. Ford made a little gesture from Louis to the counter as the line moved up one. Ford would have what Louis was having. Whatever was there.
Ford glanced down at Louis’s mouth a the slight compression there, and his expression grew doubtful. Ford’s features were mobile and his soft mouth was clear with even fleeting emotions. Maybe Louis wanted something else?
Louis was inclined to let dates pick drinks for themselves, but Ford seemed inclined to get anything he wanted and not all that experienced in what was, in fact, available, the way his eyes roved over the menu without resting on anything. Nothing wrong with that. He chose to strike a middle ground, then, ordering lattes for them both, since Ford could make it as sweet or as bitter as he wanted with the sugar and condiments on the short table behind them, labeled with cheerfully colored labels sealed to the various containers with packing tape. “Two medium lattes, please,” he said, and produced his wallet to pay. “If you don’t like it,” he said, aside, “You can get something else, whatever you want.”
When he had paid and they stepped away from the counter, he moved toward a booth along the back of the room, a long, shard padded seat stretched against the wall, faced by several tables. He nudged out the chair and sat down, letting Ford have the comfortable seat against the wall. This was the difficult bit. Ford didn’t talk, and that in and of itself made it difficult for him to launch into a conversation about anything else. Curiosity would always get the better of him eventually. “If you don’t mind my mentioning it,” he said, with a small, gentle smile, “You’re a lot quieter than your brother.” It seemed like a gentle enough way of approaching the elephant in the room, at least he hoped so. He never would have expected a silent partner, knowing Russ.
Ford noticed that Louis had picked something different than the pink thing on the sign, and he glanced at it again with curiosity. The pink frothy thing didn’t hold any particular desire for Ford, but he was, for some reason, wondering ferociously what it was about lattes that was so wonderful. The majority of people, both before and after, were ordering lattes (“la-tays”) of various kinds. A lot of people were talking about types of milk and foam, which sounded alright. When Louis reassured him to one side that he could get whatever he wanted, Ford gave him a particularly glowing grin. It had a hint of the hungry fox in it.
Ford followed along to the table, rangy and casual in his generic blue and white. He let his backpack fall off his shoulder and hang in his hand, and he was tall enough that the ragged thing didn’t quite scrape the ground. Ford folded himself up and relaxed against the wall, pleased enough with the space. He waited a second for Lois to settle on his chair, and then Ford stretched both feet out. He put one ankle on the outside of Louis's calf, boxing him against the wall somewhat, and left it there.
The vulpine smile was now lingering in the blue eyes, but when Louis spoke, it faded. Some of the easy confidence slipped away, and the youth came more quickly back into the pale skin and expressive mouth. A question slipped past, not lingering, and then Ford looked away. He brought his bag up onto his lap, unzipped it, and pulled out a dog-eared spiral notebook. Next he dug around, and pulled out a battered Motel 6 pen. With somewhat exaggerated determination, Ford uncapped the pen, and set the cap firmly on the opposite side of the pen, exposing a blue nib. He flipped through the spiral notebook for a clean page, folded it back, set the notebook down, and put his pen on the page. He didn’t look at Louis all through this process, and somewhere halfway through it, the pressure of his leg moved away.
Ford had a child’s large handwriting. He stayed in the lines, but he had horrific spelling. Frowning a little but writing quickly, he scribbled out, “Russell didnt warn u??”
Louis' smiled ticked up sharply when Ford cheekily boxed him in, and he gave him a light, playful nudge with his hip to make more space for himself on the chair. "You have me where you want me, I see," he said, wry and bright. In all honesty, it was simply nice to be around someone who didn't know what to expect of him, who didn't know enough about him to do so. It was a good feeling.
When Ford's face dropped, though, his smile immediately fell, and a wave of guilt crashed in. What a stupid, rookie mistake. He should have simply let it go and asked Russ later. Directness was relatively new to him - he obviously still wasn't very good at deciding where it ought to apply.
But moaning and beating himself up for making the wrong move was only going to make Ford more awkward than he had just succeeded in making him. Louis smiled a little again when Ford pulled out the notebook, and watched him writing. Then he felt his leg move away and drop, and it was like a physical recognition of the misstep he'd made in sensation. He did his best not to let it show. He had gotten better at that, of late.
He looked down at the paper, reading the message twice, then extended a long-fingered hand for the pen, plucking it from Ford's hand. He wrote his response under Ford's neat letters with the occasional round drag of the pen between strokes. What was there to warn about? He turned the notebook back to Ford, looking across the table at him with a small smile and a good face on the sting of putting his foot in it so badly as he just had.
Ford was about to drop everything and run--and not metaphorically. As soon as the coffee came and he chugged it, so maybe around three minutes (depending on how hot it was). Reflexively he glanced at the counter, where the third line was getting shorter (that mom with the plastic surgery and the expensive stroller had been two or three people in front of them), but as Louis leaned in, Ford’s attention came back to Louis’ face. He expected impatience there, or perhaps annoyance, maybe a little bit of confusion. He didn’t see any of that, though, and Ford could only sit still as Louis borrowed his pen. This was familiar bar behavior, enough to flash the hint of a hopeful smile back in Ford’s eyes.
For a split second, Ford felt foolish for writing, as if Louis might have felt compelled to do the same, but it was only a split second. Ford blinked in surprise and then a full smile split into broad sunshine as he watched Louis scratch out a note of his own. Such nice hands, with clean fingers, Ford observed. It made him think of those guys that played pool for a living. Pool, or piano.
Ford put both hands on the table and sat up, his toes nudging Louis’ as he leaned in to see his message with growing eagerness. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Louis seemed amused and not angry. The blue eyes swept quickly across the page, and then Ford glanced up. “Me,” he mouthed, wetting his lips before he did so and indicating the center of his chest with a press of his fingers against the white cotton and muscle. “I…” he started to gesture but then thought better of it, shaking his head at himself and then reaching for his pen.
Ford’s rough palms compressed over Louis’ hand and the pen both, and Ford worked Louis’ fingers open as if the man wouldn’t have handed over the pen willingly if asked. Ford kept the pen, dragged his fingertips across the center of Louis’ palm, and gave him an angelic smile. Then he bent his curly head and wrote, “I talk really bad. I thought he would say 2 u b4 we met. Wat a jerk.” He slashed an underline there under the word “really,” paused a second, then slashed an underline under “jerk,” too. Twice.
Louis could sense Ford calming from across the table, and watched as he gestured at himself and tried to speak. "I beg to differ," he said. There was nothing to warn about with Ford. He had certainly seen stranger things than a person who couldn't speak, and he watched as Ford picked up the pen and started writing again.
Ford's hand on his sidetracked his flush of shame over saying the wrong thing entirely, and he let Ford pry his hand open and looked up, stark and intent, when Ford grazed his fingertips across his palm. The look was appreciative and intense, but the smile was a little tentative, still. So maybe he'd recovered alright from his gaff. Wouldn't that be a nice change from routine. The underlining and sharp writing drew a huff of laughter from him. He would have to mention that to Russ, though it sounded like Ford would most likely beat him to it. He watched Ford's curls bob away as he wrote, and left his hand just close enough, elbow propped on the table, that he could brush his hair with his fingertips.
Again, he took the pen from Ford, pinning it to the table and sliding it over. "It wouldn't have mattered if he had," he wrote, and pushed up from the table to get their coffees with a small, conspiratorial smile. "Sugar?" he asked, aloud this time.
Ford wasn't sure how this was going, but he was fortunate to lack comparison. He noticed, with the intuition of a great deal of hormones, that Louis was definitely interested, but he didn't respond the way the men in the bars did. Ford could search his memory for all the times when he had flirted in the dark under the flicker of yellow and blue light, and in those times the actual flirting hadn't gone on very long. Come to think of it, the "flirting" had been nothing but a sinuous suggestion of contact and a blatant application of the long stare. In the past, that had been enough for a hotel room and a few hours, for sure.
Ford decided that Louis was shy, and decided that shy was not bad. (Not that he, Ford, could be shy. But he liked it in other people.) He watched Louis tuck his chin down and then watched his pretty fingers curl over the pen. (Damn.) Maybe this was going to be okay. Yes, definitely.
A moment later his discomfort was nearly gone, and he was all smiles again. The teeth were mostly white (he kept a toothbrush in his bag), if a little crooked in a few places. For the offer of sugar, Ford nodded vigorously, and then he dragged his book back so that he had a message waiting for Louis when he got back. “Thanks for the coffee.” (Enthusiastic curl on the last “e.”) “Yeah but you wouldnt be surprised cuz its weird.” (An arrow to the word “talk” in his last message.)
Louis had never been forthright, growing used to a quieter kind of indication of interest over the long stretch of young adulthood and college life when being open about his interests had been heavily discouraged, occasionally by violence. Even when he was officially out to the few that hadn't guessed, he had never quite retrained for a more open indication of interest. His signals remained, for the most part, clandestine, even as he gained a measure of confidence.
Thus he had the poise but not the aggression in seeking what he wanted. He didn't think of himself as shy, but it must come across that way, subtle and quiet next to the brashness of a club. And he had been that too, but in different places and at different times. He thought Ford was not shy at all, particularly for someone who couldn't or wouldn't speak. He liked the openness of his expression and his slightly crooked smile. He dropped his coffee in front of him along with a few packets of sugar released from the palm of his other hand, and set his own coffee down on the table.
"Like I said, if you don't like it, you can always get whatever else looks interesting," he said, then looked down at the paper again. The thank you, already prepared, made him smile without thinking, reflexive and disarming. That was very sweet, to have that already waiting when he sat down. He reached over to take the pen again, but this time let his hand rest there a moment, looking back at Ford. He removed it with the pen firmly in grasp, and sketched out another answer. "I promise you, I'm very difficult to surprise, these days." It had been a long, long few years. A boy who didn't speak was hardly the most shocking thing he'd seen, especially not a kind one with hair that curled across his temple like that.
Ford had to pause the conversation to dissect his sugar. Rough, capable hands gave up the pen in favor of the coffee cup, and he tried to watch Louis write and look at what he was doing at the same time, with only moderate success. Ford held two packets at a time over his cup, which he diagnosed with an abundance of foam almost immediately, and simply tore them and half. He did this twice, somewhat methodically, while Louis was writing, and the hum of coffee shop conversation filled the temporary (though not uncomfortable) silence.
When it was his turn with the pen, Ford neatly flipped the notebook and wrote, “yeah have you seen the zombies, thats where I was. messed up.” He slashed a couple underlines under “messed,” and then handed the notebook back over.
Lacking a spoon, Ford sort of tipped his cup side to side in a little swirling gesture, and then took a swig, dousing his upper lip in foam and blinking slightly in surprise at the intensity of the espresso. “Mmm,” he said, thoughtfully, mouth closed. He licked his lips and then pressed them together, lowering his lashes and giving Louis a “not bad coffee” sort of smile.
Louis watched Ford write while sipping his coffee, though a sip was as far as he got. His eyes were so intently focused on the top of Ford's head that it scalded his tongue, and he pulled himself up short. Right. He took the notepad from Ford, brushing his fingers with his own, looking for ink marks at his fingertips.
He read the notepad, and his brow shot up. He shook his head without speaking. No, he hadn't seen the zombies. He looked up at Ford again. It was almost impossible to imagine someone who seemed so obviously vulnerable being thrown into a situation like that. Then again, maybe it was the cause of his flashes of uneasiness. "I've never had to be anywhere like that," he wrote. He had seen his fair share of bad things, but none of them had ever come in so blatant a form as the walking dead.
When he looked up again, Ford was licking foam off his upper lip with the blank surprise of a cat, and he laughed a little. He couldn't help it. That long look, though, that sly appreciation of the unknown coffee variable, that caught his attention in an entirely different way. He had beautiful eyelashes. "Good?" he asked, forgetting the pad of paper, glad to have picked something he liked, more glad to watch him be satisfied. It was a warm feeling, and not an entirely wholesome one, and the tabletop felt like a quite the distance right now.
He extended a hand, upturned for Ford's on the tabletop, waiting. "Do you mind?" he asked.
Ford stared back into Louis’ assessing gaze after the man looked up the first time after reading the message about the zombies. It was weird, but Ford almost never called them that in his head. They were bodies, moving dead bodies, and Ford thought of them as possessed corpses coming to eat him. He had nightmares about it pretty regularly, but jesus, at least he didn’t have to eat the same canned goods every day, you know? At least he was out of there. At least he could wake up from the memory.
“Just dont go in any other doors k,” is what Ford wrote in response to the commentary about the experience. He looked grim, and he flexed his free hand compulsively around his coffee cup, as if the hot paper and plastic might save him from a vicious fate inside the concrete prison. “Unless u already been? Wat stuff you seen?” Ford knew Gotham wasn’t a great place, but he’d barely been there long enough to do anything but treat it like a normal city and try not to pass out when he saw anything mention Batman like he was a real dude.
Ford looked faintly perplexed but willing as Louis held out a hand for his. Bemused, Ford kept the pen but loosed his fingers from around the latte, nudging the cup into the curve of his elbow and pressing his rough palm into Louis’. Curious, his blue eyes darted up for a keen look at Louis, looking for his intentions, assuming they were good.
"Not much," Louis sketched out, hand still upturned on the table. He paused a moment, gaze flickering, and wrote, "A well."
Then he set the pen down, unsure what that really meant or how he could quite explain it. Everyone had bad dreams, didn't they? That wasn't a remarkable thought. He took Ford's hand on his own. His intentions were pure enough, and he turned Ford's hand palm up, studying his callouses. He wanted to see if he could parse it out from there. Ford was good at nonverbal communication, so perhaps he could be too, learning from fingers and parsing from hills of toughened skin. His own hands were soft, no menial work, no hard labor. His left hand, however, he did not produce, and the scar across his palm remained in his pocket and out of sight.