Summary: It's been nearly three years and still she doesn't trust him.
Disclaimer: Kenny and Joey are Aaron's. Which is a shame, because I want Kenny all for myself. He's all snuggly...
Author's notes: This one is for Luna, and thanks to Luna. Because she pulled me out of my slump in the drop-and-give-me-500 fashion. So, okay, it's not 500. But, you know. More isn't a bad thing.
Unspoken
White Star 2
"I'm entitled to have an opinion, too," he signs. Dexterous fingers. He could have been a pianist. Instead he's someone else's voice; her ears. And, right now, her punching bag. There are days he wishes he could be an advisor, too. There were times, during the first year, when he'd wished he was more.
"Not when we need to get this done." Her fingers cut through the air just as her voice did before. With no accent this time, and still with their full force. How to shout with your hands isn't something they teach in sign language classes.
Not ever, really. He hardly ever gets to offer advice. Nothing so formal, nothing that requires expertise. Just to be her friend. They have their long, silent conversations on planes, their secret ones in public. But she never lets on more than she has to. She thinks he already knows too much about her as it is. It's been nearly three years and still she doesn't trust him.
"When you translate, it's what I say. Word for word. You don't gloss it over."
She didn't ask him when she decided to make the change from pollster to political operative. She probably assumed he'd either make the change or get out. He only regrets not getting out on days like this. When they do things like this. Maybe it's just about getting used to the dirty side of politics. To being a part of it. Campaigns aren't the place for people with honesty issues.
"You lied," he says slowly, emphasizing the syllables, the way teachers do for children who are learning to read lips. The way he knows she hates that people do to her.
"My choice," she says right back, anger slurring the words. Then she adds--signs--"You're not my conscience."
"What am I supposed to tell someone who asks me what I know?" The first look she gives him is harsh. Who'd ever ask him? He knows what she'll say to this, she has two possible answers. He hopes she'll tell him that in politics, he's got to lie now and then, it's just how it is.
"Tell them you just translate." He watches her hands, the shapes turning into words somewhere between her and his mind.
He clasps his hands together, drums the thumb of one hand on that of the other. It's a nervous habit he rarely displays, one a translator can't afford. It's just too easily misinterpreted. He pulls his hands apart, then, and hesitantly makes two simple gestures. "Do I?"
His apology is already on the tip of his tongue, in his fingertips. It's a long silence. Neither of them moves. Her anger doesn't quell immediately, but eventually it does. He doesn't want to hear the knee-jerk "Of course not." She doesn't say it. Doesn't even hint at it.
Instead, she turns away, paces a few steps, until she's facing him again. She shifts her weight. "You're indispensable to me," she signs. When they talk like this, privately, her lips always move, by force of habit. Now they don't, as if her face is focused on emoting. "I don't want to be in the position where I have to replace you."
He waits for the "but".
"But this is what this job requires. You're going to be privy to sensitive information. You're going to sit in secret meetings. I can't be worried you're mistranslating. I can't be worried you'll leak information."
"You didn't trust me before," he signs.
She doesn't reply. He looks down, doesn't mind that he might miss something she says.
It surprises him when he hears her voice. "I will."