Chapter Text
It takes Numbers a whole day before he finally realizes that his new cellmate is deaf.
It's not like either of them had really made an effort to small talk when he'd first arrived; as that tall drink of water had walked in, Numbers had spared him no more than a brief glance before going back to his book. In prison, pleasantries are a sign of weakness, and Numbers has never been much for pleasantries anyway.
The big guy hadn't said a word, either, just crawled into his bunk and left him alone. Numbers figures he isn't the talkative type, which he's very thankful for, and that he had just been relieved to find the top bunk free.
Now, that's a phenomenon Numbers has never quite understood. Everyone wants that goddamn top bunk. A symbol of dominance, maybe? Numbers ponders. It might appeal to the simian sensibilities of some of the men in here, but if you look at it from a logical viewpoint it doesn't make a whole lot of sense; what if you roll off it in the middle of the night and smash your face in? And if the guy in the bottom bunk farts, that shit will waft upwards. Thanks, but no thanks.
That evening he got to enjoy complete silence - his previous cellmate, God rest his soul, had been an awfully chatty guy - and it had almost seemed to Numbers as if he was alone in that cell. He'd fallen asleep early and slept all through the night, no one waking him up to complain about his snoring.
It's only when the big guy comes up to him the next day with a notepad that it all starts to make sense.
'I need protection' it reads.
At first Numbers thinks it's just a precaution, which strikes him as being overly paranoid. Typical first-timers.
"Why?" Numbers asks as he considers the pad. "You're a big guy, you can take care of yourself."
His cellmate looks exasperated, gesturing to his ears.
"What, are you deaf or something?"
The big guy rolls his eyes as he hastily scribbles something down. He thrusts the pad in Number's face.
'YES. ARE YOU A MORON OR SOMETHING?'
Numbers starts to chuckle, which only seems to infuriate his cellmate further. The big guy raises one of his massive fists, ready to bash his skull in.
"Wait, wait, stop!" Numbers gasps in between laughs, shielding himself from the assault with his hands. "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing at myself."
The hulk seems to calm down slightly at that, his hovering fist finally dropping to his side.
"So you're deaf, huh," Numbers says, clearing his throat as he wills himself to stop laughing, and tries not to slur his words too much. "But you can read lips?"
His cellmate responds with a flat palm turning side to side, the universal sign for 'so-so'.
"And you want protection."
He nods fervently.
Numbers can't blame him; he'd seen a group of guys trying to kick his ass at breakfast that same day. Not that they succeeded, mind you, but perhaps next time he won't be so lucky. Probably not. Disabled guys like him are always a target in here, even guys his size, even if he packs a punch. He's easy to ambush. And, Numbers has to admit, the guy's attractive... and young. Never a good combo in a place like this.
Numbers has first-hand experience with that sort of thing, back when he'd done his first stint in here. He had been no more than twenty then, thin as a reed, and his tousled hair and scraggly beard had made him look like just another stupid college kid busted for possession.
As he and the other new meat had entered the cellblock the seasoned inmates had catcalled and chanted, as was to be expected. Numbers, in all his youthful arrogance, had flipped the entire cellblock the bird, which really only made him stand out more. He had let his guard down for just a second and hey presto, there they came descending on him like a pack of wolves.
Luckily for him, there were plenty of others from the Syndicate in there, and those guys look out for their own. Numbers had escaped by the skin of his teeth. But no one could save him from being reprimanded by Old Skinner, Fargo's resident grandpa, who had slapped him in the back of the head and called him a green idiot.
"If you piss anyone else off," the old man had said, "we won't be here to save you next time someone wants a lay. Got it?"
Numbers had quickly learned humility.
The big guy shakes his notepad at him, bringing him back to the present.
"Why'd they put a deaf guy in here anyway?" Numbers wants to know, mouthing every word carefully. "Isn't that like cruel and unusual punishment or something?"
His cellmate simply shrugs. Numbers finds it hard to believe that he doesn't know, but it's probably a long story and this form of communication is certainly tedious.
He's reminded of another inmate from years back, whose name he can't remember; the guy was blind on one eye and had a limp, and they'd still kept the poor fucker in with the able bodied. Needless to say, he'd been picked off pretty quick. Nobody did dick about it, of course. The American penal system has always been a sick joke.
"So why'd you come to me anyway?"
The big guy turns to his pad again, impressing Numbers with the speed of his hand.
'Cellmate. And you've got clout. Been watching. No one fucks with you.'
"Yeah, I've got some friends in here... What's in it for me, though? If I give you protection?"
His cellmate scribbles something down, and he seems to hesitate for a moment before presenting it.
'I'll suck your dick.'
Numbers' eyes go wide as saucers. He hadn't meant it like that. He was thinking of money or something. Although, he thinks, it has been a few years now...
"Do you... do you want to suck my dick?" he asks, thankful that his cellmate can't hear the hopeful streak in his voice.
'If that's what it takes,' the reply reads.
"Well in that case," Numbers sighs, his face flushing with shame. "No thanks. Color me old fashioned, I just can't get off on it if the other guy isn't enjoying himself."
The big lug looks a tad disappointed as well, albeit for entirely different reasons, Numbers assumes.
"Fuck it, I'll watch your back anyway," he finally says, taking pity on the kid. "If you watch mine. Can't hurt to have a hulk like you on my side, right?"
The giant cracks a tiny, nearly undetectable smile.
"So what do I call you, big guy?"
'Wrench.'
Well, it had to be something like that, didn't it.
---
"I wanna learn ASL."
Numbers is in the cellblock supervisor's office, appealing to the pink, bald, pug-nosed man they'd nicknamed Babe on account of his likeness to a piglet and, fate being a hilarious motherfucker, his last name being Bacon.
"ASL? What's that prison slang for?"
Numbers rolls his eyes. Dumber than a bag of rocks. Proudly displayed on the wall is Babe's university diploma - a degree in sociology, of all things - making Numbers wonder how much money Babe Senior had to cough up.
"American Sign Language," Numbers explains. "Tried looking in the library for some books, but no luck."
"That's because it's against state regulations."
"Yeah, well, the state shouldn't have put a disabled guy in here in the first place. Surely you can make an exception?"
The supervisor narrows his little pig eyes at him.
"Why you so eager, huh? You known this guy, what, a week? I reckon, either you two're cooking up something or you're suckin' this fella's dick. And I aint ecstatic about neither of those possibilities."
"I just wanna be able to communicate with the guy."
"He got his pad, don't he?" He wags a stubby finger at Numbers. "If I catch you two talkin' in your secret language or fuckin' each other up the ass, I will separate the two of ya faster than you can say 'cripple'. Capisce?"
"Man alive," Numbers sighs, resigned. There's no winning with this goddamn yokel.
Numbers gets up to leave, but the man-pig reaches across his desk and grabs him by the sleeve.
"You heard me, son?"
Numbers glances down at those sweaty little sausage fingers clutching his sleeve, then back up at the supervisor. When Numbers' dark, grave eyes meet his, Babe's tough guy act seems to crumble and he releases him immediately.
Before leaving the supervisor to do whatever it is he does in his office all day - minesweeper and beating off, presumably - Numbers lingers in the doorway.
"Nobody says capisce, you fucking tool."
---
Wrench is sitting on his bunk reading when he notices a dark blob in his peripheral vision. Numbers is looking pissed.
"I need to ask you a favor," he says as he leans on the top bunk.
The notepad nowhere in sight, Wrench simply cocks his head to the side, well aware that it makes him look like a confused puppy.
"I want you to teach me sign language."
Now he really needs his pad. He lifts his pillow, pats the bed with his hand.
"You're sitting on it," Numbers says as he digs the notepad out from underneath Wrench's thigh and hands it to him.
Thanks, Wrench signs with a hand to his chin, and scribbles down 'Why?'
"I wanna be able to talk to you without that thing," Numbers replies, pointing at the pad. "And it's not like I've got anything better to do with my time."
Wrench nods, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"What?" Numbers says. "You don't think I can do it?"
Wrench chuckles. It's the first time Numbers hears his cellmate's voice, and he's surprised at the softness of it.
'It's not really a favor,' he writes, 'I'm happy to do it.'