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It's been three days since she arrived, and Regan has gotten a little bit used to the Home. She stays out of it as long as she can, all the same, so she doesn't have to worry about trying to interact with her Hearing roommates. It isn't that she thinks they're bad people. It's just . . . a lot. Another reminder that she's not like them. That she's Other.

So, she wakes up early and heads out, and she stays out all day, until just before curfew, and heads back in. She does that every day, now, and maybe it's a little cowardly, but she's also giving herself time to get used to the city proper, using the map Greta showed her and marking things of interest on it as she goes.

She's marked the cat cafe down, and that really cool tinker's shop.

She's set to start school next Monday. It would have been sooner, but she requested an extra week. Part of it is because she's nervous. She'll have an interpreter, but it's been so long since she's been in school. What if she's behind her peers?

She doesn't want to think about it. Instead, Regan heads towards the park, wearing her new winter boots that Greta helped her buy. She swings by an Ahab's and grabs herself a hot cocoa with espresso in it, and ends up adding extra sugar to sweeten it back up. The park is a nice place, and she gets to see all sorts of different things and people here.

Even if she's just killing time until curfew.

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He doesn't understand what's going on for a moment, with her just staring so intently and then pulling out her phone and typing. He stays quiet, even though he's confused, and makes sure to keep Beau on the leash, right against his leg; at least the run seems to have calmed him down a little bit.

He has to lean in close to read the small text on the phone. He'd been running, he didn't have his glasses, and screens were even harder than paper.

"Oh," he says, and then sort of fumbles. He's never met someone who was deaf before, and he's not really sure what he's supposed to do. Write, he supposes. He fishes his phone out of his jacket and types out a quick message; his font is set bigger than the girl's is, to see better.

Apologizing for dog. Getting used to him. Had him off leash to run.

It doesn't escape Regan that his font is so much larger than hers. But she does wonder why he's typing like that. Maybe English isn't his first language?

She quickly changes her font settings to match his, so he doesn't have to strain.

That's okay. What's his name?

Edited (lol html tagging) 2019-01-26 17:23 (UTC)

He would laugh if she asked; the truth is that even after almost two years, he texts only a little bit, and they tend to be more stream of conscious than anything, not conversational.

He appreciates her changing the size of her font, because it does make it easier for him to read and not have to get right up on the screen.

"Beau," he says, without really thinking, and the dog, at his leg, brightens happily. Gets up, turns in a circle, and then sits back down. Quickly, Neil corrects, and types into his phone instead, turning it to show her. Beau

Regan's arms go numb for a moment, from her shoulders to her fingertips. She swallows hard. She looks at the dog, then up at the boy. Her eyes turn sharp, angry and accusing, but her heart is racing.

Her hands shake a little as she types on her phone, and she stands when she turns it to face him.

That's. Not. Funny.

In the face of anger, any anger, Neil's first reaction is always to placate. To apologize and agree that it's his error that caused the situation. But there isn't an error--he said the truth, and he doesn't know why she's angry, which is a common enough thread in Neil's life.

He takes a step back, and starts the voice to text on his phone. He knows he'll have to fix a word or two, but it's mostly good with his precise, prep school enunciations.

"I'm not making a joke. His name's Beau. Mercutio Beau, Mercy Beau, just Beau. My friend named him. He was from Louisiana. He's gone now."

Neil makes sure that everything looks right and is spelled correctly, and then sort of shoves the text reading what he said in her face, taking another urgent shuffle back. At his feet, Beau moves in between them. He doesn't growl or bark. There's just seventy pound of red spotted Terrier between them, protecting them from each other.

Regan reads the message, then forces herself to read it again, more slowly. Her shoulders unclench, but she doesn't sit back down. She looks at the dog, then at the boy, then, once more, at his phone.

I'm sorry. She hesitates for what feels like a very long time, then takes a breath and keeps typing. I have a brother named Beau. He's gone too. I thought you somehow knew that and were messing with me.

Now that she's calmer, it feels silly to even think that. How could he possibly know anything about her or her family? But she'd seen the name on the screen and her brain had done whatever messed up math it needed to get to that point. She feels stupid, and the apology is clear on her face as she turns the phone around to show him.

He reads it and is very still for a moment. This whole method of communication is difficult, foreign to him, even as someone who does so much written word and did so much note passing at school. How can he express his sympathetic anguish in words?

Sorry, he types. And then, clumsily but at least articulating himself, he types out, How do you say his name?

One of his coworkers has talked about name signs because she's taking ASL at school. He knows how to spell in sign language, and that's about it. So he spells it out--B-E-A-U--rather clumsily, and then cocks his head slightly in question.

She can see it flash across his face: regret, apology, almost too empathetic for his own good. That settles it for her. She slowly sits, and she gestures vaguely to the bench beside her to invite him along.

She's learning that most people here know how to fingerspell, and that's encouraging. It means that ASL isn't a totally foreign concept to them, and she has the chance to communicate in more comfortable ways. She nods when he spells the name right.

"My name is Regan," she adds.

He joins her on the bench, and Beau casually climbs underneath, putting himself out of the way. Neil lets the leash go slack across his lap. He watches the way she moves her hands, taking his time to parse it out. A part of him wonders how miserable it must be to talk to everyone like they're stupid; that's a bit what it is, after all, dumbing down the way she'd talk normally so that other people can understand her.

He fingerspells her name in reply. Then, while saying it out loud, he recalls the name sign that Neil's coworker figured out: N and the sign for talk, a single rock forward and back to his chin. Then he spells it, a little more confidently, before doing the sign again. "Neil."

Regan can't help but smile a little at his name sign. "Do you talk a lot?" she asks. That's the only reason she can think someone would give him that particular name sign, anyway.

Neil only really gets you and talk out of what she says, and he laughs a little bit, nodding, holding up his hand with his fingers pinched close together. He pulls his phone out again, because it's easier to talk like that, even if it feels more impersonal.

Coworker is taking ASL. Gave me that sign. Most friendly w/ customers.

That isn't necessarily the truth, especially recently, but he tries to be bright and well-spoken and friendly to everyone that comes in, even if he's having a rough day. But he's been there for a few months now, and people seem to like his enthusiasm at work. He makes due.

You're most friendly or your coworker is? she asks. It's harder to understand the shorter sentences he's using, and she's tempted to ask if he'd rather write it down instead of using his phone. She's not sure it'll be faster, but if it feels more natural then she's willing to switch over.

Neil points to himself, because he had meant himself. He feels a little stupid about the whole thing. He knows how to be articulate, but he's bad with it without time to prepare. It's why he ends up sticking his foot in his mouth so often when he speaks, too.

There's a brief, awkward pause after Regan nods, and she turns to her phone again to try to change the subject.

You look young, but I don't recognize you from the home. You don't live there?

Neil looks, and then shakes his head, sort of smiling. He'll be twenty this year, but he knows he has a young face. He makes a desperate attempt to articulate himself, and it's not awful, but it takes him a lot longer to type than his short little bits and pieces.

I have a friend there. I didn't get assigned there when I arrived. No idea why. But I turned 18 just a little after I got here and I'll be 20 this year. Didn't even know there was a childrens home until I was in school last year.

Regan stares at his message for a moment. Then she turns her wide eyes to Neil's face, and the surprise is obvious. He's twenty? He doesn't look it. He looks so young. Regan feels herself blushing a little and she looks down at her phone to type on it so he doesn't see.

You don't look 20! I thought you were like 16 or 17.

Well 20 in July is the easy, quick correction, but Neil laughs, seeing her surprise before she looks away from him to type. He's fairly certain he surprises a lot of people, that he got his diploma back in the summer.

Are you 16 or 17?

I'm only 14, she answers, with a little grimace that says just how much she likes being fourteen. And she feels very young and dumb next to him, now that she knows he's almost six years older than her.

Neil feels a little silly for the question, now he's asked it and Regan's said she's younger than he supposed. They're on even keel now, both thinking the other was younger or older than they are. In his defense, Regan has a certain way. Even without a verbal voice, she comes across with maturity at least comparable to Rosie, or himself when he showed up.

He changes the subject, still a bit embarrassed that she seems put off by his age. How is Darrow so far? Different?

Very. The world kind of ended where I'm from. It's kind of a Thing to just say like that, but she says it anyway. It's different with a guy older than she is versus Rosie, who is practically the same age. She wants Rosie to like her. She'd like Neil to like her, but it's not the same thing.

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