Communication had never been Onomatopoeia's strong suit. Expressing thoughts and feelings was hard, when his vocabulary was strictly clicks of his tongue, mimics of other sounds he heard throughout the world. It was easy with everyone else because he had no interest in communicating with them. He didn't need words to kill vigilantes, he just needed a good aim or an opening with his knife.

It was different, with you. He found himself doing something odd for him, caring for you. About you, your thoughts, your feelings. Your words. He wanted to communicate with you, through more than booms or crashes or bangs.

So, he started finding his own way.

He peered at you, as you sat together in his safe house. You were always so good with your words, so eloquent. Still though, without speaking himself some things always got lost in communication between the two of you.

He looked around for his notepad, clicking his pen open before writing in neat handwriting across the front. He nudged you gently.

[Coffee?] It said along the front. To get his bought across further he nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen, where the full coffee pot was waiting. He had noticed your empty cup.