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fresnonightcrawlerisbae · 6 months ago

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when you had nothing to say ch. 4

Sometimes Jimmy feels like he needs a massive sign on his chest that reads, I’M DEAF. PLEASE WRITE THINGS DOWN. That might save him some lectures he can’t hear. Unless there aren’t any written signs around because nobody else can read. - or, 5 times that someone found out Jimmy was deaf + 1 time they accommodated him :), chapter 4

“Jimmy?”

Jimmy looks up from where he’s re-hemming his sleeve, the threads having all pulled out. He looks up at Tango, smiles. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you know. Just wondering how your day’s been!”

Ah, Tango can probably feel his muscle aches. Jimmy sets down his needle and stretches, reaching his arms up toward the ceiling. He groans, restrains a yawn. “Good, good. Tended to the goats, bothered Grian, yelled at Joel. The usual. How was your day?”

Tango is making dinner for the two of them, baking potatoes in the furnace while some sort of milky cheese sauce boils on the stove. He stops stirring for a moment to glance at Jimmy, brows furrowed contemplatively.

“Good,” he says. “Yeah, my day was good.”

There’s something not quite right in the way he looks at Jimmy, something almost . . . confused. Does Tango think he was lying? Why would he lie about something so simple?

Maybe he thinks it’s a Grian situation. It isn’t the server’s best-kept secret that Grian’s trying to create a Secret Soulmate bond with BigB, ignoring his own soulbound to do so.

Does Tango think he’s lying about what he did today because he suspects that he’s trying to team up with someone else? He would never betray him that way, not in this game! Not when everything is built around the two of them sticking it out together, no matter what people like Grian and Scott and Cleo might say.

Scott and his stupid Relationship Ranch. Jimmy would bet his horn that half of Scott’s purpose is breaking up soulmate bonds.

It would be useful to have someone like that on their side.

Jimmy opens his mouth to suggest it, but just as quickly closes it. If Tango thinks he’s cheating on him, to suggest they have Scott and Cleo over for dinner would be tantamount to admitting his guilt. Not that he’s actually guilty—he isn’t! But it would make it appear so, and he can’t risk the suspicion that it would cast on him.

Tango’s turned back to the stove, continuing to stir the sauce. “I was thinking, we . . . bacon. Does that sound good?”

“Er, yeah,” Jimmy says. Why do people never look directly at him when asking questions? Does Tango want bacon now, or a different night? And does he need Jimmy to do anything about it? They should have some bacon in the icebox from that pig that Cleo butchered, but why is he bringing it up?

Tango waits, then turns an inquisitive eyebrow on him.

“Wait, like, right now?”

“Uh, that . . . said,” Tango laughs, looking back to the sauce the second he starts talking.

Not again.

“Sorry, you’re turned away from me,” Jimmy says awkwardly. “Could you say that again?”

Tango looks at him, that weird, confused look on his face again. “Um, I said that that’s what I said? If we want a bit of bacon in the sauce, we need it now.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, right,” nods Jimmy. “I’ll—I’ll go grab it, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

His cheeks burning, Jimmy sets his sewing down and pulls on his shoes, then hurries outside without lacing them up. They keep their icebox in the cave under the ranch, which makes it a bit of a trip every time they need to grab something, but he doesn’t mind. It’s nice out once the sun is down, a bit of a warm breeze ruffling his hair.

When Jimmy returns, lump of bacon in hand, Tango takes it without saying anything, immediately tearing off a strip and chopping it up into bits. He chops about three strips, then gives Jimmy the rest of it to return to the icebox.

On his way back from the second trip, Jimmy pauses to look up at the sky.

He’s always loved the stars. He used to lie on the grass of his front lawn and gaze up at them until his parents sent him to bed; when he was in the army, he would frequently volunteer for night shifts until his superiors figured out that the night sky distracted him from his job.

He sighs, slowly, wills himself to not get dizzy as he cranes his neck even further back, looking for familiar constellations. Every world has different formations, but sometimes he can find new spots for old favorites.

But dinner is on the stove, and Tango is waiting for him, so Jimmy heads back to the house, smiling at Tango when he checks over his shoulder.

“The stars are beautiful, tonight,” he tells him, and Tango chuckles, turns back to the sauce.

“It’s so funny . . . you . . . stars, every time.”

“Come again?” Jimmy asks, crossing to the side of Tango so that he can see his lips.

Tango doesn’t answer, though. Instead, he takes the pan off the stove and sets down his roughly-carved wooden spoon, turning to properly face Jimmy.

“Jimmy,” he says, “are you feeling okay?”

Jimmy blinks. “Uh, yeah?” he says. Oh, no, is this when Tango brings up any little inconsistencies and uses it against him somehow, even though Jimmy’s been doing his best to prove his loyalty this whole time.

“I just—my ears are hurting,” Tango says. “And, like, I didn’t do anything, I think—the Warden didn’t scream at me or anything. Did you hurt your ears?”

What?

The confusion, even suspicion, that Jimmy thought he’d seen on Tango’s face is clearly concern, now, and Jimmy frowns, touches his ears.

“I don’t think so?” he says. “You said they hurt?”

“Yeah, like, sore. You don’t feel it?”

Sometimes his ears itch, but they rarely hurt. He’s constantly aware of whether or not his ears hurt, knowing that if they get even a simple infection, he’s at risk of losing the rest of his hearing.

So Jimmy’s fairly certain he isn’t feeling any pain in his ears, which brings up the question: why do Tango’s ears hurt?

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I haven’t felt anything.”

Tango hums. “Well, the potatoes are probably done. How about we have dinner and figure it out in the morning?”

If Tango’s ears hurt, then Jimmy’s should be hurting. That’s the way the bond is meant to work, no matter who the pain is coming from. But Jimmy just shrugs it off—it can’t be that serious if Tango thinks they can wait until morning.

He picks up his shirt that he was hemming, frowning when he can’t find the needle. Did he stick it back in the sleeve? He can’t remember. Probably not. This happens every time, will he never learn?

Oh, well. He tosses the shirt onto his bed and drags his chair back over to the table, overly conscious of the scraping sound it makes against their rough wooden floor. He ought to put some wool on the feet of the chairs, make sure they don’t make any sort of sound. Or he could just take his hearing aids out—he’s been wearing them a lot more than he should, and his ears are definitely tired.

Jimmy adjusts one, rotating it just the slightest bit to see if the new position gives his ear a bit of a break. It’s marginally better, so—

Wait.

“Tango,” Jimmy says slowly, “can you feel my hearing aids?”

“What?”

“That might be why your ears hurt,” says Jimmy. He touches the left hearing aid—and now that he’s thinking about it, his ears are definitely a bit sore from how long he’s been wearing the hearing aids. He hadn’t noticed, accustomed to it as he was. “I’ve been wearing my hearing aids for too long. It can definitely be a bit uncomfortable. Here, let me take one out.”

He takes out the left one, sighs a little bit as his ear relaxes. Tango reaches up to rub his own left ear, mouth half-open.

“I—yeah, that fixed it,” he says, and Jimmy puts it back in, twisting it to fit it in just right. “Sorry—you wear hearing aids? Are you Deaf?”

“Did—did you not know?”

“No, I didn’t know! When did that happen?”

“Way before you ever met me,” Jimmy says. “How did you not know? They broke during Third Life and I couldn’t hear for the last few weeks, remember?”

Tango shakes his head, utter surprise painting his face. “I don’t remember that at all.”

To be fair, they didn’t really see much of each other back then. Even though Jimmy spent those last weeks in a near-silent world, cutting his communication to those necessary, he had just kind of assumed that everyone knew what had happened. Apparently, Grian and Scott hadn’t gone around telling everyone about it.

He doesn’t know whether or not to be grateful for that.

“Well, I’ve been Deaf since I was a kid,” says Jimmy, with a bit of a shrug. “I guess I’m just surprised you can’t tell—everyone always says I talk too loud.”

“I just thought you were a loud guy!” Tango says. He turns away for a moment, pulls the potatoes out of the furnace, then turns back, tossing down the towel he’d used to grab the pan. “So, like, what do I sound like to you?”

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “I dunno, like . . . everyone else? It’s hard to figure out whose voice is whose if they aren’t looking at me, and it’s hard to understand at all without watching their lips—it’s kinda garbled. My hearing aids mostly just amplify, they don’t help a lot with distinguishing.”

“How much can you hear without your hearing aids?”

“Not much,” Jimmy says. “Like, if I’m in a crowded room, I can hear this . . . buzz of noise? Sometimes if someone shouts, I can kind of hear it. Everything sounds like a really muffled TV on the lowest volume setting.”

Tango shakes his head, as if in astonishment. “Man. I never woulda guessed.”

It’s strange just how often in his life Jimmy accidentally hides it. He never really intends to. It just sort of . . . happens.

Why are these conversations always so uncomfortable? Teenage Jim was right about that sign pinned on his shirt thing. That would preemptively end every conversation about people not knowing he’s deaf.

“Well, now you know,” Jimmy shrugs again, awkwardly. “I’ll try to take them out more. Um, should we fry the bacon?”

“Right, right!” Tango hops over to their shabby kitchen chest, digging through for the frying pan. Before he can find it, though, he turns back toward Jimmy.

“I’ve got your back,” he says seriously. “Let me know if you need help with anything, yeah?”

Jimmy doesn’t know quite how to respond to that. “You too,” he settles on eventually. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t ever end up asking Tango for help.

He doesn’t need it. Not really.

#double life smp #jimmy solidarity #tangotek #fic reblog

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fresnonightcrawlerisbae · 8 months ago

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love is such a drag

Chapter one: Scar's first encounter with the angel (and Grian gets to eat ice cream)

welcome to my scariana griande drag college au. this will be quite the ride from start to finish.

Scar spots her from across the bar.

It would be hard not to notice her, honestly. Despite the dim, almost cloudy lighting of the room, she glows, as if a heavenly spotlight is set right on her to make it clear that she just descended from heaven.

Scar sneaks glances at her over the fun green umbrella in his drink. She's sitting by herself—an absolute crime, if you ask Scar—, swishing around the little black straw in her drink. Her dark blond hair falls in gorgeous ringlets down around her shoulders, outlining her face the way a pure golden frame would surround only the most beautiful of paintings.

Her nose is small, turned up just a little bit in a peak, the bridge delicate and sparkling with a small amount of angel dust that must be left over from the aforementioned descent. Her eyes are almost comically doe-like, large and accentuated with soft pink eye shadow and long eyelashes. Scar can't quite tell what color her eyes are from this distance (brown, maybe? Black?), but he knows that whatever color they are, they are absolutely perfect.

Her lips are pink to match her eye shadow, glittery, small and pursed, as if her drink isn't near good enough to pass those delicately soft lips.

Scar hasn't even met the woman, but he wants to kiss those lips. He wants some of that angel dust to find its way onto his own lips.

Her cheeks are rosy and full, and her round chin rests on her palm as she casts a bored look around the bar.

Scar downs the last bit of his drink for courage.

He sticks the umbrella in his shirt pocket for good luck.

Then he picks up his cane and saunters over, frantically sorting through every pick-up line in his repertoire—though none of them seem to match the beauty of God's creation before him.

She looks up at him as he approaches, peering at him from under those long lashes, and now he can tell—

Her eyes are grey, but not grey like clouds, or the sea, or the bartop that her arm rests on. Her eyes are grey like the comforter on his mom's bed, like the bricks around the fireplace back in his grandpa's old house, like the silver colored pencil he'd taken all his notes in for a semester to try and prove to Cub that it worked just as well as a normal pencil (it hadn't).

Her eyes are grey like the backdrop of Scar's dreams, the firmament that rests between consciousness and all else.

And then, of course, he's right there.

And she's waiting.

There isn't a single smooth pick-up line in his brain, which is offensive if Scar does say so himself, because he always has words. He could wax poetic about a frying pan for an hour just to annoy someone, but now that his skills are put to the test he can't hold on to his wits long enough to use them.

Goodness gracious, but she's beautiful.

She's wearing something pink and small, a cut-off that reveals a slender torso and adorable bellybutton, the sleeves long and flowy but off the shoulders. Her skirt is a lighter shade of pink, cutting off just above her knees, and it looks like just the kind of skirt that she could spin in and it would twirl along perfectly with her, the kind that sort of looks like a cupcake wrapper.

Scar's always wanted to wear that kind of skirt.

How long has he been staring at her?

"Hi," he manages, readjusting his sweaty grip on his cane. "Um. Come here often?"

She rolls her eyes.

It's breathtaking.

"Sorry, worst line in the book and all that," Scar excuses himself. "Can I order you another drink, then?"

She glances at the half-full drink she's been slowly working her way through. "I'm good, thanks," she says, and Scar nearly swoons.

The angel talked to him!

And her voice! Fluttery, but something deeper underneath! Textured like a symphonic piece of music, as soft as the faux fur carpets in the back of department stores!

She's perfect.

"I'll just cut straight to the point," Scar says, trying valiantly to not feel light-headed. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. May I take you out on a date?"

She blinks.

"You don't even know me," she says, leaning back down to take a dainty little sip out of the straw.

"No, but I want to," Scar reasons. "Can I get you anything? Some chips? A little umbrella?"

"The umbrellas come with the cocktails," she scoffs. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and Scar definitely doesn't almost fall over. "I'm not in the mood for a cocktail."

Scar leans forward. "You can ask for an umbrella with any drink," he whispers, winking conspiratorially. "I always do."

"What is it you really want?" she says, sounding almost tired, and Scar puts his hand to his heart.

"I just want to take you out on a date, I swear, nothing else," he says. "Scout's honor."

"Scout's honor?"

"Troupe 2906," Scar says, lying through his teeth. He was never a scout. Well, he did Cub Scouts, but he never made it to Boy Scouts. And he definitely didn't have a troupe. "Once a scout, always a scout."

Almost reluctantly, she giggles (a sound like windchimes softly jangling), then pulls her phone out of the tiny white purse at her side. "All right, fine. What's your name?"

"Scar," he tells her, pulling out his own phone. He unlocks it with a quick swipe, then pulls up a new contact card and trades his phone for the angel's.

"Your phone looks like it got ran over," she observes, picking at the tape on the side.

"If you pull that tape off, it goes dead."

She stops picking at it.

Scar types in his number slowly with one finger, leaning against the bar as casually as he can manage. He's been standing for a minute too long, but he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable by sitting down.

When he's finished, he passes the phone back to her, receiving his own in return.

"I'll text you," he promises.

She laughs again, nods. "Okay."

The way she dismisses him—

The conversation is clearly over, based on the way she turns back to her drink, her lips once again pursed but this time turned up at the corners.

Scar hurries out as fast as his body will allow him, which isn't very fast even on the best days.

Once he's outside, out of view of her, he checks his phone.

The contact is there, ten exquisite digits.

And her name.

Ariana.

"Cub, do you mind if I have someone over? I need to opine."

Cub looks up from his laptop, then flinches away when Scar turns on the lights.

"Scar, do you know what time it is?" he gripes, putting a pillow over his face.

"It's not even midnight, mister, so don't pretend like this is late. You're always up at all hours of the morning, anyway."

"Why can't you opine to me?" Cub sighs.

"You don't opine back! I need someone who will wallow on the floor with me."

Scar can practically hear Cub raise an eyebrow. "Ren?"

Scar grins. "Ren. He basically isn't even a guest, since he lives right above us. And it would only be for an hour at most!"

"Fine, fine," grumbles Cub, sitting up and setting his pillow to the side. "Call him. But I have a quiz tomorrow, so this better be quick."

Ren's over within five minutes, a two-liter of diet pepsi in one hand and a bag of candy in the other.

"Leftover Christmas candy, my dude," Ren says, tossing it on the floor. "You said you need to opine?"

Scar carefully lowers himself to sit on the floor, then flops down onto his back, his arms splayed out dramatically.

"Why are we doing this in my room?" groans Cub.

"I've seen an angel," Scar declares, and his heart flutters just the slightest bit.

"Ugh."

"Ooh!" Ren says, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Tell me more."

"I was at the bar in Aquetown, right?" Scar starts, adjusting his arms to look more dramatic, one thrown over his forehead. "The good one. The quiet one."

"Right," nods Ren. "I know it well."

"And there she was," Scar says reverently. "The angel."

"What was her name? What happened? What did she—"

"Her name is Ariana," Scar breathes, the name as sweet on his lips as he knows her kiss would be. "She's perfect."

"Did you get her number?" Cub asks boredly.

Scar scoffs. "Of course I got her number! We're going on a date."

"Oooo!" Ren teases, slapping his shoulder. "My man has a date with a pretty girl!"

"She isn't just a girl," Scar says dreamily. "She's an angel. You should've seen her, Ren! If God himself turned up and told me that there had been a mistake, that she was supposed to be in heaven, I wouldn't have even blinked! She—"

"Yeah, she's a beautiful angel, we get it," interrupts Cub. "Can you do this in the living room?"

"What color are her eyes?" Ren asks.

"Grey . . . I've never met anyone with grey eyes. Not like those."

"What did she say? Is she into you?" Ren shakes his head. "What am I saying? Of course she's into you! Who wouldn't be?"

Scar. . . .

Scar hadn't even thought about that.

He'd just been so preoccupied with getting a date with such a perfect woman, he hadn't even thought about whether or not she might want one with him.

What if she secretly hates him?

What if she just told him yes to get him to go away?

"No, it's okay," Ren says quickly, patting his arm. "Don't cry! She's totally into you, dude! Don't even worry about it!"

"What if she isn't?" Scar asks, the hand thrown over his head moving to tug at his hair. "What if I was bothering her? What if she gave me a fake number?"

"No, dude, it's not—"

"Scar," Cub says, kneeling down on the floor beside him, "look at me."

There are already tears welling up in Scar's eyes when he looks up, straight into Cub's dark, unyielding eyes.

"Any woman would be lucky to have you," he says seriously. "If she was lying, that's her loss. Got it?"

Reluctantly, Scar nods, wiping away a tear with the heel of his palm.

Cub claps him on the shoulder. "Now get out of my room."

"Mumbo! Mumbo, you're never gonna guess—"

"In here!" Mumbo calls from their shared bedroom.

Grian shuts the front door and locks the deadbolt, then dashes down the short hall—past Pearl's empty bedroom—until he arrives at his own room. He shuts and locks that door behind himself as well, then leans against it, hands splayed on the old poorly-painted wood.

"Mumbo," he breathes. "Mumbo, it happened."

Mumbo is lying on his stomach on the floor, sleep shirt riding just a bit up his back from clear readjustments of position. He pushes his laptop a bit away, shuts whatever textbook he'd been studying, and rubs his eyes.

"You look cute," Mumbo says when he's done rubbing his eyes, blinking blearily at Grian. "Is that a new skirt?"

Grian stands up straight for a moment, twirls it back and forth. "Yeah, it's one of my new favorites, I think. Do you like it?"

"Looks great," says Mumbo. "Good show tonight?"

"It was fine, but that doesn't matter!" Grian falls back against the door again, letting himself slide all the way to the floor. "Mumbo, it finally happened. A man asked me out."

"No way!" Mumbo cheers, sitting up. "Like, legitimately? He thought—"

"He thought I was a girl and he asked me out!" Grian says. "This is the best day of my life. Nothing can top this."

"After—wait, after the performance? Or before? Because you think he'd know, after the performance, that it was drag, but maybe—"

"Oh, no, no, no," Grian waves him off. "This was at a different bar. I stopped by that one in Aquetown—you know, the dead one?—just on my way back, to try and get a decent drink before heading home. And he just came over to me—Mumbo, he called me the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen."

"Dude!" Mumbo waves his arms around like Kermit the Frog. "I think—I think we need to celebrate! Break out the ice cream, dude, because it's time to throw a party!"

Grian just breathes slowly, chest lifting and falling dramatically. He feels just like a girl in the movies after kissing her date goodbye, only better. More giddy, if that’s possible.

It's getting late, though. He should probably slip out of his heels, take out his hair extensions, wipe off his make-up, take off his boobs, change into pajamas. . . .

Or he could go eat ice cream in their tiny kitchen with Mumbo and animatedly recount every moment of the night.

Which is how Grian finds himself eating ice cream in their tiny kitchen with Mumbo, animatedly recounting every moment of the night.

"He has a cane," Grian remembers suddenly, halfway through telling Mumbo exactly what he'd said for the third time. "It was one of those old-fashioned ones. With the golden handle?"

"Okay, so he's, like, the rich heir of a mansion," Mumbo nods. "You could do a lot worse. Unless he was old—was he old?"

Grian shrugs. "I don't think so. He looked pretty young—he had a scar across his cheek, actually, kind of like—like this—"

He traces along his own cheek, starting from his jawbone, curving up a bit almost to his nose.

Mumbo frowns. "A scar? I think—"

The front door of the apartment opens, and in trudges Pearl, kicking off her muddy boots.

"Pearl!" Grian says excitedly, holding out his scraped-up plastic bowl, a couple of bites of melting ice cream still left. "We're having ice cream to celebrate!"

Pearl drops her blue backpack on the floor of the living room (right beside the front door, the dead carpet there dividing it from the tiled entrance space that leads into the kitchen). She looks first to Grian, then Mumbo, then the carton of vanilla ice cream on the kitchen counter.

"Sounds like a party!" she says, sticking her hands in her hoodie pockets. "You both look nice!"

"Oh! Um, thanks!" Mumbo says, while Grian does a little spin, his skirt lifting in the air (not that Pearl can see, standing on the other side of the counter as she is).

"A man asked me out," Grian tells her. "While he thought I was a woman!"

"Well, of course he did! You make a very pretty girl, Grian."

"Yeah, but you have to say that. You're my sister. He called me the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen."

"Awww," Pearl coos. She comes around the counter, pulls a chipped bowl out of the dishwasher (used to dry dishes, not wash them) along with a spoon, which she uses to load some ice cream into the bowl before sticking a spoonful in her mouth.

"What was his name?" she asks around the ice cream, words muffled.

Grian frowns. "I don't remember. He didn't write it in the contact. That isn't important, though—he asked me out!"

"Are you going to go?"

Grian freezes.

Is he going to. . . ?

"Oh no," he says, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. "I—I didn't even think about that."

"Think about what?" Mumbo asks, scraping his spoon along the side of his bowl.

"I don't want to go on a date," Grian says. Oh, this is dreadful! "I just liked the attention! What do I do, Mumbo? I gave him my number and everything!"

Pearl scoffs. "You gave him your number? You're basically required to go on a date with him. If you give a man your real number, it means you're interested."

"Did you tell him you'd go on a date with him?"

Grian cringes. ". . . Maybe?"

"Grian!"

"I can't help it!" Grian defends. "I love flirting, you know that!"

Mumbo covers his face, bowl abandoned on the counter.

"Grian," Pearl bemoans.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . . ."

"Well, we'd better hope he's a creep!" Mumbo says loudly, face still buried in his hands. "Because then you don't have to feel bad about ditching the date!"

"Was he nice?" asks Pearl.

Grian shrugs helplessly. "I guess? He tried to give me a drink umbrella."

"Oh. So, very drunk."

"No, I think he just wanted me to have one."

"Goodness, Grian. You've got yourself in a bit of a situation," Mumbo says, finally emerging from his hands. He looks into his bowl, frowns at the lack of ice cream.

"Maybe he'll forget about it?" Grian suggests, but his heart isn't really in it.

He doesn't have much hope. Not with the way the man had talked to him. No, he's probably just set himself up for a month of progressively creepier and more disgusting texts until he blocks the man and files a 'do not contact' directive with the school.

Assuming this man is a student.

What if he's, like, an old man?

Like, thirty?

Okay. This is too much.

Hopefully, he just doesn't text. Then Grian won't have to worry about it. Which won't happen, but he can dream.

"We can talk more about it tomorrow, all right?" Mumbo says, tossing his bowl in the sink. "It's getting late. And G, you should probably put your, er, appendages away."

"My bosom?" Grian says, raising an eyebrow.

"His tittie-tatties?" Pearl suggests.

"My breastily breasting boobs?"

"His badonka donk—"

"Please just get them off the counter."

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft fic #scarian

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