Logs:The Confusion of Tongues

The Confusion of Tongues
Dramatis Personae Clint, Dawson, Steve
In Absentia	2020-09-19 "My name is Clint." (Followed immediately by more disclosures.
Location <NJ> Deaf Poets Society ASL Poetry Slam - Newark
The sign out front reads "21st Amendement", but tonight this cheeky retro bar has been taken over by the Deaf Poets Society to host its monthly ASL poetry slam. The interior is all exposed brick and industrial beam ceiling with ample suspended lightning. There seems to be an attempt here at a cottagecore aesthetic, many of the booths and walls decorated with folk art and crafts (including a kitschy framed cross-stich that reads 'Bless this Happy Bar'). It's crowded here tonight, and the crowds are rather animated--a gathering of deaf and hearing signers from all across northern New Jersey and New York City. The actual poetry slamming hasn't started just yet, but some of the patrons ar already slamming back drinks. Clint is not slamming anything, though he does have a drink in hand--which he is pointedly sipping where he sits near the end of the antique long bar. He's casually and unassumingly dressed in a plum button-down, black plainfront slacks, and black chelsea boots, a properly hipsterish sling bag hanging over one knee. He's not chatting with anyone, just half turned in his seat to survey the crowd. Steve has been slamming back drinks at some point, at least, because he is weaving a bit as he enters the venue. Or possibly the weaving is an after-effect of his less-than-steadying mode of travel. Regardless -- given he's highly recognizeable with his shield slung across his back even if his blue-purple-green plaid flannel and jeans are nondescript -- he's immediately swarmed with enthusiastic greeters welcoming him to the Deaf community. He clearly does not understand much of anything being signed at him, but neither does he seem much perturbed, replying with thumbs-ups and ILYs and clumsy if startlingly comprehensible renditions of 'sorry I'm a beginner'. He manages to work his way to the bar all the same, towing Dawson in his wake, and fetches up against it beside Clint to wave down the bartender. Trailing along behind Steve, Dawson seems mostly kind of amused at his companion's clumsy signing overtures. He is dressed as he usually is, crisply pressed khakis, a grey-trimmed green polo shirt, loafers; at his left side, his arm is in its most common flicker-feathered patterning. 'You're doing good. Quick learner,' he signs to Steve, and has gotten as far as adding 'YOU' before his hand falls to his side. His eyes have gone impossibly wide, fixing on Clint as the color drains from his face. Clint had locked onto the commotion the moment Steve entered the bar, but between the crowds surrounding him and Steve's own impressive stature does not, apparently, spot Dawson until the pair arrives at the bar. His eyes also go wide then, his mouth falling open into an O. After scanning left and right, mouthing the beginnings of several words but voicing none of them, he finally fingerspells 'FLICKER?' Steve wavers. Leans against the bar, pale blue eyes flicking between Dawson and Clint, then focusing in on Clint's spelling without the least hint of comprehension. 'Hi! Sorry, I'm a beginner!' he signs, then is immediately distracted by the bartender who fortunately offers him a pad to write on. He scribbles something and turns to Dawson, only then realizing that perhaps something is actually amiss. "Hey, uh..." He suddenly remembers he's supposed to be signing and decides the closest he can manage is 'What?' The color is not returning to Dawson's face. He rests one hand on the bar, pressing down hard as his breathing grows less even. His eyes close, head bowing. When he looks back up his shock -- has not passed, exactly, face still pale, eyes still too-wide, but he summons up a small uncertain smile. 'DANIEL? You're here? You're safe? You're okay? Did you leave that job after --' He stops here, blinking several times before only now seeming to remember Steve is here. 'Sorry,' he says and signs at once, gesturing between himself and Clint. "He -- we --" Though he seems to find neither English nor sign to finish this thought. 'I'm safe,' Clint manages, at a slight delay. 'I left right after you did.' To Steve he signs and speaks aloud, "Hello, Captain America. Me and Flicker, we know each other from...Maine." He stops voicing, though, when he adds, 'Are you ok? I can go...' Steve pales at Clint's explanation. Stops trying to sign altogether. "We-were you -- in there, with him?" he asks, hesitant. When the bartender returns he hands over the note pad, having added on a lemonade for Dawson. Dawson lets out a short breath, previously-tensed shoulders sagging with relief. 'You're okay,' he repeats, more firmly this time. 'I worried if they found out...' His head shakes hard, and he sags down onto a stool. "He worked there," is said and signed at once, but he gets flustered after this, dropping his hands to add: "Not -- like -- he wasn't. Doing..." Once more, he blanches. "A janitor." Now, back to signing -- a little more clumsily, a touch delayed -- along with his words. "He... helped. Us." 'No, no,' Clint signs, clearly frustrated. Then, voicing his own signs again, "I was never in much danger. What we were doing there, that was unforgivable. Evil. Whatever was needed to get you out? Worth it." Dropping the voice again. 'You changed my life.' "Good man," Steve tells Clint very seriously. "You -- Sir -- are a good man. For standing up to that." He leans in closer. "If you helped get them out, you're alright in my book. Oh wait..." He suddenly remembers to switch back to sign. 'Sorry. I'm...a beginner.' Struggling, clearly. 'You. Him. Thank you.' 'Just glad you ended up okay. What are you doing now? Do you -- live here?' Dawson only voices his words at a delay. Clint's last comment does not seem to help his shock dissipate. "I what? Me?" His brows have raised incredulously. '... how?' "I live here," Clint manages to pick-up more or less simultaneous signing and voicing again. "No, I live in Mid-town." He points (accurately!) eastward. This time it's his signing that drops, his English voice clear and fluent with a standard north central accent, "I was there at Steve's request. I was only supposed to gather information, but -- then I met you." "What?!" Steve blurts, leaning forward and studying Clint closely. "I don't even know you, how could I have request --" Pale blue eyes go wide-wide as he automatically takes a step back. "You -- you're with S.H.I.E.L.D.!" At this rate, Dawson's eyes will never return to their proper size. He sinks back against the bar, his fingers gripping hard at his knee. Though his mouth opens, nothing comes out except a ragged breath. "You knew --" he's starting to say, at first, looking at Steve, but Steve's exclamation cuts this off. His hand lifts, palm pressing to his mouth. "I -- I'm sorry," is muffled through his hand; only after does he remember to drop it. "How -- what?" "No, I didn't know him." Clint insists, still aloud. "But I was sent because of him." He switches back to signing, his hands moving rapid-fire. 'What I told you, that was true. I didn't realize how bad it was. The boss who sent me--none of us know. Once I understood, I could not just watch. I couldn't.' He shakes his head vehemently. Aloud again. "But all the while you were worried about me." Steve stares blankly at Clint through the signing, as if willing himself to understand. Finally shakes his head. "I went to S.H.I.E.L.D.," he explains, "when you were gone. I pleaded with them to find you. I thought -- I thought nothing came of it." Dawson's eyes are bright, now. He rubs at his face, eyes fixing on the floor slightly in front of them. "But there are -- so many more labs." His voice has gotten a little softer, a little rougher. "They could --" He swallows. His eyes close. It takes a few slow breaths before he opens them again. "Is your name Daniel?" Clint watches both the other men closely while they speak, his eyes struggling to remain properly focused. "He's doing what he can--my boss. Oh, God--" Switches to signing again. 'It's not enough, I know. But we're not U.S. government, we--I'm sorry.' Aloud, again. "My name is Clint. I am actually deaf, though, and it's kind of hard to. Follow. What you're saying." "Hello, Clint," Steve blurts. The bartender brings him a glass of lemonade, heavy in ice, and a double shot of Jameson's. He fumbles with the payment, then finally remembers, at least, to sign, 'Nice to meet you.' "They just -- sent you there. It takes us so long and so many --" Dawson's cheeks flood with red, his signed apology immediate. 'I'm sorry, I'm being so rude. This is all --' He reaches for the lemonade, taking a sip and setting it back down before he continues. 'Nice to meet you, Clint.' He lifts one arm, scrubbing his face against his sleeve. Both aloud and signed: "I still have the book you gave me." "We have resources you don't," Clint says, his voice dropped so low it's hard to hear over the laughter and floor-shaking music. "I want us to do more, but we're UN. They'd shut us down if we just went after the labs. That--that's no excuse." He licks his lips. Downs half of his drink at once. His intonation changes when he speaks again, solemn and measured, "And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God." Steve's eyes skip unsteadily from one man to the other. He opens his mouth, but then closes it again. Spots the pad sitting on the bar and scribbles in tight, meandering cursive, 'You can get them information'. Through the crowd, the noise, the exuberant signed conversations, Natasha is making her way back to her companion. She's casually dressed, jeans and boots and a black canvas jacket over a tight red tank, her hair down loose around her shoulders, a very faint swerve-wobble to her steps as well. She comes up behind Clint, slinging an arm around his shoulders, her smile too-bright as she starts to sign, 'Hey who --' Then stops. Blinks, her arm slowly tightening then falling away, her eyes juuust a little wider. A warmer smile breaks across Dawson's face, for the first time displacing some of his poleaxed look. Briefly. It vanishes as Natasha arrives, and the hand he'd just started to lift to give reply falls back to his lap. "Natalie?" His eyes dart between Nat and Clint, hand lifting to scrub at his eyes. "What the frak?"