This fic is also on Archive of Our Own, under the same username and title. The version on AO3 has illustrations.
Feedback is appreciated. If you actually know ASL, and I've gotten something wrong, let me know! I'm doing a lot of research for this fic, but it's not perfect. My primary goal is to diversity fic, so doing it wrong would be counter-productive.
It's one of seven conjoined stores in a downtown strip mall. The building is old, ugly, and made of crumbling brick. Efforts have been made in the past to beautify the structure, including the addition of some flower planters around the glass entrance, but it's had little effect. In fact, it's only made it uglier. Emblazoned upon the black stripe across the top of the building is the name of the shop, written in flourishing script: Mage's Emporium. The window displays are stuffed with trinkets—a whole shelf of various crystal glasses and incense burners. A fake human skeleton, likely a school science lab piece, stands alongside an iron cauldron, the inside of which is lit by a flickering light, which alternates between green and purple. Dark red velvet curtains frame the entire scene.
The inside isn't much better. Display cases offer glimpses of fantasy swords and daggers. Oddly shaped arrangements of chimes hang from the rafters, and magic kits are stacked in scattered, haphazard piles.
Next door, there's a shabby tattoo parlor, Inkbound. It's run by an eccentric older troll by the name of Kurloz, co-owned by his ancestor, Gamzee, and staffed by only two artists. You have no clue who one of them is. He's a standard-issue hipster. Big, shabby beard and lots of plaid. A sort of bulky lumberjack fellow, and he seems nice enough. Not that you've ever spoken to him.
The other staff member is someone you're more familiar with. He's a friend of your coworker, John, and he's the biggest goddamned tool the universe has ever formed from the elegant elements that create stardust. His name is Dave Strider, and he's always got a pair of black Ray-Ban aviators on top of his head, nestled like an ugly crow in his blond hair. He'd wear them, but his use of sign language makes doing so impractical and stupid. After all, a language based on posture and expression doesn't bode well for a style of shades that covers half of a face.
John talks about the bastard nonstop. He extols his apparent virtues of coolness and irony, though you've yet to see either such qualities emerge. All you've seen is a pale, walking personification of the dictionary definition of jackal.
You've never spoken to him in depth, but the little bit of conversation you've had with him is enough to tell you that anything between you and him would go to shit in a heartbeat.
Not that that's going to deter the ever-perky and positively positive John Egbert. For the past year, he's done nothing but try to hook the two of you up. He's invited you and dumped you with Dave enough times for you to start outright refusing to meet him.
His latest trick has been inviting Dave over more regularly, and right now is one of those times.
The two of them are sitting on the Rococo-style sofa against one of the sword display cases. John is showing off a new magic trick, and Dave looks as if he's about ready to drop dead. At the very least, you can sympathize. John tends to repeat the same tricks ad nauseam.
This particular trick concludes with John drawing a previously picked card from his sleeve.
"And I believe thisis your card?" inquires a sparkly-eyed Egbert.
Dave, in return, eyes the card over. He frowns. Your high school knowledge of ASL allows you insight to his conversation. He holds his right hand at roughly shoulder height. With the palm facing outwards, and the last two fingers curled up, he presses the tips of his middle and index fingers to his thumb. "No."From there, he pulls a card from his pocket and smirks, waggling his eyebrows as he signs, "This one is, though."
"That's not fair," whines John, drawing out the vowels of his final word. He sounds like a petulant child, and the quivering of his bottom lip only dots the 'I' on this comparison. "I don't fuck with your tattoos."
A huff of laughter. "That's because, if you did,"Dave signs, pausing for emphasis. He points to himself, then to John. He slides his right hand—a loosely formed "one", the palm facing the ground—forwards, so that the back brushes against the palm of his flattened left hand. "I'll kill you."
After a few stunned blinks, John simply nods. "That makes a lot of sense."
"Of course, it does,"Dave punctuates this with a confident nod. "Lots of things I say make sense. And... Don't get me wrong, but I think your coworker,"perhaps because of the nature of the language, there's no subtle way for Dave to say this. He points at you, trying to block the gesture by holding a hand in front of it. The motion is obvious, though, and you can understand the rest of the message as he continues, signing, "Is watching us."
"Of course, he is. Look around, Dave, what the hell is there to do right now?" John laughs.
Dave joins, and you don't believe you've ever heard him laugh before. It's actually a nice sound. It's a soft, gentle chuckle. If it wasn't coming from the planet's biggest tool, it might even be attractive. "He's creeping me out. Tell him to stop."
Unable to restrain yourself any longer, you interject. "You can tell me yourself, you ass-guzzling fucker. I can understand sign language."
"You seem lovely."Dave smirks, raising a singular brow. "Now, you should turn around and mind your own business."
"Sure." You shrug and do as told. Right now, you're not up for a fight. Besides, you're not about to pick one with someone a full foot taller than you.
"Then tell me what I'm saying!"Dave demands. He points to you, then forms a fist with his left hand. Beginning with the pinky, the fingers flutter outwards, eventually reforming a fist. The index finger never moves. This motion is followed by another, wherein his flattened left hand moves in front of his nose in a slight oval. You get the message. It's crude, but perfectly understandable.
"You called me a fart-smeller."
"Yeah! You smell farts!"Dave smirks, acting as if this is the cleverest insult of the century.
You, being the adult of the situation, simply nod. "Lovely. Thank you, mister Strider, for sharing that with us. I'm going back to reading my book."
"You do that!"While you didn't think it was possible, his smirk grows cockier. This thus disproves all known laws of science, and you can feel the universe unravelling around you.
Of course, this is only figurative. And, even if the universe wasdisassembling itself, you wouldn't care. You're invested in your book, and you'll be damned if you let some uppity prick get in the way of you and this juicy scene of pure romantic beauty. Truly, this is the epitome of existence. There is nothing better than a perfect romance novel, and the setting you're in only dulls the experience a little. It's like a coffee that's not exactly hot, but it hasn't cooled enough to be disgusting, either.
(Only on rare occasions do you admit to being mildly embarrassed of your indulgences.)
"Hey! Karkat!"
For the second time in the past hour, you slam your book against the counter. "WHAT!?" you thunder. "What in the name of the un-fucking-knowable powers that bond this repulsive corporeal realm together do you want!?"
"That one was good," John hums, his usual trademark grin plastered across his face, "I was just wondering if that's a Lalonde book that you're reading."
"Well, what if it is? Why would you care? You've repeatedly told me that these books are, quote unquote, yucky, sappy shit." You roll your eyes as you sarcastically ponder John's eloquence.
He, meanwhile, charges blindly onwards. "Rose is Dave's cousin."
"WHAT!?" Your jaw drops.
This blond bastard might be the last person you'd ever spend time with in the event of the sudden disappearance of all reality, but his relationship to Rose might just be his ticket to a one-way decency train. "She's my cousin."He shrugs.
You scramble over the counter, your nails (claws?) scraping against the glass in your haste, and stand before Dave. "So, you could..." You tap your claws (a more apt description, in hindsight) together, producing a dull clacking noise. "You could get me a signed copy of the book?"
Dave gags. "I'm not touching that slop with fifteen layers of gloves. You can go talk to her yourself."He pulls a phone from his pocket and taps at the screen a few times. Then, with all the emotional investment of a crushed cardboard box, he hands it to you, signing, "Put your digit in and I'll hand them over to her."
"Thank you." The response is sincere, though it doesn't change your feelings for the recipient. You still hand back the phone in a way that dramatically decreases the odds of him touching you. After all, the douchebag might rub off.
"No problem."He pockets the phone and waves his hand dismissively.
It's not official sign language, but it gets the point across. You're aware enough of the situation to get the basic message, and you quickly return to your post at the register. From this point, onwards, you also remain glued to your book, doing your best to refrain from looking at John and Dave's discussion. He might be a total tool, but he's now a tool with connections, and you're not going to blow your chances at getting a signed copy of Wizards in Heat II: The Golden Cock.
Come nightfall, Dave still hasn't left. It's a puzzling thing to you, seeing as he's one of only two Inkbound employees, but you're not going to question it. You don't really care enough to do so. You're just happy to be locking up for the day.
"You know, I've told Rose a lot about you," John hums, passing you as you check to make sure the store is sealed shut, "She says that you and Dave would make cute boyfriends."
You respond with a disgusted scoff. "Just because my favorite romance author says that I'd be cute with her cousin doesn't mean that I'm going to start dating a fuck-waffling douche-nozzle, John. I have standards."
"Says the dude whose favorite book is When Magic Gets Sexy."
"That is a great book, and there are many poignant political statements," you snap. "You stillthink that Con Airis a good movie, when it's actually a fifty-ton load of shit-spewing ass."
"It's Nic Cage, which automatically makes it good."
You roll your eyes and run your fingers through you coarse, wiry hair. "Look, I'm not getting into this shit with you, Egbert. Look at the fucking sky. You see those stars? They say 'Don't start a pointless fucking fight with the black-haired twit.'"
"Really?" John stops and squints at the sky. He removes his glasses, wipes them off, and seems to look harder afterwards. "I don't see that, but I do see 'Sore loser' written up there."
"Who would that be? Me, or you?"
John shrugs. A wry grin flashes across his face, highlighting his dimples. "Probably Dave."
"Well, that's something we can both agree on."
"What's your problem with him, anyhow? He's never done anything to you."
You shake your head, trying your best to convey a sense of disbelief. "He's annoying, and he's the perfect example of why human males are so goddamned weird. He wears shades indoors, for fuck's sake! Who the fuck does that!?"
"Dave." John responds matter-of-factly, punctuating his statement with an indifferent shrug. "Anyhow, this is my street. I'll talk with you later, Karkat."
"I hope not," you jest.
Laughing, John punches you on the shoulder. It's not exactly a hard punch, but it's not a soft one, either. It'll probably leave a slight bruise in the morning, but you're not complaining. "Don't get yourself worked up too much, your asshole will get stuck if it's too tight."
"That's fucking disgusting." You frown, though you're amused. It was a good joke, as John's can sometimes be. (The keyword being "sometimes".)
"Whatever. I'll get you and Dave together eventually," John says, walking backwards so that he can wag his finger disapprovingly in your direction. "I've got two hundred dollars on that bet, and I don't have enough money to pay Jade!"
"Start saving up, then," you call out, turning away to walk back to your place.