#predators

When you sign to him for the first time, he does not interrupt. He does not look away. He studies the movement of your fingers as if they are weapons he must understand before they turn dangerous.

You know he cannot hear the silence the way you do. To him, quiet is absence. To you, it is constant.

At first, communication is awkward.

You point. You write symbols in the dirt or on a pad.

You touch your chest and then his when you mean us.

Kwei adapts quickly, but there are moments where frustration runs across his features.

Not at you, but at himself.

He speaks and then stops mid-sentence, remembering. He learns to wait until you are looking at him.

That is the first thing that makes your chest ache.

Hunters do not wait.

On a hunt, it becomes obvious to him that sound is not how you survive. You feel vibrations through the ground. You watch shadows. You read the movement of air, muscle and intent. When danger approaches, you are already tense before he senses it.

The first time he realises this, his head snaps toward you sharply.

You sign fast.

Warning. Close. Above.

The creature never reaches him.

Afterwards, Kwei kneels in front of you and places his forehead against yours. A Yautja gesture of respect reserved for warriors who save lives.

You did not needed sound.

Still, there are moments he fails you.

Once, a warning is shouted by another hunter.

Kwei moves instantly, pulling you against his chest, shielding your body with his own. His heart pounds so hard you feel it through armour and skin.

Later, when you are safe, he signs clumsily. Hands too big. Movements stiff.

SORRY. DID NOT THINK.

You lift his hands and guide them gently.

LEARN. STILL LEARNING.

That night, he goes to Thia.

She watches him struggle with the signs, his claws awkward, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. She does not laugh. She corrects him patiently. She gives him a data log filled with recordings, diagrams, human explanations.

“This is not weakness,” she tells him. “This is language.”

He studies every night after that.

You wake to find him tracing symbols on his forearm. Practising in silence. You pretend to sleep so he does not stop.

Slowly, things change.

He signs before speaking now. He touches your wrist lightly to get your attention. He positions himself where you can see his face when others speak. When the clan gathers, he stands slightly behind you, hands ready, translating without being asked.

One night, exhaustion weighs heavy on you. Your hands tremble when you try to sign. You shake your head, apologetic.

Kwei pulls you into his lap and presses his forehead to yours.

REST. I SEE YOU.

He does not need sound to know you are tired.

Later, as you lie together, his arm heavy and warm around you, you watch him sign something slowly, deliberately. His movements are careful, reverent.

MINE. SAFE. ALWAYS.

You smile, pressing your hand over his heart.

In the end, Kwei learns that strength is not always loud.

Sometimes it is silent.

Sometimes it is shaped by hands moving gently in the dark.

And he learns it fluently.

~Masterlist~