𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤 Pt. 12 (𝖡𝗒 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖥𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) Plankton is still in the corner, his body huddled small, his arms wrapped around his knees. He's still facing the wall, yet his antennae twitched at the sound of their approach. Karen's eyes fill with concern as she sees her husband's form, so vulnerable. "Plankton," she says softly, her voice barely a whisper. "Can Chip come in to talk?" Plankton's antennae twitch again, and then, very slowly, one hand moves from his knee to form a sharp, clear 'no' in the air. It's a gesture that Chip doesn't know, but Karen does. It's a sign Plankton learned from Sign Language, a way to express his needs without voicing words. Chip looks at his mom, confusion etched on his face. "What's that mean?" he whispers. Karen's heart clenches at her son's innocence. "It means your dad needs more time," she explains gently. "He's signing 'no' in Sign Language. It's a short way of saying he's not ready for company." Chip nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Plankton's silent form. He's never seen signs before. This is new to him. But, his dad's not deaf or hard of hearing, right? Karen sees his confusion, so she decides it's time to explain. "For him, it's not about hearing," she says. "He's learned a few signs to communicate when his words fail him." Chip's eyes widen in realization. "But why does he do that?" he whispers. "Because sometimes, sweetie, his brain gets really, really tired," Karen says, her voice soothing. "And when it's overstimulated, trying to talk can be really hard. So he can use his hands instead. But he only knows a few signs, not full sentences." Chip nods slowly, his eyes still on Plankton. "But... but what signs does he know? Can you teach me what signs he might use?" Karen nods, her voice gentle. "Of course, honey. He knows the alphabet but I'll teach you how to say yes and no.." They go and sit on the floor outside the bedroom door, Karen teaching Chip the few signs that Plankton had learned. "This one's for 'yes,'" she says, moving her hand up and down. "And this one's for 'no,'" she continues, two of her fingers tapping the thumb. Chip mimics her movements, his eyes focused, determined. He practices these signs, his hands a bit shaky at first. But as they go through them, his movements become more confident. Karen's heart swells with pride. Despite the situation, she's grateful for this moment—a chance for her son to learn and grow, to understand his father a little more. After a few minutes of practice, Karen suggests they try again. Chip nods, his eyes determined. Together, they enter the room. Plankton hasn't moved. "Dad?" Chip says softly. Plankton's antennae flick towards them, but he doesn't react. "I know you're upset," Chip continues, his voice trembling. "But I just want to tell you... I love you." Plankton's body stiffens. He's listening, Karen knows, but his response is slow to come. "And I know you love me too," Chip adds, his voice getting stronger. "But sometimes, it's hard to tell. Can you... can you just tell me if you're okay?" He pauses, his hand hovering. Plankton's antennae twitch again. This time, he forms a different sign—one that Chip doesn't recognize. It's a quick movement of his hand out to the side, then back to his chest, his fingers splayed. Karen's eyes widen in understanding. "He's asking for space," she whispers to Chip. "That's his way of saying 'I need to be alone right now.' It's okay," she says, her voice soft. "He just needs some time alone." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's form. He raises his hand, his fingers mimicking the sign his dad had just made. "Space," he asks, his voice uncertain. Karen nods, her eyes filled with relief. "Good job," she whispers. Plankton's antennae twitch again, and this time, he slowly turns his head to look at them. His eye met Chip's, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something—understanding, maybe? Chip's heart jumps. "I know you're okay," Chip says, his voice hopeful. Plankton's hand moves again, forming the 'Space' sign. It's clear, deliberate. Chip's heart sinks. Karen sees the confusion on Chip's face and steps in. "Chip," she says gently, "he's asking for space. That's his way of saying 'I need to be alone right now.'" She pauses, swallowing hard. "It's okay. We'll give him that." Chip nods, his hand dropping to his side. He feels a mix of disappointment and relief. "Okay," he whispers, his voice small. "Good night." Karen gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze before Chip left their room. Karen turns back to Plankton. "I'm sorry for earlier." Karen says. "I know that must've been traumatizing for you. I wasn't thinking clearly and I hurt you. I just felt the need to protect. But I didn't do so in a way that made you feel safe. I should've known better. I'm sorry." Plankton's body relaxes slightly, his antennae still twitching. He moves his hand again, a new sign. It's not one Karen taught Chip, but she knows it instantly—it's 'I understand.' Her heart clenches at the sight of his attempt to comfort her, when he's the one in pain. She nods. "Thank you," she whispers. "Want me to tuck you in?" With a quick, precise movement, Plankton signs 'Without Touching'. Karen nods, understanding his need for his personal space, even in this intimate moment. She watches as he shifts, his eye never leaving hers. She respects his boundaries, even though it's hard not to want to comfort him with a physical touch. Then, with the same deliberate care, he forms the letters 'T', 'R', 'Y', 'I', 'N', 'G'. It's not a full sign, but it's enough. 'Trying to forgive', he's signing. Karen's eyes fill with tears. Her heart swells with love for him, for his willingness to communicate despite the barriers that autism can put between them. She mirrors the sign back to him, showing she understands. The room remains quiet, their silent conversation speaking volumes. Plankton's body finally relaxes a little more, his shoulders dropping. He signs 'Good night' with his hand, his movements precise and clear. Karen mirrors his gesture, her own hand shaking slightly. "Good night," she says, her voice barely audible.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤 Pt. 13 (𝖡𝗒 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖥𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) Karen awoke the next day This Plankton might still be in such delicate state after her mistake. He might primarily use Sign Language after such scary incidents. Plankton still slept in the bed beside hers. She knew better than to touch or disturb him. He'd always been a light sleeper. The sun peeked through their window, casting a soft glow across the room. Karen took a deep breath, steeling herself as Plankton awoke. She knew not to force anything. Plankton sat up. He spotted Karen, her eyes filled with remorse. With slow, deliberate movements, he signed 'Morning'. She nodded, her heart aching. "Morning," she murmured, keeping her voice soft. "How are you feeling?" Plankton's antennae twitched as he signed, 'Tired. Skin crawls. Sad'. Karen's stomach twisted. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking. Plankton then started monotonous humming, a vocal stim. Chip, having heard the whispers, tiptoed into the room. He opened the door and came in. "Hi there," Chip says tentatively. Karen smiled. "Good morning," she managed, her voice just above a whisper. Plankton's humming paused. Plankton looked up, his eye focusing on Chip. He signed 'Morning' with his hand, his movements slightly quicker than before. It's a good sign, Karen thought. Maybe he's not as overwhelmed as yesterday; though he's not ready to talk yet, she knew. Chip took a deep breath, his own hand moving to mimic Plankton's greeting. The gesture was clumsy, but earnest. "How are you?" he says, his voice a whisper. Plankton's expression remained neutral, but his antennae twitched—a sign of acknowledgment. Karen watched, hopeful. "Do you need anything?" she asked, her voice careful. But Plankton didn't know how to sign for the jigsaw puzzle of Nosferatu. "I'll work on the puzzle," Plankton managed to say to them; the first thing he spoke today. So they follow Plankton to the coffee table where the puzzle still was. But without asking, Chip picks up a piece. Plankton signed the word quickly, 'Alone'. It was a sharp, clear gesture. Karen's heart clenched. It was a simple sign, but it was a word of meaning. She nodded, understanding. "Okay," she murmured. "We'll give you some space." Chip looked at his dad, his eyes wide with sadness and confusion. Chip watched as his mom left the room, closing the door with a soft click. He felt his own sadness and frustration build up. He wanted to help, but he wasn't sure how. He took a deep breath and sat down beside Plankton. "Dad," he said, his voice small. "I know you'd like space, but I just want to be here with you." Plankton's antennae twitched again, and he formed the 'Alone' sign, his eye pleading. Chip's heart broke, but he nodded. He knew he couldn't force his dad to interact, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, he sat quietly beside him, placing a handful of puzzle pieces on the table. "I'll stay here," Chip offered, "but I won't talk or touch.." Chip picked up a piece, concentrating on the image of Nosferatu's face. His dad liked puzzles—they were predictable, with a clear beginning, middle, and end. No uncertainties. No ambiguities to figure out. He glanced at his dad. Plankton's antennae twitched again. His hand moved rapidly, forming the letters 'G', 'O', 'A', 'W', 'A', 'Y'. Chip's heart sank. He'd never seen that sign before. He didn't know what sign that spells. "What does that mean?" Chip asked, his voice quivering. Plankton sighs, his antennae drooping. He signs 'Leave' to Chip, who still cannot interpret what he's signing, his hand reaching out to his dad. But Plankton jerks away, his eye wide. "I don't understand," Chip whispers, his throat tight. Plankton's hand shakes, and he signs spelling, 'Distance'. But Chip can't translate that either! Chip's mind raced as he tried to piece together these words his dad is signing to him. He wanted to help, but he was afraid of making things worse. "Okay," he whispers, moving his hand back to his lap. "I'll stay here, but I won't talk." Plankton's antennae twitched again, and he formed the 'Space' sign. It was a clear message. Chip nodded, his eyes brimming with tears. "Oh," he said, his voice understanding in realization. "Space‽ I'll leave you be.." Chip then went to see his mom in the bedroom she shared with his dad. Karen looked up as he came in. "Mom, I wanna learn the signs Dad uses. Can you teach me more?" Her eyes filled with love, she nodded. "Of course, sweetheart." Chip sat on her bed. "What words does he know, and how does he sign them? I wanna be able to understand.." Karen took a deep breath, then began to teach him. Plankton had learned to sign a few key words and phrases over the years, words like "love," "sorry," "tired," and "happy." Chip's determination to bridge the gap grew with each of those signs. Chip watched intently as his mother's hands formed shapes in the air, each one a silent expression of a feeling or a need. It was like learning a secret code, a language only shared between his dad and her. But as they practiced, Chip couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness. "Why did my dad need this, Mom? Why couldn't he just talk? He can talk and hear..." Karen sighs, her eyes soft. "It's not that simple, honey," she says, her voice filled with a gentle resignation. "Your dad's brain processes things differently. Sometimes forming words can be too much, and it might be easier for him to use signs than to speak." Chip nods. "But why'd he start using them last night when he talked earlier? Is he gonna be okay?" Karen nods. "Yes. He's only doing it because yesterday, he was pretty shaken up. Do you remember how I told you to leave the room, and I'd held him?" Karen asks. Chip nods, so Karen continued. "Seeing you upset broke my heart, and in my panic I held your dad. You saw me grab him as you left. He'd never actually hurt you, yet I wanted to fix the situation. I restrained him to where he couldn't move. That and I held him to tight." Karen wipes a tear away. Chip looks at her with a questioning gaze. "That was wrong of me," Karen says, her voice cracking. "It was too much for him. He doesn't like to be touched like that, especially when he's already overwhelmed." Chip's heart squeezes at the thought of his dad being scared. "But Mom, what does this have to—" "Let me finish," Karen interrupts gently. "When autistics get really upset or overstimulated, such things can trigger what's basically akin to literal trauma. It's that intense, Chip. And so, he's reacting now in a way that feels safest to him. By using signs, he's controlling what he can, and it's a way to tell us things without overloading himself with spoken words. But he can still talk, and he'll get back to doing so when he feels like it." Chip nods, his eyes still on his mother's hands. "I want to understand him," he says, his voice firm. "I don't want him to feel alone." Karen smiles, her eyes shimmering. "That's the best thing you can do, honey," she says. "Love and understand. But he might need more space right now. You can come with me to check on him.."