thatonedumbitch

Not in any way a stranger could have named, perhaps. The woven walkways were still strung between giant mangrove roots, the platforms still alive with the rhythm of hands at work, of children racing over sun-warmed wood, of nets being mended and fish being cleaned and voices rising over the endless breathing hush of the sea. But something in the air tightened all the same. The clan did not stop moving. It only moved differently, like a body drawing a breath and holding it.

You stood beside Tonowari when they arrived, just behind and slightly to his left, where the leader of the hunting parties would stand when judgment was to be watched but not yet spoken. Salt wind dragged across your skin. Your queue lay over one shoulder. The white marks of your avatar body caught the late light faintly, and though your build had always remained closer to the forest people than the reef people around you, the years had given you the easy balance of one who belonged here. Not by birth. Not by blood. But by time, by battle, by work, and by love.

It still did not stop them from looking.

You had long since learned how to feel it before you saw it. The way glances snagged on your hands, on your narrower tail, on your shoulders, on the traces that marked you as something that had not begun on Pandora no matter how deeply you had rooted yourself into it after. Most days you could let it pass like a tide under a canoe. Most days you could remind yourself that your mates had chosen you in full sight of what you were, that Tsireya’s laughter had first shaped itself around your name, that Ao’nung had once fallen asleep on your chest with seawater still drying in his hair after training. Most days it was enough.

This was not most days.

Jake Sully stepped forward carrying exile in the line of his body. Neytiri stood beside him like a drawn blade. Their children hovered near enough to their parents to show loyalty and far enough to show strain. Even before anyone said anything, the village had already seen the tails. The hands. The faces. The traces of sky-people blood riding alongside Na’vi bone.

And because the clan had seen them, the clan had thought of you.

Ronal’s gaze slid over the newcomers slowly. She did not spit the words some might have expected. She was too controlled for that, too sharp. Her judgment was worse for being clean. Her eyes rested on each child in turn, cool and measuring, then went to Jake, then back to Neytiri, then flicked once toward you before returning to Tonowari.

“They are very unlike us” she said.

That was all. Nothing louder. Nothing cruder. But the thought spread exactly as if she had named it outright. You felt it move through the gathered Metkayina like current through shallow water. Not all at once. Not boldly. Just enough. Half-breed. Strange. Wrong-shaped. Sky-touched. The same old poison dressed in softer cloth.

Tonowari spoke then, giving them uturu as his mercy demanded, because war and grief had driven them there and because he was not small enough to turn away those who came seeking sanctuary. You loved him most in moments like that. His voice was steady, his judgment larger than fear. Yet even while you loved him for it, some quieter and uglier part of you noticed that he never turned to the clan and stopped the way their eyes had slid to you too. He offered protection. He did not challenge implication.

Beside the Sullys, Lo’ak’s face set in that stubborn, bristling way boys wore when they had been cut too many times and refused to bleed where anyone could see it. Kiri stared back with painful calm. Neteyam stood straight as a spear. Tuk all but hid herself against Neytiri’s side.

Then Tsireya came up from the water, bright and curious and open as dawn, and the moment bent in a different direction for a heartbeat. Lo’ak looked at her as if the sea itself had climbed out to stare back at him. You would have laughed if the tension in the air had not still been sharp enough to cut.

Ao’nung and Rotxo ruined the moment almost immediately.

They did not begin at full cruelty. Boys rarely did when they were performing for a crowd. They started with the tails, with the shape of hands, with that dangerous tone that asked a question not because it wanted an answer but because it wanted permission to laugh. Tsireya told them to stop. Ao’nung did not listen. His eyes had gone to the Sully children with a brightness you knew too well. Not simple meanness. Worse. The thrill of sensing where the group’s cruelty would be safest, and stepping into it because it would make him bigger in their eyes.

You did not miss the way his glance brushed past you before he opened his mouth again.

That hurt more than it should have. It hurt because you knew where he had learned that comfort. Not from nowhere. Not from silence alone.

Still, the scene moved as it needed to. Tonowari assigned his children to help the Sully children learn the way of water. Only when Jake turned to him with the rigid, humiliated gratitude of a warrior accepting mercy with both hands did Tonowari glance toward you.

Tsireya was the one sent forward in the end.

That fit better than anything else could have. She was bright where the moment had gone brittle, open where the clan had narrowed in on itself, and young enough to step toward strangers without carrying quite so much of the adults’ suspicion in her bones. When Tonowari told her to show the Sullys where they would stay, she went without hesitation, all kindness and curiosity, gesturing for them to follow her deeper into the village with the easy grace that seemed to live in every part of her.

The others moved with her after a brief pause. Jake remained close to Neytiri. The children hovered around their parents, tense and watchful under so many eyes. Lo’ak looked like he wanted to stare at everything and fight half of it at the same time. Kiri was quieter, reading the village as if it might speak back if she listened hard enough. Tuk stayed tucked close. All of them followed Tsireya across the woven walkways and root-bridges while the clan watched them go.

You stayed where you were, still beside Tonowari, your face unreadable even while your thoughts moved harder than you wanted. Ronal had not said much, but she had not needed to. The clan had heard what sat underneath her judgment all the same, and because they had heard it, they had remembered you too. You could feel it in the aftertaste of the moment, in the glances that had lingered just a fraction too long before turning away.

Tonowari waited until the nearest listeners had drifted farther off before he spoke your name.

His voice was quieter now, stripped of the public weight it had carried a moment before. You looked at him, and something in his expression made you follow when he tilted his head slightly toward one of the outer platforms. It was not secrecy, exactly. More the instinct of a leader who knew when a conversation would grow teeth if it was given to the clan to overhear.

You went with him in silence.

The platform he chose sat a little apart from the nearest cluster of walkways, close enough to the village to remain within sight and far enough to let the noise of it blur into distance. Wind rolled in off the sea, carrying salt and the faint scent of algae warmed under the late sun. Below, the water shifted around the roots in restless blue-green ribbons.

Tonowari rested one hand against the rail of woven mangrove and looked out rather than at you immediately. “I want you to teach Jake Sully” he said.

You did look at him then.

For a beat, all you did was stare. Not because the request made no sense. In some ways it made too much. You were one of the strongest fighters in the clan. You understood adaptation better than most. You knew what it was to enter a people not shaped like yourself and learn anyway, hard and fast and under the pressure of never being allowed the comfort of true ignorance. Still, suspicion rose in you before duty did.

“Why me?” you asked.

Tonowari turned then, and he was too perceptive not to hear everything under the question. Not only why me because of skill. Why me when the clan has just been reminded what I am. Why me when Ronal looked at them and the people looked at me after.

His face softened, though not with pity. He had always known better than to offer you that. “Because you are capable” he said. “Because you see more than what is in front of you. Because he will need someone who understands both pride and shame if he is to learn quickly.”

Your mouth tightened. “That is not the only reason.”

“No” Tonowari admitted.

The honesty stopped you from hardening further.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice even more. “He is Olo’eyktan to his family even if he stands as refugee here. If he fails, the rest will feel it. If he is isolated, he will become harder to guide. You know warriors. You know how men like him carry humiliation. And…” He paused, studying you carefully. “There may be things in him you will understand more easily than others would.”

You held his gaze a long moment. “Because he was one of the sky-people.”

Tonowari did not flinch from it. “Yes.”

The word sat between you.

You looked away, out across the water where Tsireya’s bright figure could just be seen leading the Sullys farther along the village edge. Jake walked near the back now, his attention shifting everywhere at once despite the discipline in his posture. Soldier’s habit. Marine’s habit, maybe, though that thought came and passed before you had fully named it.

“And Ronal?” you asked at last.

Tonowari’s expression changed, not with irritation but with the knowledge that there was no use pretending that piece did not matter. “Ronal trusts you.”

“That was not my question.”

His jaw flexed once. “She will not interfere.”

You gave a short, humorless breath through your nose. “Another answer that is not the one I asked for.”

Tonowari accepted that too. “She does not like this burden being here at all” he said plainly. “But she does not doubt you. Neither do I.”

That should have eased you more than it did. Instead you found yourself searching his face for something smaller and meaner. Pity. Calculation. A hope that you would understand the Sullys because you were enough like them to make use of. Whatever he saw in your expression made his own grow steadier.

“This is not because I see you as closer to them than to us” he said, and now there was a firmness in him that left no room for retreat. “It is because I know exactly where you stand. With us. With this family. With this clan. Do not insult me by thinking I have forgotten.”

The rebuke was gentle only in tone. It landed harder for that.

You looked at him properly again. There was no hesitation in him now, no uncertainty, no crack through which old fear could crawl. For a brief moment the pressure in your chest loosened.

Then duty returned in full.

“If I do this” you said “I will not coddle him.”

Tonowari’s mouth twitched faintly. “I would be disappointed if you did.”

You folded your arms over your chest and stared out at the village once more. “And if he cannot learn?”

“Then at least he will fail honestly.”

That, more than anything, sounded like Tonowari.

Silence stretched for a few breaths. At last you nodded once. “Fine.”

Tonowari let out a breath so slight most would not have caught it. You did. He had wanted this more than he had let show. “Thank you.”

You shook your head. “Do not thank me yet.”

That almost drew a smile from him, but it faded before fully forming. Instead he stepped closer, slowly enough to give you time to refuse him if you wished. One of his hands came up to rest lightly at your waist, warm and familiar, and for a brief moment he only looked at you. Then he bent and kissed you.

It was soft, short, and almost unbearably gentle. No heat, no urgency, nothing that belonged to hunger more than affection. Just the quiet press of his mouth to yours, sweet with reassurance and the kind of love that had long since learned how to speak in smaller gestures. When he pulled back, he stayed close for only a heartbeat more before letting you go.

“I will send him to you after they settle” he said.

You watched him go.

——————————————————————

By the time Jake found you, the sun had shifted lower and the village had settled into that restless in-between hour when work had not yet ended but the worst of the day’s heat had broken. You were near one of the outer racks checking spear bindings, more to give your hands something useful to do than because the task truly needed doing. The sounds of Awa’atlu drifted around you in pieces: children splashing in shallows below, women calling to one another from the fish platforms, distant laughter, the low hush of water against root and wood.

You heard his steps before you turned.

Jake stopped a respectful distance away. For a moment neither of you spoke. Up close, it was easier to see what had first flashed at the edge of your notice before. The way he held his shoulders. The way he looked at space first, then movement, then exits, then finally people. The kind of stillness that was not ease but readiness worn so long it had become a second skin. He looked older than his face alone accounted for. More tired too.

He inclined his head slightly. “Tonowari said I’m with you.”

His Na’vi was serviceable, accented hard, each word carrying the weight of effort. You let him finish before answering.

“For now” you said.

Something in his expression shifted, not quite amusement and not quite resignation. He had likely already learned enough in the village to know that this was your version of mercy.

You set the spear aside and faced him fully. For a moment, you let the silence sit between you, weighing him properly now that the village noise had fallen farther away.

“Tonowari believes you can learn” you said at last. “I have not decided yet.”

Jake took that without visible offense. If anything, something in his posture settled, as if bluntness was easier for him to understand than politeness.

“Fair enough” he said.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “You will listen the first time. You will not argue every correction like wounded pride makes you smarter. And you will not expect me to make this easy because you were Toruk Makto, Olo’eyktan, or anything else that matters somewhere other than here.”

That finally pulled the faintest shift in his expression. Not quite amusement. Not quite irritation. More like recognition of a hard tone he had heard before in other places, under other chains of command.

“Got it” he said.

You held his gaze another beat, watching for the usual signs. Swagger. Resentment. The need to prove himself immediately. Instead you found exhaustion, discipline, and something heavier buried under both.

That did not make you trust him. It only made you think he might be worth the effort.

For one strange beat, the air between you altered. Not softer. Sharper. Recognition trying on a shape before either of you trusted it enough to name. Neither of you moved first. Neither smiled. Yet some old instinct, buried under years and planets and new bodies and new loyalties, stirred its head.

You broke eye contact first because you disliked the feeling of being read.

“Walk” you said.

Jake followed without protest. You led him down one of the narrower village paths where the platforms thinned and the sound of the central marui softened behind you. For a while you said nothing, making him keep pace over slick wood and curving roots, watching whether he looked only at where he stepped or at the full environment around him. He adapted quickly, though not gracefully. Not yet.

At last you stopped near a lower platform where the tide had come in high enough to lap against the woven supports.

“If you are to remain here” you said, turning to him “you will learn more than how to swim their way and breathe their way. You will learn when not to take up space. You will learn when pride becomes a burden for everyone around you.”

Jake absorbed that without visible offense. If anything, his gaze grew a shade more direct. “You always start this friendly?”

“No” you said. “Normally I am worse.”

That did it. One corner of his mouth moved before he could stop it.

You noticed. So did he.

It vanished almost at once.

He was silent after that, and to his credit he did not push.

That, more than the recognition itself, was what made you decide he might actually be teachable.

——————————————————————

Jake Sully learned like a man who understood that failure was no longer private.

The first few days, you gave him no softness. You made him run the shallows until his breathing turned ragged. You corrected his stance with the blunt pressure of your hand against his shoulder and the sharper crack of your voice when words failed. You showed him how to move his balance lower on the slick roots, how to enter the water without fighting it, how to watch the current rather than only the surface. You kept your explanations short in Na’vi because he needed the language in his mouth as much as the skill in his limbs. When he stumbled, you made him go again. When he swore under his breath, you pretended not to understand.

By the end of the second day, both of you knew you were pretending.

He had just surfaced from another rough dive, pushing wet hair out of his face and coughing salt from his throat, when you said, “You are still trying to win against the water.”

Jake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That obvious, huh?”

The English snapped between you so suddenly that both of you stilled.

Then, despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.

“Yes” you answered in the same language. “Painfully obvious.”

He barked a laugh. It came out rougher than amused, but it was real. For the first time since arriving, some of the tightness in him loosened.

“Jesus” he muttered. “That’s nice.”

“What?”

“English. No offense, but my brain feels like it’s getting beat with a shovel half the time.”

You folded your arms over your chest and looked at him a long moment. “You are doing better than you think.”

“Yeah?”

“No.”

That got a fuller laugh out of him, and there it was again, that quick flash of recognition. Not intimacy. Not anything you needed to fear. Just the strange, immediate ease of finding another person who had once stood under the same hard sun, listened to the same dead humor, worn the same kind of damage into the body until it became posture.

From the shallows, you saw Tonowari turn his head slightly from where he spoke with a group of hunters farther up the beach.

He looked away almost at once.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

——————————————————————

What unsettled your family was not one thing. It was accumulation.

Jake began to catch more of your English when it slipped out around frustration or instinct. Once, when he planted his foot wrong on a root slick with spray and nearly went backward into the water, you grabbed his arm and snapped “Watch your footing, soldier” before thinking. He froze. Then he stared at you with dawning disbelief.

“No way.”

You let go too quickly. “What?”

“That’s marine. Nobody says that like that unless—” He laughed under his breath. “You were one too.”

You did not answer immediately. Waves lapped around your calves. Farther out, ilu rolled just under the skin of the sea like ghosts. At last you said “A long time ago.”

“Still counts.”

“Not here.”

He studied you with a little too much understanding. “Yeah. I get that.”

You hated how much you liked being understood without having to pry your chest open for it. Hated, too, how dangerous that liking could look from the outside when no one else shared the language that carried it.

So you cut the moment short and sent him back underwater.

But these things added up. A phrase here. A tone there. A curse muttered in English when he swallowed too much water and came up sputtering. The half-grin you could not quite stop when he made some dry, bitter joke about command structures and impossible missions. The day you found yourself humming under your breath while sorting spears after training and he looked up from where he knelt checking a woven net.

“Hold on” he said.

You stopped.

“No” he said, staring. “No way.”

Your fingers tightened on the shaft in your hand. “What.”

“That song.”

You had not heard that song in years. Not truly. It was old even before Pandora, older still by the time it had crossed light-years with you in memory alone. Some fragment of Earth, half nursery-rhyme, half cheap old melody from barracks speakers and scratched recordings and a place so far gone it barely felt real anymore.

You should have denied it.

Instead you said “You know it?”

Jake let out a disbelieving breath. Then, very softly, he sang the next line.

Your whole body went still.

It was absurd. It was stupid. It was nothing but a few words from a dead world carried unexpectedly into salt air and reef light. And yet the force of it hit you somewhere behind the ribs. Something old and buried sat up inside you all at once.

So you sang back.

Not loudly. Not beautifully. Your voice had never been built for softness. Jake’s was worse, rough and low and frayed at the edges. But between you the melody formed anyway, pieced together from memory and laugh-broken mistakes and the sort of embarrassed amusement soldiers learned when they recognized one another being sentimental by accident.

When it ended, the silence after felt strange.

“Damn” Jake said.

You looked away toward the horizon because your throat had gone unexpectedly tight. “Yeah...”

“That was… damn.”

You stayed quieter this time.

Neither of you noticed Tsireya standing farther down the beach with an armful of shells for a long few seconds. By the time you did, her expression had already smoothed itself into something easy. She came forward smiling, asking what the song had meant, asking what language it was, asking if you would teach her a little of it.

You answered gently. You always answered Tsireya gently.

But that night, when you returned to the family marui, Ao’nung was sharper than usual. Ronal’s attention lingered on you too long before dropping. Tonowari asked how Jake had done, and the question was ordinary, but something under it was not.

You noticed.

You said nothing.

——————————————————————

Lo’ak came to you slowly.

It began with small things. Not intimacy. Not confidence. Observation.

You were the first among the Metkayina adults to acknowledge the Sully children’s progress without loading the praise with surprise or mockery. When Kiri held her breath longer than anyone expected, you told her so plainly. When Neteyam adapted his form in the water, you nodded once and said he learned fast. When Tuk followed Tsireya through shallow reef channels without fear, you crouched to her height and told her she was brave. And when Lo’ak took an ilu ride that ended ragged but stubbornly recovered, you caught him at the shore while everyone else focused on the larger lesson and told him “You corrected quickly. That's useful here.”

He looked at you then as if he did not know what to do with approval that had no sting hidden inside it.

After that, you caught him watching you now and again. Not often. Enough.

You did not go to him at once. Boys like Lo’ak could smell pity the way akulas smelled blood. He would have bolted from it. So you waited. You watched how Ao’nung needled him, how Neteyam shielded him when he could, how Jake’s discipline fell hardest on him and Neytiri’s worry sharpened around him until both could sound like disappointment if a child heard them at the wrong angle. You watched how Lo’ak learned to grin before the next blow landed, how he bristled before anyone touched the sore place because he had learned that if he bared his teeth first people mistook it for strength.

Then came the day Ao’nung and his friends crossed too far.

It played out near the waterline with enough witnesses to make it uglier. Rotxo laughed first. Ao’nung followed, circling the Sully children with that loose-limbed swagger boys wore when they believed the world had already decided in their favor. Tails. Hands. Foreheads. The mockery came quick and mean. Kiri’s expression closed. Lo’ak stepped forward at once, ready to start the fight that had already been offered to him.

You moved before he could.

“Ao’nung.”

Your voice cracked across the space hard enough that every child there froze.

Your son turned. Shock hit first, then defiance. He had expected adults to ignore it. He had not expected you.

“Mother—”

“No.”

The word came flat as stone. You crossed the sand until you stood between the two groups, not facing the Sully children at all. Facing him. Only him.

“What do you see when you look at them?” you asked.

Ao’nung lifted his chin. Around him, Rotxo and the others went still with the instinctive caution of boys who realized too late that the game had shifted.

He said nothing.

You took one step closer. “Say it.”

His jaw tightened. “They are not like us.”

The words struck with the force of memory because you had heard them before. Not always aloud. Not always with witnesses. But enough.

“No” you said. “They are not. And yet they are under our protection. They are guests. They are children. Is this how I taught you to carry strength?”

Ao’nung’s eyes flicked away for the briefest instant. Shame. Then anger, because shame rarely came alone at his age.

“They are freaks” one of the boys muttered from behind him, too quiet perhaps in hope of escaping notice.

You heard it anyway.

So did Lo’ak. So did Kiri. So did Tsireya, who had just reached the edge of the group and gone pale.

You felt the word land inside your own ribs like a thrown stone. For one terrible instant you nearly lost your hold on your face. Nearly let them all see exactly where it had struck. But you had stood through worse than a child’s cruelty, and this was not the moment to bleed.

Instead you looked at Ao’nung and said, very quietly “Then what does that make me?”

Silence.

Not one child moved.

Ao’nung’s eyes snapped back to yours, wide for one naked second before he forced them harder again. He had not expected that. He had not expected to be made to look directly at the bridge between what he had said and who you were.

“You are not—” he began.

But he had no ending for it.

You spared him none.

“You will not speak that way again” you said. “Not of them. Not of anyone under this clan’s shelter. If you do not know how to carry your rank with honor, then you will carry nothing. Go.”

He stood frozen just long enough to reveal the child still living inside the almost-young-man shape of him. Then he turned sharply and stalked off, his friends scrambling after him in uneasy silence.

The Sully children remained where they were.

You still did not look at them immediately. Your hurt was too near the surface. You knew if you met Lo’ak’s eyes just then you might show too much.

When you finally turned, Neteyam looked wary. Kiri looked as if she had understood far more than you wanted her to. Tuk only seemed confused. Lo’ak had that same braced expression again, like he did not trust good things not to twist into something else.

So you kept it simple.

“Go with Tsireya” you said. “Training is not finished.”

Tsireya stepped forward at once, relief and loyalty all over her face, gathering the others with the soft authority that came to her as naturally as tide.

Lo’ak lingered half a second longer.

You gave him one small nod.

He went.

Only when they were gone did you let yourself breathe.

——————————————————————

That night Ao’nung found you outside the marui.

The village slept in pieces, never fully. The sea muttered against the roots. Wind moved through hanging shells and fishbone charms with a sound like soft rattling breath. You had come out because you could not bear one more look, one more half-thought, one more silence from inside. You stood on a narrow platform over dark water and let the night keep your company while the tears you had denied yourself earlier escaped anyway, quiet and furious.

You heard him before you saw him. Young warriors always thought they moved more silently than they did.

“Mother?”

You swiped at your face before turning. He saw anyway. Of course he saw. Ao’nung had always been able to read your pain more quickly than Tsireya. He simply had less practice handling it.

He stood a little distance away, no longer broad with performance. Just young. Just your son. His shoulders had lost all their earlier swagger.

“I should not have said those things” he said.

His voice was low, roughened by shame he clearly hated. You waited.

“I should not have let them say them either” he added. “It was wrong.”

Still you waited.

Ao’nung swallowed. “I was angry.”

“Angry at children?” you asked.

“No.” He stopped, jaw tight. “At… everything.”

That at least was honest.

You looked back out over the water. Moonlight silvered the surface in broken bands. “Do you know why your words hurt?”

“Yes.”

“No” you said. “You know why they upset me. That is not the same.”

He flinched. Not visibly enough for a stranger. More than enough for you.

After a moment, you went on. “When you call them freaks, when you make their bodies into something to be mocked, you are not speaking only to them. You are speaking into a wound that existed before they arrived. A wound you have seen this clan touch in me all your life whether you named it or not.”

Ao’nung’s breathing changed. Slight. Tight.

“I know” he said.

You turned then and finally looked at him fully. “Do you?”

His face worked with things he did not know how to say. Defensiveness. Shame. Pride. Fear. The ugly confusion of realizing that someone could love you fiercely and still be disappointed in the shape you were taking.

“I did not mean you” he said at last, and it was the sort of thing a child said because he still believed intent could erase impact.

Your chest ached.

“I know” you answered softly. “But it doesn't erase that I still am lime them.”

Tears burned again. You despised them. You let none fall this time.

Ao’nung took a hesitant step forward. “I am sorry.”

This time, because it was him, because he had come on his own and because he was trying in the only way he knew how, you reached out. Your hand settled briefly against his cheek.

“I know” you said.

He leaned into the touch before he caught himself. The movement was small, almost involuntary, but you felt it all the same. It broke you a little more, because for all his sharpness and pride and the cruel stupidity of what he had done earlier, there was still something achingly young in the way he sought comfort before remembering he was meant to stand tall without it.

Your hand slid from his cheek to the back of his head before you could think better of it.

“Ao’nung” you said softly.

That was all it took.

Whatever stiffness had been holding him upright gave way at last, and he stepped into you with none of his usual swagger left, leaning his weight against you as if he had forgotten for a moment how to keep it all inside himself. You drew him in without hesitation, wrapping both arms around him and holding him close. One hand spread broad between his shoulder blades while the other rested at the back of his head, keeping him there with a gentleness that only made the ache in your chest deepen.

He did not speak. Neither did you.

For a little while, the two of you only stayed that way in the dark, with the sea breathing quietly below and the night moving around the edges of the platform. Ao’nung let himself be held in a way he would have denied wanting in daylight, all the sharp edges of him gone quiet for once. You pressed a kiss to his hairline and held him tighter for a heartbeat, as though that alone could soothe every place where disappointment had cut through both of you.

When he finally pulled back, it was slowly and with visible reluctance, his face turned partly away as if he could hide how much he had needed it.

You let him have that dignity.

He swallowed once, then straightened. “Goodnight, Mom” he said, voice rougher than before.

Your hand brushed briefly over his arm before you let him go. “Goodnight, baby.”

Only after he had disappeared back into the sleeping village did you stand there alone and let the thought come that you had been keeping away.

Ao’nung had been comfortable enough to say those things because he had heard their shape before. Maybe not in those exact words. Maybe not from Tonowari’s mouth. But from the clan. From whispers. From tones. From Ronal’s colder judgments uttered when you were not near enough to answer. From silences that let implication breathe.

And if Ao’nung had learned it there, if he had learned that such thoughts were sayable, then what had Tonowari and Ronal allowed to live around your children in all these years?

Worse still, what had they themselves believed and merely loved you enough never to say?

The question lodged like a hook and would not come free.

——————————————————————

After that, Lo’ak became a shape at the edge of your days more often.

He did not come to confide in you. Not yet. But he began staying back when the others ran ahead. He lingered after lessons under excuses that fooled no one. Once, while Tsireya helped Tuk with a breathing exercise and Ao’nung wrestled some challenge out of Rotxo farther down the reef, you found Lo’ak sitting alone on a low root with his feet in the water, staring out so hard at the horizon it looked like he was trying to force his thoughts into it.

You could have left him.

Instead you sat beside him without asking.

For a while neither of you spoke. Water moved around your ankles. A school of tiny fish flashed silver below. Somewhere overhead seabirds cried.

At last you said “You glare like your father.”

Lo’ak snorted before he could stop himself. “That’s not a compliment.”

“No” you agreed. “It is not.”

He glanced at you sideways then, suspicious amusement mixing with caution.

You let the quiet stretch again until he settled back into it.

When you spoke next, your voice was lighter than the weight of the question. “Did you want to punch Ao’nung?”

Lo’ak huffed. “Kinda always.”

“Reasonable.”

That earned you a real look. The first one not filtered through wariness.

You did not smile. Not much. Just enough.

A little of the tension left him. “You were really pissed.”

“Yes.”

“Because he was being a skxawng.”

“Yes.”

Lo’ak nudged water with one foot, watching the ripples. “And because of the other thing.”

There it was.

You turned your face toward the sea again. “Yes.”

He was quiet a long while after that. Then he asked, too casual to be casual “Does it bother you?”

You could have lied. You almost did. But something in the set of his shoulders stopped you.

“Of course it does.” you said.

Lo’ak looked down at his hands. Five fingers. Strong. Capable. Wrong, to some eyes. He flexed them once.

“Oh” he said.

It was such a small sound. Such a bare one. It carried more than any long confession would have.

You understood then, with a painful clarity, that no one had told him what he needed to hear. Not in a way that had sunk in. Not enough times. Not with the right weight.

So you spoke carefully, because some truths had to be laid in a boy’s hands like knives turned hilt-first.

“Listen to me, Lo’ak. The shape of your body does not lessen you. Not your hands. Not your tail. Not your face. Not any piece of you. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to make themselves feel pure by cutting someone else smaller. That is not truth. That is cowardice.”

He stared straight ahead. You were not certain he was breathing.

“You are Na’vi” you went on. “You are your father’s son and your mother’s son. You are yourself beyond both of them. You do not have to earn personhood from people who look at you and see only what is different. Do you understand me?”

Lo’ak’s throat moved.

“Maybe” he muttered.

“Then I will say it again another day.”

That made his mouth twitch a little. Not quite a smile. Near enough.

And because he was still a boy, because the ache in him had not erased the impulse to test, he said “You really think I’m perfect?”

“Nobody is” you said at once.

His head whipped toward you, offended.

You let him stew half a second before adding “You are loud, impulsive, and you make decisions like someone throwing knives blind in the dark. But none of that has anything to do with the body you were born into.”

Lo’ak barked a laugh so sudden it startled both of you.

You joined him. Very briefly.

From then on, he sought you more.

Not always alone. Sometimes he just drifted toward wherever you were helping set lines or checking spears or returning from a hunt, offering clumsy help he would never have offered before. Sometimes you found him with Tsireya and Tuk, and he was easy there, gentler. Sometimes he caught you between duties and asked sharp questions about fighting, or hunting, or how long it had taken you to feel like you belonged in reef water. Sometimes he said nothing at all, only sat near enough that the silence became company.

The Sullys noticed. So did your family.

Jake and Neytiri, to their credit, did not pry. You saw the awareness in Jake’s eyes, the cautious gratitude in the way he sometimes let Lo’ak drift toward you without calling him back. Neytiri watched too, more guarded, but she recognized help when she saw it. She simply did not know its shape.

Your own family did not have that grace.

Tsireya’s jealousy came first and hurt the least. She grew clingier in small ways, touching your arm more often, leaning against you when she spoke, asking if you would braid shells into her hair that evening or come see some little thing she had found in the tide pools. It was not suspicion. It was fear of displacement. You answered it at once, gathering her close whenever you returned home, pressing kisses to her forehead, telling her stories while you worked her braids loose and redid them, letting her fall asleep with her head in your lap when the nights grew longer.

Ao’nung’s came in the form of watchfulness. He did not mention Lo’ak directly. He simply observed too much and went sharp around the edges whenever he found you speaking to the Sully boy alone. Shame still sat between the two of you after his apology, not healed, only softened over. That made everything worse.

Tonowari and Ronal felt different.

They held it in. They trusted you, and because they trusted you they hated the feeling all the more. You could see it in what they did not say. Tonowari lingering longer after evening meals, listening when you spoke of training but not asking the questions beneath his quiet. Ronal watching your face when Jake’s name came up and then turning away before the glance could become accusation. Their discomfort did not come from believing you unfaithful. Not yet. It came from seeing parts of you open in ways they had never been invited into.

That was what jealousy often was at its core. Not fear of replacement. Fear of exclusion.

You almost understood it enough to forgive.

Almost.

——————————————————————

The fracture deepened before it broke.

You began hearing things you had never let yourself fully hear before. A pause in conversation when you approached. A woman on a fish platform lowering her voice just a breath too late. A boy saying something under his breath about sky-blood and getting hissed into silence by his sister. None of it new, perhaps. Only newly impossible to ignore once Ao’nung had put shape to it in front of you.

And Ronal, for all the love between you, did not help.

She was not careless with you. Never that. In private she touched you with certainty, trusted your judgment in battle, shared the weight of the children and the home and the clan’s expectations. But she had always kept a harder core than Tonowari, and in moments where the Sullys were discussed her words carried enough old disdain to stir every insecurity you had spent years trying to bury. She did not call them demons. She did not need to. A tone could do the work. A look. A certain refusal to separate strangeness from contamination.

Each time, you said nothing.

Each time, something in you bent a little further.

Then came the day you learned she had spoken more plainly when you were not there.

Not from Tonowari. Not from some dramatic confrontation. From chance. From walking behind a half-screened section of woven wall and hearing the tail end of a conversation between Ronal and two women who had come seeking her counsel. You only caught enough to understand. The Sully children. Their bodies. Their blood. The risk of letting too much of the sky-people remain in the heart of the clan. Ronal’s voice cool and unsparing. Not once your name spoken, but you heard yourself in every omission.

You left before they saw you.

That night you could not eat.

When Tonowari asked what was wrong, you said you were tired. Ronal looked at you too long and said nothing. Ao’nung picked at his meal. Tsireya chatted about some little thing from the reef until even she felt the heaviness and fell quiet.

You slept badly. When morning came, you threw yourself harder into your duties.

No one stopped you.

——————————————————————

The argument began with almost nothing.

That was the cruel part. The worst fights often did.

You had spent half the day with the hunting parties and the latter part of the afternoon checking on the younger trainees. By the time you returned to the marui, salt dried tight over your skin and exhaustion sat meanly in your bones. The family meal was nearly ready. Tsireya was helping set woven plates in place. Ao’nung was cleaning a spearhead with too much force. Tonowari sat mending something with hands that only looked calm. Ronal had her back partly to you, sorting herbs and shells for medicines, her profile sharp in the slanting gold light.

You entered and the shift in the marui was immediate, small but noticeable all the same. Tsireya brightened first, coming to you at once, and you kissed her forehead as naturally as breathing. Your hand rested briefly on Ao’nung’s shoulder as you passed, even though he did not look up, his attention fixed too carefully on the spearhead in his hands.

Tonowari’s eyes found you next.

He was seated near the center of the space, broad shoulders slightly bowed over the piece of mending in his hands, but the moment he saw you he straightened a little. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough that you caught it. His gaze moved over your face in one quick, quiet check, as though measuring your tiredness, your mood, the weight you had brought back in with you from the day. When you paused near him, he reached out and let his fingers brush lightly over your wrist. It was a small touch, gone almost as soon as it happened, but it carried the kind of familiar care that long years built into instinct.

“You are late” he said.

There was no reprimand in it. Only notice.

“Work took longer” you answered.

Tonowari gave a low hum and let his hand fall away, though not before his thumb brushed once against your skin. “Sit when you are done. You have not rested enough these past days.”

Before you could answer, Ronal looked up from where she sat sorting herbs and shells into neat little groupings by her side.

Her expression was harder to read, as it often was when others were near, but you knew her too well not to catch the brief pause in her hands when you stepped fully into the marui. She looked at you for a moment longer than necessary, her gaze moving over the damp salt dried into your skin, the tension still holding across your shoulders, the faint exhaustion under your eyes. Then she clicked her tongue softly, almost under her breath.

“You pushed too far again" she said.

The words should have sounded sharp. From anyone else, they would have. From Ronal, they carried that familiar edge of concern dressed in sternness, the shape it most often took when she did not want to soften herself in front of the children.

You exhaled through your nose, too tired to fight the gesture for what it was. “I am still standing.”

“Yes, Ronal said, dry and unimpressed. “And you think that is always the same as being well.”

Tsireya hid a smile at that, clearly having heard the argument before.

For the briefest moment, your eyes met Ronal’s properly. Something quiet passed there. Not tenderness made obvious. Never that, not in front of everyone. But something steady and known, something that had lived in the spaces between the three of you for too long to need much dressing.

You shook your head faintly, more to yourself than to either of them, and moved at last to wash.

——————————————————————

It could have ended there.

Instead Ronal said, without turning “Lo’ak was looking for you again.”

The words were ordinary. The tone was not.

You stilled with water running over your fingers.

“I saw him” you said.

“Mm.”

That sound. Small. Dismissive. Heavy with all the things left unsaid.

You dried your hands slowly and faced her. “If you wish to say something, say it.”

Tsireya froze. Ao’nung’s head lifted. Tonowari’s hands went still over the mending in his lap.

Ronal turned then. Her face was controlled, but not enough. “You spend much time with him.”

“He needed guidance.”

“He has parents.”

The words landed harder than they should have because you had given your life to children who were not of your body and never once resented it. Because you knew exactly where your deepest insecurity lived. Because Ronal knew it too.

“So do ours” you replied, voice already sharpening. “Yet that has never stopped me from raising them.”

Tonowari looked up fast. “Enough.”

“No” you said without taking your eyes off Ronal.

Ronal set down the herbs in her hands one by one with terrifying care. “The clan sees. The people speak.”

“And you listen.”

Her nostrils flared. “I am Tsahìk. I hear what moves through my people.”

“You let it move.”

“That is not the same.”

“No?” Your laugh came sharp and ugly. “Then tell me, Ronal, when they look at the Sully children and see something tainted, something wrong-shaped, something less, do you think I do not know what else they are seeing in that moment?”

Tonowari stood. “Y/n—”

“DO NOT.” You barely spared him a glance.

The words came out so loud and raw that the whole marui seemed to freeze around them.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one even breathed properly. It was not only the force of it. It was the fact that none of them could remember the last time they had heard you scream at all, much less heard it turned on one of them. Not Tonowari. Not Ronal. Not the children. You were not gentle by nature, not always soft, but this was different. This was something torn straight out of the center of you, stripped of discipline and pride and every careful restraint you usually kept wrapped tight around your hurt.

Silence crashed into the marui so hard even the sea beyond seemed to retreat.

Ronal’s chin lifted higher. Hurt had reached her now, and pride arrived right behind it. “You are twisting this.”

“Am I?” Your voice rose. “Ao’nung did not learn those thoughts from water and wind. He learned them here. In this clan. In this home. In the things said when I am not present and the things not challenged when I am.”

Ao’nung jerked upright. “Mother—”

“Be silent.”

The words cracked out of you with a force that seemed to stun even yourself.

Ao’nung went still at once. So did everyone else. It was not simply that you had snapped at him. It was that none of them were used to this version of your anger, this loud, shaking, barely-contained thing that tore out of you without the usual control wrapped around it. You could be stern. You could be sharp. But this was different, and the shock of hearing it turned on him kept Ao’nung rooted where he stood.

Ronal’s eyes flashed. “You accuse me of turning my son against you?”

“I accuse you of feeding him poison and calling it caution.”

Tsireya made a strangled sound. Tonowari stepped between you by instinct, but you moved sideways before he could block the line of the fight.

The words struck. Not because they were true in the way she meant. Because some part of them touched something real.

Your face twisted, more wounded than angry for one naked second.

“Never offered you?” you shot back. “You speak as though you ever reached for them.”

Ronal went still.

You laughed once, harsh and shaking. “Do you know how many times either of you asked about where I came from? About the life before this one? About the language still living in my mouth? About the things I lost?” Your voice rose again, raw with old hurt now, with something far older than the Sullys and this argument and even the clan’s whispers. “You accepted that those parts of me existed, yes, but you never wanted to stand too close to them. Never wanted to know them unless they could be made useful, or small, or easy to set aside.”

Tonowari’s expression changed at that, guilt flashing through it before he could hide it.

You did not spare him either.

“I did not hide those pieces because I wished to keep you out,” you said, voice breaking around the force of it. “I kept them quiet because no one asked. Because no one looked at those wounds and wondered what they were made of.”

The silence that followed hurt worse than shouting.

You had kept those fragments hidden. Not maliciously. Not knowingly. But because pain went silent when no one around you shared its language and because the ones who claimed to love you had never truly learned how to ask for it.

“You think I would betray you for friendship?” you asked, voice trembling now with fury.

“I think” Ronal snapped, and now she was shouting too “that demons return to their own. I think perhaps you feel the pull of sameness and do not know it. I think perhaps that is why you go so often where you are reflected.”

Everything in you went cold.

Tonowari moved at once. “Ronal.”

But she was too far inside the blow already. You saw regret hit her only after the words were gone.

You stared at her. “Do you see me only as a demon, then?”

Ronal was breathing hard. Wounded pride, jealousy, fear, and years of buried prejudice had tangled too tightly to unwind cleanly. In that moment she chose anger because anger felt stronger than retreat.

“Yes” she said, in a voice that shook. “In this, yes. What else calls a mated woman away so often if not the demon in her? What else lets her laugh and sing and hide herself with another male as though the bond of her family is not enough?”

Tsireya began to cry.

The sound barely reached you. Your ears were roaring.

You stepped forward so fast Tonowari actually reached out to catch your arm and missed. “You dare” you said, each word raw. “You dare accuse me of cheating while standing in the home I built with my own hands. While speaking to the children I fed, bathed, taught, held. While wearing medicines I gathered and skins I cured and weapons I sharpened. You dare call me demon after I gave you every piece of my fucking life?!”

Ronal’s face crumpled for a heartbeat under the force of it, but you were beyond mercy now.

“You put those thoughts into Ao’nung’s mouth” you went on, voice breaking louder. “Do not deny it. He did not invent that cruelty. He learned from the contempt you carry when you think I am not looking.”

“I was protecting this family!” Ronal shouted back.

“By teaching our son to despise people like me?”

Ao’nung surged to his feet then, shaking with his own helpless rage and terror, too young and too proud and too frightened for either of you.

“Stop talking to her like that!”

You turned on him in disbelief. “To her?”

His chest rose and fell fast. “She is my mother.”

The words hung. Not wrong. Not enough.

Pain and fury made you crueler than you meant to be. “And I am what, then?”

Ao’nung’s face twisted. For a second you saw him realize the cliff edge. He stepped anyway.

“You are not even my true mother” he spat. “You are not my real parent.”

The world stopped.

There were sounds after. Tsireya sobbing. Tonowari barking Ao’nung’s name in horror. Ronal’s sharp inhale like she had been stabbed. But all of it came from very far away. What you heard most clearly was the split inside your chest. Clean. Final. A thing tearing where you had thought it had grown too strong to tear.

Tonowari crossed to you quickly, hands half raised. “Y/n, listen to me—”

“No.” You reeled back from him too. “NO. NOT ONE OF YOU.”

Tsireya ran forward then and you almost broke on the sight of her, but you could not stay. Could not breathe inside that marui another second.

You snatched up the nearest things that were yours. A wrap. A knife. Your bow. A small satchel hanging from a peg by the entrance. Tonowari called your name. Ronal did too, and hers sounded ruined now, but you could not hear anything except the echo of demon and not my true mother and the older, deeper voice inside yourself whispering the worst of all.

You could not even give them children.

Perhaps that was what had always sat beneath it. The old failure. The body that had crossed worlds and changed shape and still would not do this one thing the clan understood without question. You had told yourself for years it did not matter, because Tsireya and Ao’nung were yours in every way that counted. But pain was a scavenger. It dragged up every buried bone when called.

You fled before you screamed.

You climbed until your hands bled.

Not badly. Just enough for the sting to keep you in your body when grief wanted to blast you out of it. You left the clustered marui of the village behind, crossed a tangle of roots and tide-cut stone, and found one of the old trees farther inland where mangrove gave way to the slightly drier edges of forest. There, high above ground and water both, you wedged yourself into the cradle of thick branches and finally let the collapse come.

It was not graceful. It was not quiet.

You cried until your chest cramped and your throat felt flayed raw. You hit the trunk once with the heel of your hand hard enough to bruise. You cursed in English because Na’vi felt too sacred for the ugliness in you and because no one was there to hear Earth’s dead language anyway. Then you curled in on yourself with your forehead pressed to bark and shook like something hunted.

You thought of Ao’nung as a small child reaching for you from Ronal’s arms the first time he had chosen to come to you without prompting. You thought of Tsireya feverish and half asleep, her fingers tangled in your braid while you sat up all night cooling her skin with damp cloths. You thought of Tonowari holding you after hunts gone bad, of Ronal’s mouth at your shoulder in the dark, of every year you had given to this family, this place, this life built on the bones of another.

Then you thought of the clan’s eyes on you when the Sullys arrived. Of Ronal saying unlike us. Of whispers. Of silences. Of Tonowari never quite cutting them off. Of every time you had chosen gratitude over fury because love seemed more important than being right.

The night gave you too much room to think. Sleep would not hold for long, and every time you drifted close to it your mind kicked you back awake with something sharper waiting. So you lay there in the cradle of branches staring through gaps in the leaves at scraps of dark sky and let yourself wander somewhere crueler.

Your thoughts found Lo’ak because of course they did. Not just Lo’ak as he was now, all sharp edges and stubborn pride and hurt packed into the shape of a boy trying not to show where the world had bruised him, but Lo’ak as he had been when he was smaller, when his hands had still looked too big for the rest of him and his ears and brows and fingers had marked him out before he could even understand why people were staring. You thought of the way eyes lingered. The way silence changed texture around him. The way even kindness could turn ugly when it carried pity underneath.

And then, against your own will, your mind made the leap. If you had ever carried a child of your own here, if Eywa or fate or whatever force ruled these things had ever placed that life in your arms, would they have looked like that too. Would they have had your blood written into them in all the ways this world knew how to notice and punish. Five fingers. Strange bone structure. Some soft human wrongness visible beneath Na’vi skin. Something beautiful to you, maybe, because it would have been yours, because it would have been theirs, because love would have made every difference sacred. But not beautiful to everyone else. Not safe.

The thought hollowed you out in a new place. Because once it came, another followed it, quieter and somehow worse. Maybe Tonowari and Ronal had known. Maybe not in words, not in any deliberate, spoken way, but somewhere deep and practical and afraid. Maybe some part of them had always been relieved that no child had ever come from your body. Relieved that they had been spared the risk of loving a child the clan might look at the way they looked at Lo’ak. Relieved that they had been spared explaining your traits in the face of tradition, in the face of gossip, in the face of that old, ugly instinct to sort the acceptable from the strange.

You shut your eyes hard enough to see color behind them, but it did nothing. The thought kept gnawing. Not because you truly believed they would reject such a child once placed in their arms. That was what made it hurt in a different way. You knew Tonowari would have loved fiercely. You knew Ronal, for all her pride and sharpness, would have fought like a knife for anything she called hers. But love after the fact was not the same as wanting before the fact. It was possible to love deeply and still feel relief at being spared a harder road. Possible to adore you and still be grateful that you had not given them a child who would carry the most visible proof of what set you apart.

Your stomach turned. Suddenly the old grief was tangled with something meaner, more humiliating. It was one thing to wonder whether they had ever looked at you and seen difference they tolerated because they loved you. It was another to imagine they had looked at your empty hands, your empty womb, and thanked the stars in some quiet hidden corner of themselves that it had stayed that way.

You pressed the heel of your hand over your mouth to hold in the sound that wanted out. Below you, the forest breathed and shifted and remained indifferent. Somewhere distant, water moved against root and stone. You thought of Lo’ak again, of the set of his jaw every time he pretended he did not care, and something inside you cracked with a tenderness so painful it felt almost like guilt. Because if a child of yours had looked like him, you knew with horrible certainty that you would have loved them past language, past reason, past fear. You would have torn the world open with your bare hands before letting anyone make them feel lesser for it.

And that, perhaps, was the sharpest wound of all. That no such child had ever existed, and yet you were grieving them anyway. Grieving the possibility. Grieving the shape of a life you had never let yourself hold long enough to name. Grieving the chance that perhaps, somewhere under all this hurt, you had wanted more than you had ever admitted. Not just mates. Not just a place. Not just borrowed children who had become yours through devotion rather than blood. Something smaller and more dangerous. Someone who might have carried your difference openly into the light, forcing everyone around you to reveal exactly how much of your strangeness they could truly bear.

For a long time after that, you did not sleep at all.

——————————————————————

Morning did not fix anything.

That, perhaps, was the hardest part. Dawn came all golden over the water as if the world had not been split open. The village woke. Nets were lifted. Fish gutted. Children called to one another. Duties remained, indifferent to heartbreak. So did you.

You returned at first light only long enough to wash your face in cold water and tie your hair back properly. Then you went straight to your responsibilities. The hunters needed directing. Tracks from the night tides needed reading. Two younger warriors had argued over spear allocation. A net line had torn along one of the outer shallows and needed stronger hands to repair it before midday.

The clan saw you.

Of course they did. Word had already spread. You could feel it in the way voices lowered when you passed, in how no one quite dared ask anything. Their curiosity warred with the very obvious truth written in your face. So they watched instead.

Let them, you thought.

If they expected you to vanish because your heart had been broken in private, they did not know you at all.

By noon Tonowari found you near the storage platforms where dried lines and harpoons were kept. He approached alone, which was at least wise.

You did not turn when you heard him.

“Y/n.”

You kept checking a spear haft for warp.

He stopped a careful distance away. “Please.”

That made you laugh once under your breath. Not kindly. “You ask for gentleness now?”

Tonowari absorbed the blow without flinching. “I ask for a chance to speak.”

You finally looked at him then. He wore grief openly. Guilt too. It would have moved you yesterday. Today it only hurt.

“Where was this chance” you asked “when I needed you to stop the clan from looking at me like I was something lesser the moment the Sullys arrived? Where was it when Ronal spoke and let implication do its work? Where was it when Ao’nung learned those thoughts under our roof?”

His face tightened. “You think I don't know I have failed. I know I have.”

“Then let that knowledge keep you company.”

He stepped forward despite the warning in your posture. “I did not think—”

“No” you cut in. “You did not. That is exactly it.”

For a second you saw anger spark in him too, not at you but at himself, at the impossibility of saying enough. Then it died. He stood there broad and wounded and unable to mend with strength what strength had failed to protect.

“I love you” he said simply.

Pain sliced fresh through your ribs. “Then you should have protected me better.”

You walked away before he could answer.

——————————————————————

Tsireya came later.

Where Tonowari approached like someone handling a blade, Tsireya came like she always came to you: quickly, heart first, tears already threatening. You found her near the outer shallows because she had clearly searched until someone told her where you were. The moment she saw you, she ran.

You caught her automatically. There had never been a world where you would not.

Her arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost hurt. You dropped to your knees in the wet sand at once to hold her properly. She was crying before she even tried to speak. You kissed her forehead again and again, smoothing damp hair back from her face, murmuring broken comforts in Na’vi and half-English endearments that survived from a life she had never known.

“None of this is your fault” you told her. “None of it. Do you hear me?”

Tsireya nodded against your neck and cried harder.

You rocked her a little, because once upon a time that had been enough to calm every storm she brought to you. “You did nothing wrong.”

“I should have said something” she choked out. “I should have stopped them sooner. I saw Ao’nung growing mean and I thought he would soften. I should have—”

“No.” You tipped her face up until she looked at you. “You are not responsible for carrying what the adults failed to carry. Not you.”

Her mouth trembled. “Come home...”

That nearly broke you all over again.

You drew her in and held her. “I cannot” you whispered.

“Not ever?”

Your throat closed. You made yourself answer honestly. “Not yet.”

Tsireya nodded because she was kinder than anyone deserved and because she understood even when understanding hurt. She clung to you another minute, then let you wipe her face with your thumbs as if she were still little enough to fit entirely in your lap.

When she left, she looked back three times.

You watched every step.

——————————————————————

The family felt your absence exactly as you knew they would.

Not because you flattered yourself irreplaceable. Because every home had a rhythm, and you had been part of theirs for too long not to leave silence where your habits belonged. No second pair of hands to catch the small work before it fell. No evening rounds through the marui checking straps, medicines, children, weapons, weatherproofing. No body dropping tired beside theirs at the end of a long day. No one to laugh first when Tsireya made some bright joke. No one to sharpen Ao’nung’s practice blade after he had abused it against coral. No one to shoulder against Ronal while sorting herbs. No one to trade a quiet look with Tonowari across a crowded family meal.

Absence was never just emptiness. It was the shape of all the things that failed to happen.

Ao’nung felt it hardest after the first shock passed. Shame made him restless. Restlessness made him stupid. He trained too hard, snapped too fast, and once nearly got himself clipped by a reef edge because his focus was split in six directions at once. Tonowari hauled him out and cursed him senseless for it. Ao’nung took the scolding without fighting back because his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Ronal carried hers more inwardly. She did her work. She led. She helped heal. She moved through the village with the same proud spine and uncompromising hands. But she slept poorly, and when she thought no one watched her eyes went to doors, walkways, platforms, the outer edges of the village where you should have been appearing any minute with wet hair and sea-salt on your skin and some tired complaint ready on your mouth.

Tonowari wore his like a stone tied around the chest. He had always been large enough to contain pain without spectacle. That did not make it smaller.

You did not see all of this firsthand.

You only saw enough to guess the rest.

And still you did not return.

——————————————————————

It was Lo’ak who found you on the second evening after the fight, though not by design.

You were coming back from the outer roots with a bundle of repaired line over one shoulder and a small catch looped at your hip when you spotted him sitting alone where mangrove shadows met the darkening water. He did not hear you at first. His posture gave him away before his face did. Folded in. Guard up. Something raw fresh in him.

You almost kept walking.

Then you remembered how it felt to be left alone with hurt large enough to swallow speech.

So you went to him.

He looked up fast when your steps reached him, visibly startled, then awkward. “Oh. Hey.”

You set the repaired line aside and lowered yourself onto the root beside him. “You choose lonely places.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Guess so.”

You studied him in profile. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

Lo’ak huffed. “You do that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you act like you already know I’m full of crap.”

“I do already know.”

He gave you a sideways look. Even in the gloom you could see the fight between pride and relief.

At last he muttered “Dad got on my ass again.”

“About?”

“Everything.” He kicked lightly at the water below. “The ilu stuff. The diving. Ao’nung. Me not thinking. Me thinking too much. Pick one.”

You listened.

“He doesn’t say I’m messed up or anything” Lo’ak said after a moment, staring hard at the darkness. “Not like that. He just… with Neteyam it’s always trust and expectations and all that warrior stuff. With me it’s like he’s waiting for the next screwup.”

There was no accusation in his voice by the end. That made it sadder.

“And your mother?” you asked.

Lo’ak shrugged again. “Mom loves me. She just…” He grimaced. “She just doesn't say he isn't right.”

You sat with that.

After a while you said “When people are afraid for someone, they often speak badly. They think fear will sound like discipline if they make the voice hard enough.”

Lo’ak snorted faintly. “That doesn’t make it suck less.”

“No” you agreed. “It does not.”

Silence. Then, softer, he asked “Did you mean it?”

You turned toward him. “Mean what?”

“What you said before.” He did not look at you. “About me.”

You understood.

“Yes” you said. “I meant it.”

Lo’ak swallowed. The dark hid his eyes, but not the tremor that went briefly through the line of his jaw.

“Okay” he murmured.

Nothing dramatic followed. No collapse into confession. No sudden ease. He only sat there beside you a little longer than before, and when you rose to leave he rose too and carried half the repaired line without you having to ask.

Sometimes trust entered by the smallest door.

——————————————————————

By the third night, the ache in you had sharpened into something cleaner.

Not less painful. Clearer.

You knew you could not keep sleeping in scattered places forever. You also knew you would not return to the marui only because they missed the space you filled in it. Missing you was not enough. Love was not enough. Not when love had left certain injuries untouched for years because addressing them would have required discomfort.

So when dusk deepened and your feet turned almost without thinking toward the old path that led to the spirit place the Metkayina kept near the inland meeting of root and freshwater, you let them.

The Tree of Voices. Mangrove-wrapped, sea-breathed, threaded with swaying tendrils that caught moonlight in pale glows. The place always quieted you. Tonight it only made you careful.

You saw Ronal before she saw you.

She floated near the top of the great tree, posture bowed in a way you had almost never witnessed from her. Not weakness. Pleading. Real pleading. It stopped you cold enough that your first instinct was to turn away before she looked up.

You pivoted.

“Please.”

Her voice cracked on the one word. You froze with your back half turned.

For a long moment neither of you moved. Then slowly, because running now would have been a kind of cruelty and because some exhausted, still-loving part of you could not do that to her, you turned back.

Ronal had risen to her feet. In the silver-blue light her face looked carved from grief. She came no closer until you allowed it by staying still.

“Do not leave” she said.

“I already left.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yes. You did.

The wind shifted. The floating tendrils stirred. Somewhere beyond the roots, water moved over stone.

You folded your arms hard across your chest. “You have words now.”

Ronal closed her eyes briefly. “I should have had them sooner.”

“That is not apology. That is observation.”

Her gaze came back to yours, wet and unshielded in a way that startled you more than any shouted argument had. “Then hear this. I was wrong.”

The simplicity of it hit harder than defense would have.

She took one slow breath. “I was jealous. I was afraid. I heard pieces of you I could not share and instead of asking for them, I made them suspect. I let the clan’s uglier thoughts sit too near me. I told myself I was protecting what was ours, when in truth I was protecting my pride. And when I was hurt, I used the cruelest words I could find because I knew where to wound you.”

Your jaw tightened so hard it hurt.

Ronal’s voice shook more now, but she did not look away. “No. I do not see you only as demon. I do not even see you as demon at all. I see my mate. I see the woman who has stood beside me through blood and storm and birth and grief. I see the one who raised my children as wholly as if they had first quickened under her own heart. I see the one I hurt because I was not strong enough to master my fear before it mastered my mouth.”

Pain and love and fury all surged at once so violently you nearly stepped back.

“You said it” you whispered. “You cannot unsay it.”

“I know.”

“You let those thoughts live around our son.”

“I know.”

“You let the clan’s whispers touch me for years.”

Ronal’s face crumpled. “I know.”

There it was. No defense. No reaching for context before accountability. It left you without the clean fuel of rage.

You hated that.

“And what of Ao’nung?” you demanded, because if you could not keep striking her, perhaps you could at least keep from softening. “What of Tonowari? What of the fact that none of you protected me where protection should have been simple?”

At that Ronal’s eyes filled properly and one tear slid down without her wiping it away. “Then do not forgive us yet.”

The words hit so unexpectedly you stared.

She took a step closer. Stopped. Waited. “Be angry. Stay angry. Ask more of us than one night of grief. But do not stay gone while we try to become better than the people who wounded you. Come where we can answer. Punish me with your honesty if you must. Not with your absence.”

Your throat worked uselessly around an answer.

Then Ronal, proud Ronal, fierce Ronal, lowered herself to her knees before you.

It was not dramatic. That made it worse. Better. Truer.

“I am asking” she said, voice almost breaking fully now. “Come back and let me mend what I can. Even if it takes long. Even if you do not touch me. Even if you do not call me beloved for many nights. Come back.”

Something inside you gave way then, not into easy forgiveness but into the terrible truth that you loved her still. Loved her enough that the sight of her bowed hurt almost as much as what she had done.

You crouched before you knew you meant to. Your hands found her face roughly, as if you could still be angry through touch. Ronal leaned into your palms with a shuddering breath.

“If you ever say those things again—”

“I will spend the rest of my life earning the right not to.”

You exhaled, shaking. “That is not how forgiveness works.”

“No” Ronal whispered. “But perhaps it is how atonement begins.”

For a long moment you stayed there, hand on her face, anger still alive and grief still raw and love refusing to die under either. Then footsteps sounded behind you, hesitant and stopping short.

Tonowari.

Ao’nung.

Tsireya.

Of course.

You looked over your shoulder. Tsireya was already crying again, though more quietly now. Tonowari’s expression was almost painfully careful, hope warring with the knowledge he had no claim to it. Ao’nung looked worst of all. Stripped bare by shame. Younger than he had in years.

He took two steps forward and stopped so abruptly he nearly stumbled.

“Mother” he said, and his voice cracked so badly you closed your eyes.

When you opened them, he was crying too. Not prettily. Not with dignity. Like a boy who had discovered too late that words could not be taken back just because terror came after.

“I was wrong” he blurted. “I was angry and stupid and I wanted to hurt and I said the worst thing I could think of because I knew it would hit and I hate myself for it and I know that is not enough and I know I am yours, I know that, I know it, and I am yours too if you still want me, please—”

He broke there.

Tsireya covered her mouth, sobbing. Tonowari looked away briefly as if the sight of his son’s grief struck somewhere too tender to witness directly. Ronal, still kneeling beside you, made no move to intervene. Wise again, for once. Let him say it.

You rose slowly and faced Ao’nung fully.

He flinched before you even touched him.

That nearly undid you.

“What you said” you told him, voice low and steady only by force “will stay with me for a very long time.”

He nodded frantically, tears falling. “I know.”

“You do not get to speak from pain and call the damage smaller because you did not mean all of it.”

“I know.”

“You are my son" you said, and his face broke open entirely. “You are my son whether blood says it, or the sea says it, or Eywa herself says nothing at all. But if you ever weaponize that wound again, I will not spare you for your age.”

Ao’nung was crying too hard to answer properly. He nodded anyway.

Then, because you were never not his mother no matter what you had told yourself in the dark, you opened your arms.

He came into them with a sound you would remember for the rest of your life.

You held him while he shook. Tsireya collided into both of you an instant later, wrapping herself around your side and pressing tear-wet kisses to your shoulder and jaw and temple as if trying to prove you were really there. You drew her in too. For a few breaths the three of you stood locked together, all pain and salt and forgiveness-not-yet-but-love-still.

When you finally lifted your head, Tonowari still had not moved.

You looked at him. “And you.”

His mouth almost twitched through the grief. “Yes.”

“You do not get to be the calm one and imagine that is enough. Your silence has teeth.”

Tonowari bowed his head once. “I know.”

“You should have stopped it long before now.”

“Yes.”

“You let me bear things alone because you thought surviving them meant I needed no shield.”

His eyes closed briefly.

You let him sit under that. Then, because he had owned it with the same painful honesty Ronal had and because love made monsters and mercies of all of you, you held out one hand.

Tonowari took it like a man accepting judgment.

When he stepped close, he did not pull you into him immediately. He only rested his forehead against yours and breathed. That hurt most of all. The restraint. The understanding that your anger still lived and had to be honored.

“I missed you” he whispered.

You shut your eyes. “Good.”

He laughed once against your skin, broken and relieved and miserable all at once. “Cruel woman.”

“Yes” you said.

That made Ronal huff a damp, half-laugh from where she had finally risen, and suddenly the impossible thing happened.

The pain remained.

So did the love.

They stood together and did not cancel each other out.

——————————————————————

You did not return to the marui that instant. You made them walk back with you slowly. You made them answer. Not every question. Not every hurt. But enough. Along the root-paths under moonlight you spoke of the clan’s whispers, of old wounds, of the ways love had not absolved them from confronting the ugliness around you. Ronal did not shy from hearing it. Tonowari did not hide behind leadership. Ao’nung spoke little after his apology, but every word he gave was honest. Tsireya stayed close enough to touch you every few breaths as if still making sure you would not vanish again.

By the time the family marui came into view, you were exhausted to the marrow.

The sight of home almost drove you back. Then Tsireya laced her fingers through yours and tugged very gently, and you let her.

Inside, nothing had changed and everything had. Your sleeping place remained as you had left it. Your things, the few you had grabbed, were not there because you still had them. Yet the air itself felt different. More careful. Less sure of itself. Good. Let it be.

Tsireya made you sit before you could decide not to. She brought water. Ao’nung, red-eyed and subdued, disappeared and returned with the wrap you had left behind days ago, folded more neatly than he had ever folded anything in his life. Ronal stood at the edge of the space as if uncertain whether approaching would wound more than soothe. Tonowari lit the low lamps and then simply remained near, visible, available, not pressing.

You looked at them and felt the ache all over again. You stood there for a long moment, looking at them all in the dim light of the marui.

Tsireya’s face was still wet with tears. Ao’nung looked wrecked by his own shame, all the sharpness gone out of him at last. Tonowari stood quiet and careful, as if one wrong movement might send you slipping away again. Ronal had not tried to come closer since your return, but her eyes had not left you once. The weight of everything still sat there between you, bruised and breathing, but it no longer felt like something that would swallow the whole family alive if no one spoke.

You let out a slow breath and looked away for a moment, gathering yourself.

“If I come back” you said at last, your voice tired but steady “then I will not return to silence. I will not come into this home and pretend nothing was said. I will not make myself smaller so the rest of you may feel more comfortable with what you have done.”

“No” Ronal said immediately, her voice low and rough. “You should not.”

Tonowari nodded once. “You will not have to.”

You looked at Ao’nung then, and some part of your chest still hurt too badly to soften fully, but there was room for something gentler now too.

“And you” you said quietly “will not hide from me when you are ashamed. You will face me. Do you understand?”

Ao’nung swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

That word nearly undid you again.

The silence that followed was not easy, but it was no longer cruel either. It simply existed, full of exhaustion and the remains of tears and the fragile uncertainty of people who had broken one another open and were now being forced to learn how to touch the wound without making it worse. For the first time since you had left, the marui felt less like a battlefield and more like a place where healing might someday be possible.

Tsireya was the first to move.

She stepped toward you slowly, as though afraid you might still pull away, and when you opened one arm for her she came at once, folding herself against your side with a soft, shaking breath. You wrapped her close and kissed the top of her head. She clung to you without embarrassment, pressing her face into your shoulder the way she had as a child whenever the world felt too large or too sharp for her soft heart.

“I missed you” she whispered.

Your eyes closed. “I know, sweet girl.”

Ao’nung lingered only a moment longer before he came too, slower than his sister had, more uncertain, but no less in need of it. He did not throw himself at you. That was not his way. He only moved close enough that you could reach for him, and when you did, when your hand caught his arm and pulled him nearer, the tight control in him gave with almost frightening speed.

You drew both of your children in against you then, one on either side, and held them.

For a while none of you said anything. Tsireya’s breathing gradually evened under your hand. Ao’nung stood tense at first, then slowly let himself lean just a little into your side, no longer pretending he did not need the reassurance of your touch. You kept one arm around Tsireya and the other around him, your fingers stroking once down his back before settling there. The simple familiarity of it hurt and soothed in equal measure.

Across from you, Tonowari watched with something raw and grateful in his face. Ronal looked quieter than you had seen her in a long time, her expression stripped bare by remorse and love and relief she did not seem to know what to do with.

When the children finally eased back, you were left facing your mates.

For a heartbeat no one moved.

Then Tonowari crossed the small distance between you in that same careful way he had worn since you returned, broad body held back by restraint rather than confidence. His hand came up slowly, giving you every chance to refuse him, and rested against the side of your neck. Warm. Steady. Familiar enough that it made your throat tighten.

“You do not have to forgive everything tonight” he said softly. “You do not have to be whole tonight either. Just stay.”

The words were so simple that they lodged deeper than any grand speech could have. You looked at him, at the honesty in his face, at the grief he had made no attempt to hide from you, and nodded once.

“I can stay” you said.

Something in him eased then, not all at once, but enough. He bent and pressed his forehead gently to yours, saying nothing more, and in that silence you felt apology, relief, and love all tangled together. It was not enough to erase what had happened. It was enough to remind you why leaving had hurt like tearing out part of your own bones.

When Tonowari stepped back, Ronal still did not move immediately.

Her hands were clasped too tightly in front of her, a rare tell from someone usually so composed. At last she came toward you, slower even than Tonowari had, and stopped close enough that you could see how red her eyes still were.

“I do not know how to touch you tonight without fearing I have lost the right” she admitted.

Your anger stirred again at that, but more tiredly now than before. “Then do not decide for me.”

Ronal’s breath caught.

You reached for her first.

The look that crossed her face at that was almost painful to witness. She stepped into you as soon as your hands found her arms, and the moment she was close enough you pulled her the rest of the way in. Ronal held herself tightly for all of one second before breaking and wrapping both arms around you with a quiet, shaking exhale that seemed pulled from the bottom of her lungs. You held her through it, one hand at her back, the other slipping up into her braids.

“I am here.”

At that, Ronal made the smallest wounded sound and held you tighter.

The rest came more quietly after that.

No more shouting. No fresh wounds. Just the family settling around one another in the weary aftermath of too much pain finally spoken aloud. Tonowari brought water. Tsireya, still reluctant to let you out of reach, sat pressed close to your side while Ao’nung fetched the wrap you had taken when you left and set it beside you with lowered eyes. Ronal insisted, in the old familiar way that was half command and half care, that you sit before your legs gave out under you. This time, when she said it, a faint thread of warmth lived under the sternness again.

You sat.

Slowly, naturally, the others gathered around you. Tsireya curled in first, leaning against you with her head on your shoulder. Ao’nung sat near your knee, not touching at first, but close enough that the distance no longer felt like rejection. Tonowari settled at your other side, one arm stretched loosely behind you along the woven supports, near without crowding. Ronal remained in front of you for a few moments, as if still confirming to herself that you were real and staying, before finally kneeling close and resting one hand lightly over yours.

No one rushed to fill the quiet.

That was what made it kind.

The sea breathed beyond the marui walls. Night sounds moved through the village in soft layers. The lamps burned low, throwing warm light over tired faces and damp lashes and shoulders slowly unclenching after days of strain. At some point Tsireya’s eyes drifted shut, her breathing evening out where she rested against you. Not long after, Ao’nung shifted closer in tiny increments until his shoulder brushed against your leg. He did it as if hoping no one would notice.

You noticed.

You said nothing, only let your hand settle into his hair for a brief, gentle stroke. Ao’nung’s eyes closed for half a second at the touch before he ducked his head. That alone told you how deeply he still needed to feel he was forgiven, and how young he still was beneath all the pride.

Tonowari reached for one of the woven blankets and spread it over all of you with the same quiet efficiency he brought to every act of care. Ronal watched him do it, then leaned in and pressed a small kiss to your cheek, so soft it barely seemed to land. You turned just enough to let your forehead brush hers in answer, and the relief that moved through her was so visible it made your chest ache.

By the time the night deepened fully, the marui had gone still around you.

Tsireya was sleeping against your side. Ao’nung had not quite fallen asleep, but he sat drowsy and quiet near your knee, no longer fighting his own need for closeness. Tonowari’s hand rested warm and solid over your ankle beneath the blanket, a grounding touch more than anything else. Ronal remained tucked close enough that your shoulders brushed, her presence careful now in a way it had not been before, as though she had finally understood how precious your trust truly was.

You looked at them and felt the ache still there.

Not gone. Not erased. Still bruised, still tender, still real.

But underneath it, and around it, something softer had returned too. Something stubborn. Something home-shaped.

Your family had hurt you. They had failed you. They would have to live with that and do better, and you would make certain they did. But they were still yours, and you were still theirs, and tonight that truth was no longer a weapon in anyone’s mouth. It was only a promise resting quietly in the dim light, wrapped in warm bodies and salt air and tired love.

“I’m going to break up with you,” Damian mutters as you shift him by the shoulders, turning him around beneath the skeletal winter trees of the Gotham park, their bare branches webbing together overhead like veins against a washed-out sky.

Snow crunches softly under your boots as you move, the kind that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to melt or commit, and Damian can hear the giddy lift in your breathing even before he hears the faint jingle of metal as you clip the plush Robin keychain onto his backpack. Your fingers are swift but careful, fussing with the tiny ball chain like this is something sacred, like if you don’t secure it just right the whole day might fall apart.

“You love me,” you coo, voice bright and teasing, making absolutely sure the clasp is fastened before you gently turn him again and rest your chin on his shoulder, your scarf brushing his jaw, warm and soft against the sharp cold of the air.

“It doesn’t even look like him,” Damian sighs, gesturing with his chin toward the small stand set up along the park’s pathway, where a folding table is draped in a faded black cloth and weighed down at the corners with stones so it doesn’t lift in the wind.

You look anyway, at the angry little chibi face of the plush that's no taller than ten centimeters, expression stitched into a permanent scowl, tiny blush marks sewn into its cheeks. It’s surrounded by others just like it, all handmade, all a little uneven in that earnest way. 

“It looks exactly like him,” you say without hesitation. “Now pay the nice lady, Damian.”

He grumbles as he reaches into his wallet, fingers stiff from the cold, but when he hands over the cash there’s a small, barely-there smile he doesn’t bother to fight. “You’re the Robin fan, not me,” Damian says as he turns back to you, snowflakes catching briefly in his hair before melting away. “Why do I have to wear the Robin keychain?”

“We’re going to match,” you grin, already turning back toward the stand like you’re being pulled there by gravity itself.

Two tables have been pushed together, forming a long, uneven display: the popular heroes clustered on one side where most people stop—Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman—Robin placed neatly beside Batman like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and then, as the stand stretches on, the choices on people get stranger, more niche.

“Match?” Damian repeats, softer now, the word settling somewhere behind his ribs. His ears might as well perk up, even if he doesn’t realize it. He already knows the keychain will disappear into a drawer the second he gets home, hidden from judgment and siblings alike, but right now, standing here in the snow with you smiling up at him, he can’t bring himself to care.

Then something catches, sharp and unexpected.

The last time you wanted to match with him, it had been phone charms—two little chibi anime characters swinging from your cases, identical except for color.

Love interests.

The memory lands quietly but heavily, like snow piling up until a branch finally gives.

“Who are you picking?” he mumbles, resting his chin on your shoulder as you look at the stand, voice low enough that it almost blends into the hush of the park. Your hair tickles his cheek, your scarf smells faintly like your perfume and something warmer beneath it, and if the world were kinder to him, if this weren’t Gotham and public and complicated, his face would already be buried in it, pretending the cold didn’t exist at all.

Damian feels his stomach drop the moment you reach for it.

Your fingers hover for only a second before lifting the Flatline plushie from the stand, the small fabric body light and unassuming in your hand. You hold it up to show him like it’s obvious, like it’s already decided, snow catching briefly in the stitched hair before melting away. “Matching set, see—”

“No.”

The word cuts through the cold air sharper than it has any right to, abrupt enough that it startles even him. His smile is gone before you can register it, wiped clean like a slate dragged through snow.

You blink at him, confusion flickering openly across your face, your brows knitting together as if you’re trying to reorient yourself in a conversation that just took a wrong turn. “What do you mean no?” you ask softly. “Aren’t they dating?”

“No,” Damian repeats, faster this time, too fast, shaking his head with a firmness that feels rehearsed, defensive, like if he says it clearly enough it’ll become truer than it already is.

You hesitate, then glance back down at the plushie in your hand. It’s cute in that deliberately rough way—stitched eyeliner, a crooked smile, jagged strips of fabric meant to pass as hair. Someone put care into it. Someone thought it was charming.

You would agree.

To Damian, it’s a mirror he didn’t ask to look into.

From the outside, it probably looks like you’re considering whether to buy another toy. From the inside, he’s fourteen again for half a second, standing too close to a decision he made when he was younger and louder and trying very hard to be something other than a child. A pretty idea, he thinks bitterly. That’s what it was. Not good. Not smart. Just pretty in the way things are when you don’t yet know how sharp the edges can be.

Only a fourteen-year-old boy would do that to himself, he thinks—would step into a relationship with someone whose morals clashed so violently with his own and call it maturity instead of what it really was: curiosity dressed up as bravery. Damian was acting his age without realizing it. Making mistakes not because he was careless, but because he didn’t yet know what was worth protecting then.

“I swear I saw them kiss in some magazine when I was like fourteen,” you mumble, tilting your head just slightly, blinking that way you do when you’re genuinely confused, the kind of look that would melt someone else entirely, maybe make them brave enough to reach out and take your hand. But Damian has priorities right now.

“Nope.” He shakes his head firmly, voice low and final, cutting through the muffled hum of the park.

“Well… she’d still go really cute on my bag,” you murmur, eyes dropping to your black purse with its silver clasps, silver catching faint light and matching the tiny chains on the plushie like a cosmic coincidence.

“If you want something to match your bag—get like… I don’t know… Black Canary? I’ll get Green Arrow and—”, Damian starts up hopelessly.

You pause, shrugging, as if you can’t quite see the logic or consequences of this little suggestion.

“Do you have something against emos?” You chuckle, awkwardly, nervously, because the way he’s gripping the strap of his backpack and staring at the plushies like they’re miniature conspirators is absurd and almost endearing.

Damian wants nothing more than to bury himself in snow and never come out, to let the cold cover him like armor, but there’s warmth in your voice, stubborn and bright, that sticks to him anyway, like the last ember before winter fully claims the city. He shifts, quietly, unsure whether to scowl or laugh, and the snow keeps falling, silent witness to the chaos you bring.

“Babe… I go to Comic Con,” Damian sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted by a battle he knows he’s losing. “What do you think?”

“Then…” you brighten instantly, voice lifting with dangerous cheer, “…I’m buying her!”

It’s obvious now—you’re doing this on purpose. Less about matching, more about poking him until he reacts. You pivot on your heel, already half a step past him, snow crunching under your boots.

“So you hate me,” Damian says, loud and dramatic, pitched just high enough to be heard over the low murmur of the park.

That’s what stops you.

You freeze mid-step, breath fogging in front of you as the words settle in your chest. It’s ridiculous. It’s harmless. And it sounds exactly like something a clingy, needy girlfriend would say to get her way.

Worse—you’re pretty sure you’ve said it to him before.

Slowly, you turn back around, eyes narrowing with interest instead of concern. 

Oh. 

Oh two can play that game.

“Oh?” you hum, leaning into it, letting your shoulders slump just a touch. Your voice softens, exaggerated, wounded in a way that’s almost theatrical. “So… you don’t trust my taste?”

You glance down at the plushie in your hand, thumb brushing over the stitched smile, then lift it up beside your face like a comparison photo, tilting your head. Snow dusts into your hair and clings to your scarf, framing you like you’re part of the display.

“You don’t think she’s pretty?”

The park seems to go quiet around him—snow falling heavier now, lights blurring, the vendor’s stand glowing too brightly in his peripheral vision. Damian feels heat crawl up his neck as if Gotham itself is laughing at him, every flake of snow another accusation.

He stares at you, at the plushie, at the smug little curve of your lips that he wants to kiss off.

More importantly though, Damian wants to bury himself in the snow.

After he kills himself.

Preferably before you say anything else.

Two options.

Yes—okay, fine, I’ll buy it for you—let’s match. And Damian knows the second he plucks up the courage to tell you his secret, the real, hidden identity beneath all the layers of leather, gadgets, and shadow, he’ll never be able to let it go. It will linger like a blade at his ribs, a promise unfulfilled. Fuck, maybe you won’t even care that he called his ex-girlfriend pretty in front of you, but he will. Damian holds honor like a lifeline, grips it harder than he does his own shadow, and the last thing he wants is to ever diminish yours—even with something so small, so meaningless to everyone else and possibly you.

No—just pick something else. And he has to watch it: the flicker of disappointment cross your face, subtle but sharp, like icicles breaking underfoot. Your shoulders slump, just a little, your smile forced and small, fragile against the cold wind curling through the skeletal branches overhead. It lingers for what feels like an hour in the still, gray Gotham afternoon, punctuated only by the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots. He hates it already.

So he picks neither.

Instead, Damian’s sharp gaze flicks past the smaller plushies—the chibi Robin, the little Flatline you’d picked up with careful hands—to the towering, overpriced giants at the back of the stand. 

Batman and Superman, looming like they’ve stepped out of a newspaper cartoon, stitched with care, their soft capes catching the faint light of the hanging bulbs strung along the vendor’s table. 

The tags gleam, $150 each, bold and unapologetic. 

Or.

Hold onto a spinning pull up bar for 10 minutes for a chance to win.

“We match with those,” he says, voice low but decisive, a knife of authority cutting through the quiet hum of the falling snow.

You blink, heart tipping forward in your chest, tracking his line of sight, eyes glistening as they flicker between him and the plushies. Your words come out hesitant, fragile, soft as frost melting on bare skin. “I…I don’t know, Damian…those are…a little pricey. And if your thinking about the second option I don’t want you to strain yourself—”

Not a no.

Damian practically runs to that fucking bar.

There’s a small wait, stretching like it’s testing your hesitance, the snowy Gotham afternoon muffling the usual chaos of the park. Two boys, maybe fifteen, fumble at the little bar, their hands slipping over the smooth surface. You wince when the taller one loses his grip entirely and falls backward into the snow, boots flailing, a small puff of icy powder puffing around him. 

Your scowl sharpens as the old man running the bar part of the stand cackles, the laugh too loud, too brittle, a sound that makes the air feel colder.

You open your mouth, “Hey, I don’t know—” and stop. Mid-sentence, your gaze falls on Damian. And all the chatter, the clatter, the wind whipping icy flakes into your scarf, fades. He’s there, quiet but unyielding, every movement precise, deliberate. His shoulders squared against the cold like a prince, his hands adjusting the straps of his backpack, the faint tilt of his chin, the way he surveys the small chaos of the park as if he can contain it all with sheer will.

And he notices you. Not the boys or the falling snow or the absurdly loud old man—just you. The way your fingers curl slightly tighter on his coat sleeve, the tilt of your head, the slight flush rising against the winter chill. 

You can feel it in the way he shifts, the careful calculation of his steps, the subtle angle he takes to stand beside you rather than in front of you, the gentle awareness of your personal space. He carries you in that way, like he’s holding both of you in balance without touching too tightly, a quiet knightship that leaves a warmth behind.

Okay. 

Weirdo.

The thought strikes, soft, unbidden, curling like smoke into your chest. Determined, stubborn, impossibly careful—he’s all of it and somehow still this impossibly magnetic presence, grounding and wild all at once. You notice the sharpness of his jaw under the winter light, the way his silky black hair captures a few snowflakes, the way he carries himself like every small motion is meant to shield you, protect you, be near you without needing to touch.

…Your weirdo.

And it hits differently now. You can’t help it; you watch the way he shifts, just the faintest tilt of his head toward you, the way he glances at your footing on the cracked snow covered pavement, small things that are just for you. You want to reach for him, to lean into that protection, to let yourself melt into the care he carries in the simplest motions. 

The thought betrays you before your mind can resist: he’s yours, always has been, and the snow, the park, the ridiculous little plushies, they all fade to the edges. All you can see, all you can feel, is him.

“Hey.” You mumble it so quietly it almost dissolves into the cold air, more breath than word.

Damian glances down at you, dark and thick brows knitting just slightly, thrown off by how suddenly your demeanor shifted from hesitant to soft, how the energy around you has shifted. The park hasn’t changed—snow crunching under boots, the two teenage boys still failing spectacularly at the bar a few feet away, the old man hovering near the stand like a gargoyle—but it feels like the space between you has narrowed anyway. The fair hums around you, crowded and loud in theory, yet everyone is wrapped up in their own little worlds, conversations overlapping and blurring together until it’s all just background noise.

“Mhm?” he murmurs back, instinctive, distracted—and then his hand is at your waist, firm and warm through layers of fabric, guiding you just a little closer to him, just a little farther from the walking path. It’s protective without being obvious, the kind of touch that says I’ve got you without ever needing to say it out loud.

You hesitate for half a second, then lean into your scarf, hiding your mouth and nose like it might save you from your own boldness. “Can we make out later?” you whisper, the words barely surviving the cold, ridiculous and sincere all at once.

For one frozen moment, Damian short-circuits.

Then he physically shoves you back toward the walking area with the most controlled and gentle force you've ever felt, his free hand flying up to yank his scarf over the lower half of his face, eyes wide and burning as red creeps up his ears. You burst out laughing immediately, loud and unrepentant, the sound bright against the gray winter air.

He turns away sharply, shoulders stiff, absolutely refusing to look at you, while you’re still cackling like you’ve just won something. And maybe you have—because even as he pretends to recover, its like his hand can't leave your side even for instant, lingering just enough to remind you that he did not say no.

“Happy?” Damian mumbles once the two of you are back in your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality. The space feels different immediately—quieter, sealed off from the cold and the crowd and the noise. No one else is home. Just you, just him. The heater hums low in the background, and somehow the room already feels warmer than it should.

“Very,” you say brightly, grinning down at the Batman and Superman plushies cradled in your arms. They’re oversized, ridiculous, far more expensive than anything you’d ever justify buying for yourself.

Damian hadn’t even broken a sweat.

The memory flashes uninvited: the way a small crowd had slowly gathered as he stepped up to the bar, coat shrugged back just enough, gloves still on, expression bored in that familiar way that always means he’s about to show off without admitting it. The effortless strength in the way he’d lifted himself, clean and controlled, hanging there like gravity was optional. The man at the counter growing redder by the second because he must have been sure the bar was polished to the point of only causing slip. 

The murmurs. The phones discreetly angled because Damian Wayne is practically a B-list celebrity. 

And Damian—trying and failing to hide his grin because you were staring at him like he hung the sun and strung the moon.

Even bundled up, even half-hidden behind winter layers, the way you looked at him had warmed him more than the coat ever could. He’d felt it in his chest, in the way his balance wavered for just a split second when he caught sight of your face.

Especially when you’d turned that sharp, unapologetic glare on the small group of women giggling nearby, daring them to keep looking.

That glare—Gods. It was the only thing that almost made him lose his grip entirely.

Now, back in the apartment, he watches you from a few steps away, plushies in your arms, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, eyes bright and satisfied as you find a place on your bed to situate the one you want to keep. His shoulders finally loosen, tension bleeding out of him as he exhales.

Yeah.

You’re happy.

The proof of it makes his heart settle.

⸝⸝ ₊ ⊹ damian wayne-al ghul tag list tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) : @foivetimesacharm, @tasia13, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @strawbrysapphic, @theonlyshowgirl, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @kekeanna266, @nayy-a,

reblogs and replies always appreciated, lmk what u think .ᐟ

© shisuni all rights reserved

this black-furred creature is not worth wasting your time on, especially considering the little guy tried to demand that you give him your uniform, which you so politely declined.

probably a bit too big for some creature your size, buddy. better luck next time, you guess?

then, like any normal person would in a situation like this, you simply walked off as quickly as you could away from this rude ass cat while ignoring its complaints along the way. you have better things to do anyway.

walking into what can be assumed as a library, you take the chance to give the whole place a once over. seems like floating objects are the norm here. yup. sure. wow. there were also floating books about in the air. so much knowledge stored in these books maybe you'll learn about the world you've been so rudely thrown into without consent.

you reach out a hand, an inch away from touching a book when the grating voice of that dark feline from earlier catches up to you in no time. you close your eyes, taking a deep breath in. two seconds, you could feel it.

the thing yells at you for the audacity of running off and threatens to like cook you to a crisp if you didn't take off your—

a whip wraps around the creature, cutting it off from its rant as a cloaked figure with a raven's beak-like mask emerges from near you. the tall man's glowing eyes piercing through the mask stare back at yours, as he lightly reprimands you for bringing a poorly trained "familiar" — excuse him-? familiar? — of yours onto school grounds and violating school rules while he as well as expresses being glad that he found you and all that. the cat tries to escape the whip but the grip quickly tightens up even more, shutting the little guy up for sure.

you decided to tune out the rest of the man's rants as it went through one ear out the other. remaining quiet for most of the time and you only responded in short, half-hearted sentences based on some words you picked up from crow-feather, wearing an expression that shows that you'd rather be anywhere else but here.

the man before you probably noticed already but chose not to point it out.

you blink once and already found your feet taking you through the school courtyard you passed by earlier on your way towards the library, listening to the bird talk about the school and — something something something — the purpose of the black horses that brought you here, magic being the norm here, how sending a carriage to meet someone on this special day is a time-honored tradition, yada yada yada-

ok you REALLY NEED to get your ass outta here at this point. you don't WANT to spend another second in a world that you could've been spending your time relaxing in your room instead, especially not when you've been non-consensually sent to a universe you probably have little knowledge for, which gives you a whole disadvantage (which just worsens your mood even further if you weren't already before).

usually you'd be given a heads up or a kind-of run down about the universe you'll be thrown into in a bit, whether it'd be a small hint or so obvious enough it'll be the first thing that instantly pops into your mind.

glancing around the area, nothing around here seems familiar to you in the slightest. almost nothing here seems to stand out in a way that makes this world unique in a way that makes it look recognizable in a manner, besides the buildings overall.

didn't this man say this is a magic academy? what's it called, night raven college? kinda funny how the man is dressed like a raven, hahahah gotta live up to the name of your academy... huh?—

wait. night raven college? THAT college? as in the one in... twisted... wonder...

your tracks stall just for a moment upon the inevitable realization and the tall, coat-wearing man notices your brief moment of hesitation, stopping his long talk about something. sorry you weren't bothering to listen yet again.

“hmmm? is something wrong?”

“erm, uh, no. not- nothing worth worrying about. i just got a bit,” your response trailed off mid sentence, searching for the proper words to convey your feelings in this moment without revealing too much, “... distracted, headmaster.”

it was difficult to ever decipher what face the crow-feather man was making with the mask in the way, shielding his real eyes from sight. you.. are almost tempted to smack it off his face, to unconceal the mystery behind the glowing yellow eyes of his mask, but first impressions make up a big part of how a person sees you overall so nevermind.

he seems to take your excuse quite well. “hm, i see. very well then. but don't get too absent-minded, my dear student, you have an orientation to get to!”

... okay, damn. attending college all over again. you just, pray, that everything at least goes smoothly, you thought with a growing headache as you walk closer and closer towards the chamber building up ahead.

(though, your gut tells you this will not be a smooth journey and you'll probably leave this world a little traumatized & more tired than you'll ever be (nothing that you're already used to daily)).

thanks to a few people you've met that rambled to you a lot (regardless if you're willing to even lend an ear), you have a basic understanding of Twisted Wonderland so this might make your life in this new world a bit easier than ever.

better having even a little bit of knowledge than have none at all.

each of the characters are incredibly unique & charming in their own special ways, some were irritating yet still worth paying your attention on. you admit that you can't bring yourself to play favorites on the cast. even the rare occurring npcs are a great bunch.

it's an intriguing concept to make each individual inspired off a specific character that is on the "bad" side of their designated disney film, even some (though very few, since their screen time is limited sadly) beings are based on the characters on the "good" side. a few not even specifically based on a character but implied to (jack howl).

already knowing the basics of the plot and story of this world is an advantage you have in your grasp, though you can't remember it all to the T you just have to trust your memory most of the time if you want to narrowly avoid unwanted situations.

you can't say the same for the overblots, however. regardless of what you do, something you've learned, there's a very thin chance you'll be able to change the story by attempting to stop a major plot point that is almost unchangeable. they mostly play an important part in character development for a lot of characters. in this context, ESPECIALLY the overblotters themselves. you don't even know how you'll thrive and survive in this world well enough!

(once recalling your friend complain about book 6 & 7 made you ponder whether your survival chances might be slim or not).

... well, it's alright. sort of. you've gone through worse dimensions than this one. you could sort your predicament out somehow someway.

almost getting your head chopped off by the queen herself when you betrayed her side to a young girl who didn't belong there in the first place, momentarily hypnotized by the great vizier to be used as a pawn against your partner in crime and the princess (almost dying while you're at it, yep), about to die to a poisoned apple that was offered by an old lady clad in black when a panicked-looking squirrel came out of nowhere and startled you into dropping it into a river, swiftly swimming away just a few feet from getting zapped into nonexistence like those poor unfortunate eels, pushed off a cliff into a hoard of prickly bushes at the bottom by a youthful looking woman who wanted you out of her daughter's life to her own advantage (rude), being sent to the underworld against your will and almost become one with the spirits there like your buddy (already insane enough), being momentarily used as a sacrifice for some priest's wild goal, etcetera etcetera.

you've been through a lot, and those are just a few from what you could name from the top of your head; not even the most insane experiences of experiences you've encountered.

might as well accept this life as a freshman in a college to be used as a potential pawn, a tool. as a mere means to an end in this dog eat dog world.

basically ignoring the tense atmosphere & the stares from the many cloaked people — as well as the whispers coming from some students — you calmly stride into the mirror chamber while being led by crowley (and the lil guy named grim, whose name that you finally remembered, restrained by the headmaster) at your side. near the middle, there was a fairly familiar giant levitating mirror with a familiar frame and familiar mask floating in the mirror's reflection...

yeah, there's no mistake. the mirror itself even seems to recognize you by the changing constructions of its mask, confirming your suspicions.

the damned magic mirror.

didn't think I'd see you again after this long, you think with a deadpan expression as you look up at the mirror itself, where it briefly (somewhat) mirrors your look as if it read your mind just now.

if you weren't in this situation at this very moment, you would've hit up some small talk right now but — again — your orientation (and risking your reputation by making others stare at you crazy for speaking so casually to the dark mirror as if you're old friends? nope. nuh-uh).

“state thou name...”

... still sounded as ‘tired’ and blunt as ever. whatever, you sigh, let's get this over with.

“█████.”

“[yuu]...” what? [yuu]? that.. ain't your name??? wait a shitting second, that's— “The nature of your soul is... ...... ......”

...

“...unclear to me.”

the headmage is rightfully shocked at this piece of information. “What did you say?” WHAT did you say?! you thought with even more flabbergasted-ness than crowley, composure momentarily cracking to reveal your surprise and slight irritation. great. you have gained the main character-ness.

you originally thought to live your life peacefully until graduation after being assigned your respective dorm (who knows what you would do during the overblots. that's up to future you to deal with), but this universe made the great decision to assign as you as yuu, the mc. the main character of twisted wonderland. the ramshackle prefect of night raven fucking college. you should've known when that damned grim chased after you.

oh, you are most definitely not having that peaceful life anymore.

quietly sighing to yourself, you bring a hand to your forehead to massage it. a migraine, you can almost feel it.

fuck my life, damn it.

you almost wanna end it all right here and there...

© thedemises 2026. all rights reserved. do not repost, copy, translate, feed my work to AI, or claim my content as your own.

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Masterlist

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Masterlist

This was probably crazy. It was definitely crazy right? People didn't actually get to pursue their passions and have their dream job under relentless capitalism, that wasn't a thing right? So then why did you think that you could be different? Especially standing on this road (dirt path really) looking at the crumbling wreck of a farmhouse with only one suitcase and a backpack to your name.

The property had already taken a chunk of your savings and you'd need every penny of the rest to try and turn it into what you imagined. You walked over the threshold and took a breath. It was a rainy day, the puddles on the floor evidence of the holes in the roof. Parts of the floor were cracked and rotting. Only one window had managed to stay completely intact, the rest either totally gone or cracked beyond repair. But when you turned the tap and found that after a heroic sputter the water did flow through you grinned. 

It didn't matter how the small space looked now, it mattered what you could see in it. You got to work.

--

You threw the screwdriver on the ground and huffed, stopping your feet like a child. This was the 5th time you had attached the new front door and the 5th time it was wrong. It wouldn't fit in the frame properly. You kept plaining down the edge gingerly, taking off a tiny bit at a time so you didn't go too far, and every time when you propped it up it seemed like it fit until you actually added the hinges.

"Ye ok there hen?"

Oh that was embarrassing, there was a man on the road. He was jogging in place, pausing what must have been a run judging by his workout gear to give you a bemused grin. You flustered a little, wildly gesturing to the door in accusation. You had every good reason to be in a huff, the door was being a dick. 

He laughed at you and you blew out a breath before groaning and slumping down to hug your knees and bury your head there in embarrassment, your voice muffled.

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong, it just won't go on."

You heard warm laughter and then footsteps coming towards you. Felt a hand gently petting at your head in a 'there there' gesture. 

"I wouldnae expect it tae. It's the wrong type of door for this frame."

You unburied your head and looked at him, aghast. 

"But can't I just make it smaller? I've been making it smaller. I really love that door."

"Aye that would eventually make it fit, but it's an interior door, wilnae dae fuck all to keep the elements oot."

You groaned and just accepted your fate, falling back on your ass and then laying star fished on the ground to stare at the sky. You were bone tired. You'd laid the floor, it was crooked as hell. The windows were fitted but two of them just did not open properly and you couldn't figure out why. You had given up on the leaks, putting buckets down for the moment and hoping the next downpour would hold off until you could come up with a solution.

It wasn't like you weren't trying your hardest, but it was just so much all the time and you wondered why on earth you thought you could do this. A shadow fell over you as the man leant to look at you with a smile.

"I can help ye with the door" he offered, holding out a hand which you took to shake from your spot on the ground, telling him your name. "Nice tae meet you, John MacTavish."

"I can't pay you John MacTavish, so thanks but I'll figure something out."

"Wisnae offering for pay hen, just tryin' tae help a damsel in distress."

You considered him for a moment before hauling yourself up and making your way inside, motioning for him to follow. You started tearing through the place to find a pen and paper, clearing tools and assorted nonsense off of the countertop to lay the paper flat. 

Johnny took the place in with some sense of awe. Last time he saw this place it was basically a ruin and he had to hand it to you, you had done a half decent job with it. There was charm in all the flaws, made the place feel undeniably cosy. He noted the buckets, would have to fix the roof. He wasn't any good at that kind of work, but hadn't he seen Rudy doing roof work on one of the safe houses before? They were due a visit from Los Vaqueros soon, he'd ask him to come help. Wasn't too far a trip, this road was a half hour run from a small off record military base the 141 tended to use when they didn't feel like being miserable in some rules bound grey prison of a base.

Rudy was a bit like him, always loved a project. He tried to figure out what exactly you were doing with the place. The counter looked like a bar of some sort, maybe a shop? 

"Ok John, here you go" you said, presenting the very hastily written contract. 

I, the undersigned, agree that I will pay in full Mr John MacTavish for works carried out either in monetary value or services/goods of equivalent value as soon as I have the means to do so. 

"Services and goods eh? Wit ye selling?"

"Once I get the place fixed up, tea."

Johnny couldn't help but grin at your expression. You were so determined and so excited about the prospect, like the idea of it had completely re-filled your energy. Cute.

"Add coffee to the menu and you have a deal."

--

You liked Alejandro immediately and immensely. John, or Soap as you were now calling him and honestly you had no clue why, and Rudy were absolute terrors together. You actually did enjoy being around them, but my God if it didn't tire you out something awful. It was impossible not to be high energy with them, bouncing around and laughing and having fun. But when Alejandro had joined he had calmed you down, allowed you to take it slow and easy after days of feeling like a live wire. 

With the roof fixed and a front door that worked you were able to start actually unpacking the suit case you had brought into the place months ago. Two kettles and your favourite tea set along with a big copper pot you loved, some utensils and some hand blended tea. It wasn't a lot, but being able to make that first pot of tea almost made you cry. 

You were extra attentive, making sure it was brewed perfectly before going outside to find the others. You were nervous, the first time you had felt that way around them. None of the three were much for tea, that you knew. 

"Hey I... uh, I made tea. I don't actually have any coffee just yet but I promise I'm going to get some soon! It was just in the meantime, if you wanted something to drink. Tea I mean, if you wanted to drink some tea. Which you do not have to" you rambled, trying to give your best winning smile to the three men currently working away at one of the windows. The ones that you couldn't open you had installed completely wrong so they had taken to reinstalling them. 

Johnny and Rudy were content to watch you ramble away, seeing you like this being new to them so choosing to enjoy it while it lasted. You were adorable like this, heart on your sleeve telling them that it was important to you that they enjoyed something you had made for them. Alejandro only smiled and pulled off his gloves, stuffing them in his back pocket and going over to you.

"We would love some tea, it's the first time you've made it here no? Thank you for trusting us to share it" he said warmly, watching how you visibly relaxed. He liked that he could have that effect on you.

"Well if the boss says we drink tea then we drink tea" Rudy laughed, him and Soap following after.

--

You reckoned that if he went by first impressions, Simon Riley probably thought you were the biggest airhead he had ever met. In your defence though, you had the worst cold known to man when he had come round. 

The place was looking great, but the fireplace wasn't done yet. As you had been since starting this project, and as you had been hiding from any visitors, you were sleeping in the building in a sleeping bag on the floor. It was getting bitingly cold and you were bundled up in layers whenever you went to bed. You could not afford to rent somewhere nearby while this was going on and to be honest you hadn't really thought ahead to what you would do when you actually opened the place. Probably just keep on sleeping on the floor, or maybe once you got furniture on one of the cosy armchairs you wanted to get.

He had made a house call when you were miserably sipping at a hot chocolate. Rudy had taught you how to make it, a recipe from Mexico. It was gently spiced and beautifully warming and smooth, but with your current cold you could barely taste it, hence the misery. 

"Y'should really lock the door, I could be a murderer walking in here."

The man who had walked in was tall, in full tactical gear and wearing a balaclava with a skull on it. Probably was a murderer.

"Please put me out of my misery Mr murderer."

You honestly hadn't meant to say that to a complete stranger, but it felt like your head was stuffed with cotton wool instead of grey matter today. Thankfully he only chuckled gruffly instead of fulfilling your request.

"And then where would I get more of whatever tea Johnny brought back to base?"

Johnny. Right, this must be Ghost then. Soap talked about him sometimes, said him, Gaz and Price liked your tea which had made you jump up and down in excitement at the time. Your signature blend had taken you years to get just the way you liked it. Soap had also said something about Ghost having a mask, so you at least assumed this wasn't one of the other two. 

"Oh right, let me get you some to take away with you. Hang on" you said, going to pack some of the leaves up into a little brown bag for him. 

You put it on the counter and then went into the cupboard, grabbing the mug you had gotten in a Halloween sale. It was a white mug in the shape of a ghost, two little eyes on the front. You ladled in some of the hot chocolate from the pot on the stove and put that on the counter as well. 

Ghost watched the whole thing with concealed amusement. He had genuinely come to get some of the tea, he liked the blend and they had run out of what Johnny had brought. But he had also come out of curiosity. It was clear Johnny was fond of you from the way his eyes lit up when he'd tell them all what he had done with you that day whenever he would come back to base. Rudy and Alejandro too when they had been visiting seemed enamoured, tense from mission planning right up until a visit to you would have them coming back relaxed and happy.

Part of him had been hoping to scare you a little showing up the way he had in gear and mask. It was probably because you were clearly sick, but you weren't treating him like something scary. No, you were sluggishly getting him tea and then giving him hot chocolate in a cute little ghost mug.

"You shouldn't be working sick, definitely a health and safety violation."

"Place isn't open yet so not technically working."

"In that case, thanks for the hot chocolate."

When he left, he took off his massive cosy looking jacket and draped it over your shoulders without a word before grabbing the bag of tea and taking off.

--

You tried a bunch of names for the cat and none of them seemed to fit just right. The scrappy little thing started hanging around the place when you started leaving out snacks for it and you found you enjoyed the company. 

The place was nearly ready now, interior cosy and furnished with a bunch of mismatched furniture you had thrifted that somehow managed to match the vibe very well. With the fire going the place glowed just the way you had always dreamt it would, and the way the scent of tea clung pleasantly to the air was more than you could have hoped for. Simon and Soap had helped haul a lot of the furniture, but they had been gone for a month now. You really hoped you would see them again so you could show them the place now, completely transformed from when they last saw it. 

Cosy enough now for this cat to enjoy at least. She even had a favourite spot, one of the wing backed armchairs by the fireplace. 

"How about Binks?" you asked her, currently leaning behind the counter and mulling over a cup of tea. 

In response the cat only yawned and blinked lazily at you. 

"Ok, not Binks then" you laughed, taking a sip and sighing in contentment. Honestly who knew if you'd ever get customers, this place was completely out of the way, but you were proud of what you had created. Dirt poor, but proud. You'd open soon you thought, actually give this a go. 

The cat eventually stretched and padded over to the door, looking over at you expectantly. 

"Alright alright, time for you to go wherever it is you go" you said, going over to open the door and let her out. 

There was a giant on the other side of the door and you all but jumped out of your skin in surprise. The man looked like he had been considering knocking, just as surprised as you were for a moment. Purring broke you both out of your surprise, the cat butting up against the man's legs.

"So this is where you've been getting to Herzogin" he said to the cat, leaning down to give her some scratches which resulted in more purring before she went right back to her spot on the chair, leaving you and the giant stood at the doorway alone.

"Is Herzogin her name? I'm sorry, I thought she was a stray" you said with a slight smile, hoping you hadn't accidentally become a catnapper.

"She is a stray of kinds, the base nearby feeds her sometimes so I got used to having her around is all."

"Oh my God the base! That makes way more sense now, I didn't realise there was something like that nearby."

So that's where all these men had been coming from. You wondered if that meant Ghost, Soap, Rudy and Alejandro weren't stationed there anymore or had been moved. The military wasn't something you understood, but you assumed they must move around a lot. Did they have a home base of sorts? Was it selfish of you to sort of hope the one near you was a home base for them?

"If they had told us about this place we would have visited" the man said as if in apology.

"Oh no don't worry, I'm not actually open yet. I'm just sort of practicing drinks until I work up the nerve" you laughed. "Do you want to try something? I'm best at making tea, but I've been trying out coffees and hot chocolates as well."

You moved to unblock the doorway, inviting him in and telling him your name. He said you could call him König. Luckily this place had high ceilings so he could experience the cosiness without it being cramped for him.

König found the next few hours to be some of the most calming he had experienced in years. He wouldn't deny that he enjoyed the bloodthirst of battle, it gave him a manic energy that suited him. But there was something to be said for letting himself be fully off duty. It was nice to teach you how to make Einspänner, laugh at your pronunciation of it and have you laugh back rather than be nervous around him for his size or his reputation. Sipping his drink by the fire with a cat in his lap and you softly telling him all about your big plans for the place if it started to do well was something he hadn't known he had been yearning for. 

He knew him and the others in Kortac were only here a few more days, the 141 being gracious in allowing them to use their base to lay low while they handled the absolute mess happening in America just now. The whole thing had at least given the teams an uneasy alliance for the time being. Maybe he'd put some effort into keeping that alliance going so he could visit again. 

--

You knew that you should do some sort of advertising for an opening, but the idea was overwhelming. Instead you just quietly popped a little open sign by the door and went about your day as normal. You would probably get nobody coming in because nobody knew this was here and that suited you fine. It felt like once 'opening day' was over and the pressure of it was out of the way, then you could actually seek out customers and not feel like it was as big a deal. 

If zero people showed up your first day then the only direction was up right?

Only two people did show up. Price and Gaz. They had greeted you warmly like you were an old friend, explaining that they knew Soap and Simon who would be home soon but that they wanted to visit themselves. They seemed to like the place which made you happy, both settling in at one of the tables and chatting amicably away with you while you made their tea. 

Herzogin didn't seem to care that there was company, barely even looking to check before curling back up in her spot happily purring away.

Captain Price found he liked this place immediately. It struck him as bordering on fantastical, seeming like a tea shop from a fantasy novel on the inside. It was an hour at a brisk walk to get here but he regretted not making the trip sooner, imagining that any customer who had come once would certainly become a regular regardless of distance. It was a relaxing spot, almost nostalgic feeling. 

For Gaz the place was lovely, but he was more fascinated with you. He had wanted to visit before, had tried to tag along with Ghost and Soap and been denied. He reckoned he probably knew why now, bastards were being selfish and keeping you all to themselves. 

"Is it always so quiet for you on weekdays at this time?" Price asked at some point in the conversation, watching the pretty blush that stained your cheeks with interest.

"Oh well technically, this is the first weekday I've been open at this time. It's actually sort of opening day? I mean I didn't really advertise or anything, I wasn't actually expecting anyone to show up if I'm honest" you replied sheepishly.

"It's a soft open then, just to test everything out yeah?" Gaz said gently.

"I think that's an idea. This can be your soft open and then in a week you can open proper. That way Ghost and Soap can be here for it" Price added.

Both of them were giving you such soft looks that you couldn't help but agree with them, settling on a date in a weeks time for a real opening. When the conversation turned to how you would advertise they had promptly told you not to worry about it with a knowing look to one another.

--

Every seat in the place was taken and the tables and counters were overflowing with sweets and snacks from all over the world. Bukkumi, halva, berlinerkranser, churros, shortbread, teacakes, all brought in for everyone to share. You were so busy making drinks that you didn't even register how ridiculous it was that you were happily hand fed bites of different desserts every so often by whoever happened to be near you when you stopped to fill a cup or mug. 

It was nice to see everyone you had met again and to meet new faces. Herzogin took it all in her stride, figuring out quickly who she liked. You hid a laugh seeing König huff when she curled up in Simon's lap. The official opening was by all accounts an outrageous success and everyone absolutely overpaid on their bills regardless of your efforts to stop them. 

Farah promised to teach you how to make the halva while Horangi swore that the bukkumi would remain a trade secret and you'd just have to hire him next time he was in town to make it for you. Aksel had rolled his eyes at the Korean man and pressed a kiss to your cheek in thanks for taking care of them. Kate smacked Soap upside the head when he immediately made a beeline to give you kisses as well which made you laugh before blushing and pressing a quick peck to his cheek when he pouted about it.

When everybody was finally out of the door you were absolutely exhausted. By the time the sound of the last car leaving faded away you were already done with tidying all the plates and cups away to the sink. You'd deal with the cleaning up tomorrow, you were far too beat to even consider doing it now. Giving Herzogin a kiss on the head after you had gotten ready for bed, you curled up in the chair by the fireplace, crashing out hard almost immediately.

--

"Told you so."

"Ye always have tae be right about everything don't ye LT."

"Alright. Get her in the car would you Sergeant."

"Right-o Captain, we kidnapping damsels now?"

"It's not a bloody kidnapping you cheeky bastard. We're putting her in a proper bed for the night and taking her back in the morning once she's made a bad attempt at explaining herself."

"She can take my room."

After some discussion on that point it was decided that you would indeed take Ghost's room with the reasoning it meant nobody would disturb you. They could hardly put you in one of the empty rooms where anyone might walk in. Everyone who they had invited for the opening was staying at base and they were not about to risk the likes of König or Rudy figuring out you were sleeping under the same roof as them. They'd avoid that for as long as possible.