hard of hearing jack abbot, who lost most of it along with his leg, and remembers waking up in that hospital hearing only a deafening, accusing ring that eventually subsided into muffled silence.
jack, who manages well enough with hearing aids in the ED, but rips them off the moment he’s off shift, his nervous system never quite relearning to regulate with all the noise, noise, noise.
jack, who never learned sign language, refusing out of stubbornness and pride and avoidance, who figures the aids are good enough for work, and there’s no one in his life, at home, to communicate with anyway.
jack, who presses the scanner to his ear, because as much as he craves the quiet, it’s fucking lonely, and the sounds and vibrations are enough to chase those thoughts away, even if for a moment.
and then robby. robby, who’s picked up a bit of ASL in the ED; who, while this thing between them is still new and delicate, starts taking online classes on his days off. robby, who wants jack to feel comfortable not wearing his aids around him, who’s not sure how to broach such a sensitive subject, but gets caught when a young deaf patient tries to continue their conversation during hand-off. robby, who avoids jack’s piercing stare all the way out of the ED. robby, who wakes up to jack at his doorstep, starts apologizing, only for jack to grab his wrists and look him in the eyes and say no, mike, i’m not mad. would you teach me?
jack, and robby, who lie tangled, sweat cooling, robby slowly signing letters and words while jack reads his kiss-swollen lips.
jack and robby, pressed together in the silent dark, hands touching, jack’s hesitantly forming a three-pronged sign robby hasn’t taught him yet, because this thing is still delicate and new. robby’s heart skipping a beat as he pulls jack closer and presses smiling lips to his temple, moving: i love you, too.
