Muted Trilogy: Mute Part 15

"He likes to tease." Jack returned with another dry erase board and handed it to Jemma. "Doesn't mean anything by it, though."

It's nice to meet you, too, wrote Jemma, hoping the delay between initial comment and her response hadn't been as long at it had felt.

Sit, please, wrote Don, taking his seat once more and gesturing toward the chair to his left. Jemma obliged, looking at Jack and expecting him to sit with them, but he was still standing.

"I have to go cook," he sent. "You're welcome to join me, or you can stay here with Dad. He says to tell you he promises not to bite."

Jemma looked at Don, who was watching her with a grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes, very much like the expression she saw on Jack so often.

"I'll stay here," she sent, and Jack nodded, then moved to the kitchen with a brief wave, leaving Jemma alone with Don.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:.

Unknown Jemma and Don sat in silence, Jemma waiting while Don wrote slowly on his whiteboard, occasionally pausing to rub his hand.

What do you like to do outside of work? the board read when he finally turned it to face her. How long have you and Jack been Talking?

Jemma held her marker over her board while she thought. The first question was easy. The second was a little trickier without being dishonest.

I read a lot, she wrote finally. We're not sure exactly when we started being able to Talk. We didn't think to try at first.

Don nodded, seeming to accept the vague answer, and started writing again, more slowly this time. Jemma sent Jack a message.

"Your dad is writing pretty slowly. It looks like his hand might be bothering him. Is the kitchen too far for you to translate?"

"It is, thanks to the weird layout. It isn't much out of range," sent Jack, "but translating won't work. I'll be there in a minute, about to be at a stopping point."

Jemma s.h.i.+fted her attention back to Don, who'd finished writing and was turning the board so she could see.

Anything in your life other than books?

He was watching her with an interested look, the question not meant to be insulting as she'd heard it used more than once. She again hesitated in her response. She had her family, yes, and that would have been her only response a few months ago. Recently, though, there had been the time she spent with Jack, the unexplained telepathic abilities, and the possibility that she was being watched at work. Combined with the changes in her job and the changes in the world in general, it had been a very full couple of months.

I see my family at least once a week, she wrote finally. My mom, my dad, and my little sister.

He smiled at the board when she showed it to him. Before he could write any more, she heard Jack coming back down the hallway.

"He says it's good to have family," he sent, joining them at the table.

She nodded at Don in agreement.

"It is," she sent to Jack. Based on the pause afterward and on Don's smile growing even larger, he'd relayed her statement. "This might be a good time for me to try Talking to your dad, right?"

"It'll make dinner a lot easier if it works," he sent back.

Jemma sent a wave of acknowledgment, then focused on Don, who raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Don?" she tried, focusing on him, but there was no echo, no further response. "I don't think..." She started sending a message to Jack, trailing off when he held up a finger.

"He asks whether he has something on his face," sent Jack.

When Jemma turned to look back at Don, he was patting at his face comically. She laughed soundlessly and shook her head, her gaze flicking back to Jack.

"Were we both Talking at once?" she asked.

"Yeah," he sent, "and no, there was no feedback." He looked between her and his father before he continued. "Do you want me to keep sending him messages for you, or do you want to write for yourself? I can still pa.s.s along his answers."

"I can write. I don't seem to be able to Talk to him." She uncapped her marker, pausing yet again over the board. "We should still try with contact, though, first with me touching him, then with me touching both of you."

"That sounds like a good plan," sent Jack.

Is Jack a good cook? she wrote after a few more moments of consideration, turning the whiteboard so both of the men could see. Don shook with silent laughter while Jack held a hand to his chest as if wounded.

"He says I'm a fine cook, but not as good as he was before his hands stopped listening." Some of the sparkle left Jack's eyes. Meanwhile, Don seemed unaffected.

"What's wrong with him, exactly, if it's okay to ask? I mean, you've said he's always sick, but this seems like more than that," she sent.

Jack shook his head. "He has a low immune system, not low enough to justify living alone in a clean area, even if he would put up with that, but he's managed to catch some pretty bad stuff. Some side effects come from not fully recovering right, and others from the medicine used to treat his issues. He's had cancer, twice, and beat it both times, but it took a toll. Among other things, joint pain is pretty much always there." He turned to look at his dad and nodded. Don turned back toward Jemma, fixing her with a firm look that reminded her of her own father when he wanted to be sure a student would listen. Don put his hand on top of the one Jemma was using to hold the marker.

"He says to tell you not to worry about him. He's lived well and enjoyed life, and he doesn't plan on breaking that habit any time soon," Jack sent. "Also, this is probably a good time to try Talking to him."

"I'm glad you're sticking around a while longer," she tried to send. When it didn't sound as if it went through, she repeated the message for Jack, who covered her other hand, then took his dad's. "I'm glad," she tried sending Don again, with no effect. A few seconds later, after Jack had a chance to relay the message, Don squeezed her hand and smiled, then let go.

"I need to finish up with dinner," sent Jack, adjusting his weight so he could stand.

"Wait," sent Jemma, continuing when he looked at her. "Try Talking to both of us at once."

"I'll be right back," sent Jack, and she saw Don nod.

"Okay," she sent, acknowledging him.

"Don't let him write any more, if you can avoid it," sent Jack, walking down the hall, and Jemma sighed.

How was she supposed to do that?

She pulled her whiteboard closer and started writing everything she could think of that he might be interested in hearing, telling him about her family, about her job, keeping questions limited to ones easily answered with a nod or a shake of the head.

So I knew the library was the place for me, you know? No other job really ever stood a chance, she was showing Don when Jack walked back in, carrying two full plates in his hands, a third balanced in the crook of one arm. He set a plate in front of each of them, taking a seat and grinning.

"Enjoy!" he sent with a wink at Jemma and then a smirk at Don, who rolled his eyes at his son.

Jemma looked down at the plate in front of her, which held chicken breast, brown rice, and broccoli.

"It smells delicious," she sent, looking around her plate. "If you could point me in the direction of a fork, I'd be happy to confirm it tastes as good."

Jack looked down at the table and then seemed to almost deflate. His father, meanwhile, resumed his silent laughter. When Jack looked up again, meeting Jemma's gaze, he wore a pout that didn't quite match the amus.e.m.e.nt that showed around his eyes.

"You mean it doesn't look like finger food? Shucks," he sent, standing as his father laughed harder, wiggling his fingers toward Jack. "I'll be right back with utensils," he sent, pout finally making way for a smile. "Maybe even a napkin or two."

Don waggled his eyebrows at Jemma, who smiled at him. He pointed in the direction of the kitchen and then back at Jemma, then carefully s.h.i.+fted his fingers until he was giving her a thumbs up.

She reached for the whiteboard and scribbled, You know we're just friends, right?

Don stuck out his bottom lip contemplatively before he nodded and gave another thumbs up. Jack came back with the rest of their place settings and looked between the two of them.

"Dad says to tell you it's a good match either way, but he won't tell me what that's in response to," sent Jack.

Don's pleased expression told Jemma that Jack had let his father hear both message and complaint. Don winked at Jemma, then reached for a fork and dug into his food. Jack handed Jemma her utensils and a napkin and then sat back down, watching Jemma expectantly. After an encouraging, silent rumble from her stomach, Jemma started eating her dinner, sending approval to Jack through their connection. After grinning at her, he joined them, dinner pa.s.sing in comfortable silence.

Don's energy level had dropped noticeably by the end of the meal, and Jack helped him to bed after they finished eating. Jemma carried the dirty dishes to the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher, closing it as Jack returned.

"You didn't have to do that," he sent along with a wave of grat.i.tude.

"It wasn't a problem. I'm used to doing it at my parents' house, anyway," she sent back. She started to walk back out of the kitchen, then stopped. "Oh! Your dad didn't get any dessert."

"He's already asleep," said Jack, "but if it's something that'll keep as long as it stays in the fridge, he'll enjoy it tomorrow."

"Okay," sent Jemma. "Yeah, it'll keep." She rubbed her neck, remembering how tired Don had looked. It was no wonder Jack worried about him, especially if this was a good day for the man.

"That's good." Jack looked at the refrigerator, then back at Jemma. "Am I allowed to have some tonight?"

"Of course!" said Jemma, her startled look dissolving into a smile. "But only if I can have some, too."

"I suppose," he sent with a sigh, and Jemma laughed.

"You don't even know what it is yet."

"True, but hey," he sent, "if it's dessert, I'm a fan."

He pulled it out of the refrigerator, setting it on the counter and looking at Jemma for permission before opening the Tupperware. She nodded and watched, still smiling, as he opened the container, puzzled at the smaller container inside it. He opened the inner container and saw the pie, and his face lit up.

"Mississippi Mud Pie?"

Jemma nodded. "It's a really easy version of it, but it tastes pretty good."

"If it tastes even half as good as it looks," he sent, "I'm gonna need you to get me the recipe."

"We'll see," sent Jemma, teasing him as he grabbed plates and served the slices without ceremony.

"Come on," he sent, closing his eyes and licking the fork he'd used to serve his piece. "Let's go sit and relax."

She followed him past the dining room and into the living room, where he sat on the sofa, the only piece of furniture in the room. She sat next to him and ate her pie, savoring each bite. Jack, who had finished his slice before hers was halfway gone, grabbed the remote.

"Mind if I turn on the news?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"That's fine," she sent.

The station he settled on seemed very close to "normal" according to standards set before The Event. The anchors appeared to speak audibly, but there was still a stilted quality to the words, something not quite right about how they synced up with the anchors' mouths, that told Jemma the anchors were making use of voice apps, probably reading from teleprompters that displayed what the voice was about to say.

Both anchors were female, and the display briefly labeled them as Sarah and Courtney.

"The money was returned to the bank," Courtney was saying, "and police are unsure as to how, exactly, it got there."

The video cut to a recording of a person inside the bank, words captioned as the person used sign language to explain that the money seemed to have just reappeared.

Jemma finished her dessert and set the plate down next to her, sinking back against the couch cus.h.i.+ons and closing her eyes. It was strange to Jemma how comfortable she was with Jack, how easy it was for her to let her barriers down. It was nice having a friend.

Jemma opened her eyes, startled out of her thoughts by the next news segment.

"Seen here is Taylor Brown, who claimed to be able to speak to specific people from anywhere in the country," said Sarah.

The photo looked like a screenshot from YouTube. It showed a man with dark skin, his eyes s.h.i.+ning like her sister's did when she was sharing something that excited her.

"The video has since been removed, so we're unable to play it for you, but in the video, Taylor Brown was able to offer clear evidence of this telepathy," said Courtney.

"Because of the video's removal, verifying the authenticity has become nearly impossible. Some users say the method of filming showed a live webcam feed of Brown's back along with the unidentified woman who was Talking to him, with a clock in each frame, giving as close to incontrovertible proof as possible in this digital age. Others say there were obvious inconsistencies between the two feeds, that the video was a hoax." Sarah looked at Courtney.

"What is clear, however, is that Taylor Brown is now missing. His family has been unable to locate him and is offering a small reward if you are able to help."

The station went to commercial, and Jemma looked at Jack.

"This feels real," she sent. He was still for a minute before looking back at her and nodding.

"It does." He fell quiet.

Jemma slowed her breathing, which was a little faster than normal, and then sent another message to Jack.

"Okay. So, what are we gonna do?"

CHAPTER NINETEEN:.

Next "I don't know," sent Jack, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, we suspected this already, and it still isn't definite."

Jemma nodded. "We should probably be a little more careful. Maybe not Talk in public."