tsaheylu

2154.

The next evening comes faster than you'd hoped it would, and your work ethic, which only exists bi-weekly (but mostly the fear of Grace-shaped retaliations), prevents you from calling in fake-sick. 

It does not, however, stop you from lingering by dad's desk, absently flipping through his latest addition to The Omatikaya: An Anthropological Study he swears he'll one day publish, until he gives you a look, which cannot be mistaken for anything else but a what are you still doing here? It doesn’t stop you from pestering mom into a fifteen minute long caffeine-induced lecture on propriety either. 

Ah, the little pleasures of life. 

What is definitely not a pleasure, however, is the lone man waiting for you at a teeny, tiny workstation, videologging and looking absolutely despondent—sighing, running a hand down his face, then two, rather roughly at that, muttering here and there, and, though inaudible, it all sounds unmistakably bitter. He seems otherwise content to just frown something fierce at the face reflected back at him on the upper screen. Which is his own (his brother's, you think, and how must that feel?), and—well. You'd recognize self-hatred anywhere, only by virtue of having practiced it religiously, these last few years. Great. You two are going to make such a pair. "...already out there while I'm stuck here. Reading—brochures and—" 

You interrupt him, as one does, by shoving your face at the stereocam, "books. He's reading books," and you gasp, for good measure, "he's reading." 

He nearly chokes on a breath, his neck cracking at the force with which he turns his head. Damn, how old is that guy? He gives you a glare that would have any five-years-old shaking in their boots. "That's twice in just as many days you've commented on my reading skills." 

"Yeah, well," you say, entirely distracted by your own face poking her tongue out at you from the upper screen, "Grace says Americans are a triple threat. Impudent, insipid and illiterate." 

"Grace is an american." 

With great difficulty, you turn your head, finding yourself nose to nose with Jake. From up close, he does look somewhat old. It's his eyes, you think—there's supposed to be a spark there, right? Or something. Anything, really. "Oh. Well, it takes one to know one and all that." 

"Uh-uh." 

"Anyway!" You're not about to psychoanalyze a war veteran, for fuck's sake! Though it is very tempting, it would also keep you awake at night, which you really don't need right now. Instead, you straighten, look down at him—fuck, bad angle, double chin, ugh—and flop down into the nearest chair. Bad idea, you realize, as your inability to hold eye contact for more than ten seconds rears its ugly head, and you're forced to behold him in all his sleeveless-shirted, which, okay you slut, tattooed and hairy-armed glory. Uh. Clearing your throat, you ask, "lab training?"

"None." 

"...cool. Any lab work, like, at all?" You try your best not to stare. Mom, who's probably monitoring your every move from the other side of the room, would simply faint if he decided to call you out on it. 

Jake huffs a sort of laugh, "she asked me the same thing," and boy, does the idea of turning into a mini-Grace send an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. "But, yeah, I guess," he shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. "High school chemistry. I ditched a lot though." 

Nodding slowly, you say, "I respect that." 

"Which part?" 

"Ditching. The rest is just pathetic and I'm ignoring it." 

"Oka—"

"Even more pathetic and terribly, terribly hard to ignore is—that," you point at his arm, and shit, but you are staring, "if there was such a thing as, like, an Uncool Tattoo competition, you'd win first place." You understand the sentiment, even relate, on some chronically miserable bastard level. But having to see it every time you check out Jake's biceps, which, you notice, have been happening at a rather alarming rate, just sour the whole experience for you. "Born loser," you quote, scoffing. "What's next? I'm depressed?"  

"Wow, okay, so Grace wasn’t kidding when she said you didn’t have any manners. You're rude as hell." He doesn't look half as mad as he could though. In fact, he doesn't look mad at all. Reluctantly amused, perhaps. Entertained. That's a good look on him. 

(Truth be told, you're a bit surprised at that. Impressed, even. Not about the good look part, no, but—well. It's hard being you, okay? After all, half of  Hell's Gate doesn’t know who you are, and the other is divided in four very distinct categories. 

The ones who simply ignore or avoid you on a daily basis, for their own peace of mind, you presume; the ones who antagonize you on purpose, because you're weird, eccentric when they feel especially kind, but they usually don't, so they stick to wacko, kooky, freaky—screwed up, you heard once—ah, whatever; the ones who tolerate you, are friendly even, but still look at you funny when you do or say something that is so very… you; and finally, the ones who love you, and though small in numbers, they make it up by never being too mad when you're rude, never looking too put off when you blather, or wear your noise canceling headphones, or refuse to put on a lab coat, gloves or, god forbid, that satin blouse Grace 'passed down' to you, which, by all accounts, is very pretty, but its texture on your skin, under your fingertips, your nails—gag reflex galore. Ugh. 

So, yes, sue you, you're a bit charmed, if entirely puzzled, when an individual does not fit in any of these neatly labeled boxes in your mind. There have not been many of those in your life, and most of them are dead or hate the very idea of you or currently being shunned by you. Yeah.)

(It scares you a little—this stranger, becoming one of them.) 

You hold a hand up, "we digress."

Jake tilts his head, smiling a small, curious smile. "You're doing that on your own." 

Shrugging, and feeling hot and bothered (not in the good way, to your eternal sorrow), you deflect, though from what, exactly, you have no fucking clue. "Where's Northman anyway?" 

"Norm." He sighs, "his avatar's out." Ah, that explains the abyssal lack of cheerfulness. Can you blame him? Absolutely not. This kind of longing eats you raw. 

"Sucks to be you," you say, and hope the grin you offer doesn't look too strained. 

Well, not as fake as his, by any rate. God. "Thanks." 

You must redirect, you realize. ASAP, as the Chief Engineer likes to bark at a defenseless, barely coherent you at six in the morning. Because—this conversation is going absolutely nowhere while your thoughts are, in fact, very much going everywhere, all at once. You know by now that it never ends well for you or the nearest bathroom. Or the therapist you wish you had. 

Mh. 

"So, you have been reading, right?"

"I—"

"And what is it that you're supposed to do here, anyway?" 

"The—" 

"I mean, full offense—"

"Wha—"

"—but high school chemistry level and ugly tattoo aside, what could you possibly have to offer the department—" 

"Would you—"

"—and, please, for the love of all things sacred in this world, do not give me the Dead Sibling, Legacy Challenge cliché sob story that I've heard at least twice before—" (and wow, fuck, that is insensitive, even for you, but you're on a roll now, the unstoppable force itself) "—or I will stab myself in the eye with that fountain pen and—oh my god , where did you get that fountain pen? I've looked literally every—" 

"I'm a Marine," Jake says, a little louder than is socially acceptable. And he does look a bit mad, now, though he directs his contemptuous glare at your left hand first, which still has two of its fingers raised, then at you, for a very brief, very sharp moment where his entire face seems to tighten, and finally, at a pair of overly curious botanists you've heard snickering at your laborious attempt at conversation. They scurry away the moment they're caught red-handed,  witnesses of a really awkward situation, though not before giving him a sympathetic look (the audacity!), a supportive pat on the shoulder, and a it doesn’t get better from here. "Was a Marine."  

You're about to go on yet another mental tangent when your brain screeches to a halt, alarm bells ringing your short-term memory back to the surface. I think I've found myself a new dog. Barely coherent, you think: that could be a coincidence, surely he wasn’t the only jarhead to disembark yesterday, I don’t believe in coincidence, why would Quaritch need an avatar driver for anyway, that son of a bitch, can't stand his fucking face—

Breath in. 

Breath out.

Instead of spiraling further, you first need to test the water, "...so, you've met Quaritch, uh?" 

He shrugs, looking a bit worse for wear—irritated, you think, and a small, tiny part of you shrinks in on itself. "Big word. He safety-briefed us yesterday."

Okay. Okay, false alarm then. Perhaps. Maybe. You contemplate pulling a few strings to get a list of names, occupations and, of course, zodiac signs, anything of use, really, about the newly arrived Earthians, so you can see for yourself just how many other idiots Quaritch could have under his thumb beside the one in front of you. Chagrined, you remember you don’t have any strings to pull, and even if your golden-child statue had offered some leeway in that regard, you are neither child nor golden anymore. 

"Okay, well," your sigh is so heavy you deflate with it, "if he ever tries to make buddy-buddy with you, run the other way, yeah?" 

Drumming his fingers on the workstation, Jake asks, "why?" 

It is a rather simple question, and you have a simple answer: because he's an asshole who likes to abuse the power he's been given. Because he shits on absolutely everyone and everything. Because he shoots kids for breakfast. Yeah, and there's a lot more—but all that comes out is, "why not? I'm your tutor and I say so." 

"...sure." 

"Alright!" Redirect! Empty your head, or whatever it is that dad always tells you when you're losing your mind a little. "So." Clearing your throat, you try, "I guess you've been assigned to security then?" 

"That's right." 

"Uh…you'll need to log in some link time through the proprioceptive sims," you point vaguely behind you, where link beds that are not really link beds are arranged in a neat little row of exactly two, "not even close to the real thing but, well, close enough, I guess. Closest, for sure. Uh," you scratch your head, "I want to say four hours. Daily. So you can catch up. But, well, maybe it's too much for a start…I'll—"

"I can do it." 

You eye him from head to toe. Men. "You don’t know that." 

"And I never will if you don't let me," he says, something almost defensive in the set of his shoulders. 

At first, you think he wants to argue. Unimpressed with that, though you might deserve it, you raise a brow. But, then—it's the way his brows flatline, how his eyes take on a decidedly darker undertone, and his lips thin, going down at the corners—you realize he's expecting to argue, expecting an argument. 

And, sure, you could make one, or several, about brain safety; mainly, how it wouldn’t do him any good to fry up the few neurons he has left and, also, how mental fatigue can fuck you up and lead to a shit ton of health issues. But, well, you've never been the type to tell someone what they should or shouldn’t do. Especially if it's reckless—you rather enjoy sitting back and watching as the consequences unfold. Stupidity is entertaining. Charming even, sometimes. 

In the end, you just say, "whatever," and if Jake looks a bit surprised, you don’t comment on it. He's earned it, you think, what with the way you've been a big meanie. "You'll do that in the mornings, after a full breakfast. I mean it—don't link on an empty stomach." 

And you must not look threatening enough, because the left side of his mouth tugs upward. Maybe he doesn't hate you, yet. "Okay." 

You squint at him, "...okay." Eyeing the workstation, you notice the two books you've lended him yesterday. "As for the rest, well, we'll go over the basics. Na'vi physiology, cultures, and languages. Pandora's ecosystem: weather, plants, animals, other—" your fourth finger freezes where it's started to rise when you notice his grimace, "—what." 

"It's just," he groans a bit, "it's going to take forever." He mutters a fuck! that you choose to ignore. You are, after all, awfully tired of thinking in circles. 

You decide to be nice, for a change. "It doesn’t have to. Be diligent in your studies. Prove Grace wrong—I love doing that," you grin, the picture of pride, you're sure, because not many can say they have, in fact, proven the witch wrong. The secret is quite simple, really: set the bar on the fucking ground—it'll be a surprise to everyone each time you rise above it, she-dragon included. Shrugging, you continue, "the department—we're pretty desperate, you know. We really do need all the help we can get, even if it comes in the form of…you. Just…yeah, know your shit. That's really all you need to do to get in. I mean, in…er? That you already are. Grace literally can’t afford to turn you away forever." 

He looks at you a moment, two. You think: that was the hardest part of my day, and I know for a fact that I can't possibly have fucked it up, because mom spent a lifetime, and all her saturdays, instilling politeness and kindess inside these weary bones, and if anyhting else, I am a damn good student. But he only says, "you need to work on the pep-talk thing. You're shit at it." 

You gasp a laugh, delighted. What a rude motherfu—

───────

(It is rather easy, being sort-of but not-really friends with Jake. 

It is rather easy with Jake; being.) 

───────

The new routine takes some time getting used to. You are not, after all, very fond of change, especially when you're not its instigator. It puts you on the spot, and while you're okay-ish at thinking on your feet, you're decidedly not at organizing—which you have to do a lot these days, what with your entire schedule being utterly fucked. Again.

Your super-secret evening shenanigans are thwarted, which is not ideal. Under duress, that is, the path you've chosen to walk and its looming, crippling, anxiety-inducing variables, you make room for them at night. It is not the brightest idea, but the only one that fits in with your newly acquired babysitting duties.

More often than not, though, it results in turning you back into your most primitive self. The version dad raises a brow at, while mom turns to crying in her coffee. Grace always says there isn't any difference from the usual, which is rather offensive because you're making an effort, god damn, and entirely uncalled for, because take a good, long look at yourself, you witch!  

It is your worst self, though—the sleep-deprived, antagonistic, touch me and die format. It even made a kid cry, once.

You tear Norm a new one when he accidentally (right) drinks from your Best Grandpa cup. You nearly slap the silly grin off his face every time he pronounces a word wrong during your Na'vi lessons, and you actually do whack the back of his head, rather forcefully, if the way your hand still smarts thirty minutes later is any indication, when he whines about wanting to go out. He doesn't mean out of this place, no, but out there, in the forest, with The People. While you (and Jake) are stuck here, and even if it is by choice (or not), you have every right to not be made to feel like—like this. At your own workstation! Well, more like Jake's really, but—whatever. 

Mom, used by now to the volatile moods that come whenever a big change occurs in your life, and the less likable you that emerges every time you're running on less than eight hours of sleep, doesn’t screech too loud when you glare, curse or ignore everything and everyone. She does, however, scream at you for a good five minutes when you purposely—just to feel something, damn it—put a foot under the wheel of a mostly stationary, but also fidgety Jake. It makes him jump so fucking high when he actually do roll over your poor toes, he nearly topples over. Ah!

Grace's on your ass for days after mom finally loses it and, on a friday morning, starts to cry hysterically. Hmph. You feel pretty hysterical, too, and the meddlesome woman doesn't help. Quite the contrary, in fact. And you think she knows. You think she does it on purpose, even, because she likes watching you suffer. She aggravates the shit out of you on a normal day, though the usual almost-fondness you associate with it all is nowhere to be found. She becomes straight up patronizing where she normally just is slightly annoying. 

("I'm not one of your students anymore," you tell her once, harshly, unkind, and totally over it. "I don't need your help, or whatever it is that you think you're doing here. I don’t want it. Save it for someone who fucking cares." And, because you can, you mutter, "though I'm pretty sure you're short on that sort." 

In the background, mom shakes her head, disappointed. Beside you, Jake's looking at you like he's never seen you before. And, Grace—well, Grace just wears her usual you do not amuse me face on. "Kid—" 

"Oh my god, fuck you. I'm not a kid anymore, either. Better yet, I'm—I'm not yours," and, shit , she looks so stricken at that, you almost take it back, but you're mad as hell, and your grievances at the world, you air at the next best thing, "you've proven yourself pretty inadequate for the role before, anyway. Sa'nok," you scoff, "more like—" 

"Hey." And, what the fuck. You flinch so hard and ugly at that one. Mom's too busy rubbing her wet cheeks, looking at Grace like an adoring, if very distressed puppy while Grace herself—well. She looks at you like you're a stranger. And it's Jake, of all people, whose right hand is hovering over your arm, whose left one is palm up between you and the rest of the world. Fucking Jake. 

You don’t know why he feels the need to intervene. A manly urge, probably, though you've never known dad to suffer those. Maybe it's the choking quality of your scoff, or Grace's pale face. Maybe it's your shaking hands, hers. You don’t know. And he doesn't know you, or Grace, or the history between you—the past, really, which is a chasm none of you try too hard to mend, lest you fail and it becomes a bottomless pit instead. You don’t even know whose side he's on. 

Grace choses for him. "It's fine, Sully. It's not even the worst thing I've heard today." It looks a bit like she's running away though, what with mom chasing after her like that—clumsy, as if she's never had to do it before. Coward.)

(Later, after you've drilled him on the cultural significance of both an olo'eyktan and a tsahìk, Jake tries, "so…I thought you two—I mean, you and Grace, that is. I thought you…liked her, at the very least, but—" 

"Not that it's any of your business," you state, and if you had glasses, you'd be looking down on him from over the top of them, "but whatever gave you that idea?" Of course you don’t like her—you love her. And, much like yourself, you think, chagrined, she's not the type of person you can both love and like. 

"She does." It's so nonchalant, the way he says it. You hate him a little right now. Don't be ridiculous, you tell him, but he forges on, "I—I don't want to sound, like, all douchey and shit, but she obviously does. And you just…threw it in her face." 

Well, that's uncomfortable. "At the risk of sounding friendly, Jake; stay in your fucking lane." Has everyone decided today is the day you finally reach the limit you've heard so much of? Without consulting you? Rude. 

"At the risk of sounding friendly," he repeats, says your name even, and the lack of snark unnerves you, "you don't get to decide shit about other people. Not even if they—" 

You don’t want to hear it. "Let's talk about your dead brother," you say, because that'll shut him up. 

It certainly does. "Fuck you." Though you don’t like the death glare he sends your way, or the absolute absence of that smugness you usually feel down your marrow. Uh. You don’t know what it is about that guy that throws you off-kilter, and you don’t especially want to find out either, but damn if it isn’t irritating as hell.) 

Each time he enters a room you're in, dad walks right back out. Whatever. Whatever. It's not like his long looks and sometimes-wisdom would do you any good, anyway. The one time he tries to impart some sort of advice on you, he makes a literal presentation, bullet points out and everything. In the biolab, of all places. And he forces you, Jake and Norm to sit through it all. You want to die a little. It is also the first thing that gets a real laugh out of you in days. 

So, yeah. You've become quite despicable these last few weeks. Sue you. As much as you like to think otherwise sometimes, you're only human, and, as such, susceptible to very and every human flaw. At constant risk of undergoing their trials and tribulations, too. Ugh. 

At least Jake—and who would have thought—takes it all in stride. Mostly. When you're not intentionally antagonizing him. Or bringing up his dead brother, which you do every time he starts talking about your problems, without fail. He tends to leave you the fuck alone when his sixth sense, the guts, you assume, tingles at your potentially fist-shaped ire. He lets you be. Even when a lecture about phonetic or bioluminescence or unobtanium turns into an incoherent jumble of words and noises, and he has to take fucking notes because you are not repeating that. And when you don’t lecture at all and take to staring blankly at the wall instead, Jake stares with you. 

Some days, the ones where you decide words are a better way to vent out your frustrations than brooding in a corner, he indulges you. You conjugate and punctuate every sentence with all known variations of the word fuck, and he just nods along, as if what you're saying is the most sensible thing he's ever heard. When those turn on him, and you insult him, his entire ancestry and his wheelchair, he blinks back at you, hums and after some consideration, dips his head. In acceptance. In agreement, perhaps. And it's a testament to your foul mood that you just keep going, because if there's one thing you hate above all else, it's to see someone being more miserable than you. How dare they. 

Sometimes, when you do, in fact, choose to brood in a corner, Jake joins you. You think he does this because he sometimes, but almost always, gets something out of it. Like that one time you eye Grace's cigarettes so long you forget to explain why, exactly, God and Mother Nature are very different concepts and how it's the latter who'll always be the closest thing to Eywa anyway, and he does the chivalrous thing by wheeling his way over and stealing them, the thief. You end up sharing the last five in a matter of half an hour.

(Or that time when he's late for your lesson—which is baffling because he literally has nothing better to do of his days than wait for you—and he shows up a bit more closed off than usual, but also way more eager to learn, quickly. Like a kid who's just been promised the spanking of a lifetime if he didn’t abide by daddy's wishes. You think it's all rather odd, and it irritates you, though you're certainly not about to ask him about his fucking day. Who the fuck are you? Mom? Ew. 

Instead, you abruptly close your worn-down copy of Pandoran Botany, and say, "my job here is done," before very dramatically standing up and turning on your heels.

Jake flounders for a bit there. "You haven't done anything!" When you don’t stop, he wheels after you, and he's fast, the little bitch. "Hey. Wait! Wait." You don’t either. He lets what sounds like a growl out. "What the fuck have I done wrong, this time?" 

You shrug, throwing your hands up, "everything. Nothing. I don’t know. Don’t ask me again." And you're ready to call it a day, really, what with having to work in the bowels of a random aircraft for hours on end only to stumble upon something far more puzzling than its reactor in your safe place. But—Jake calls your name, and that sounds a bit like begging. Well. You're a simple woman—having a man on his metaphorical knees will do it for you on just about any day. So, you swivel around, "what." 

He sighs, "I need you to teach me—"

"I havebeen teaching you, Jake. Every fucking day. For the last nine days!"

"Yeah. Thanks—" you gasp at his blatant lack of gratitude, fist already shaking at him, when he continues, "—but it's not—I'm not anywhere near ready. And I won’t be for—for months if you—if I— " 

"Okay," you interrupt, palm up, "I can tell you really want to accuse me of something. Go ahead." 

"I don't—" 

"It's alright. I've been wanting to hit something all day." 

"You—come on, you wouldn’t fight a paraplegic. That's low, even for you." 

"I would, and I will if you make me." 

"But that would make your mom cry." And here, he pouts. Ah! The bastard. He's witnessed that particular turn of events several times by now, and he knows Grace's always sourer than usual when that happens. On one rather embarrassing occasion, he's even seen dad walk in the biolab to chew your ear off about making women cry, of all things. As if you go around terrorizing the smarter, and far, far prettier part of the population! For fun! 

You sniff, "spit it out." 

"I need to get out there." 

"By all means," you make a sweeping gesture toward a door, "do go. Right now. And die." 

"That's not what I meant." 

"That's not what I meant," you repeat, though far whinier. He is greatly unamused, if the way he just blinks at you is any indication. But you are, too, and you outright hiss your displeasure. "What the fuck am I supposed to do, Jake? You waltz in here, unannounced, unprepared and unfunny, and you expect me to—what, exactly? Teach you what I spent a lifetime learning in the matter of days?" This all comes out more like a screech than the menacing tirade you were aiming for. Oh, well. "Wake up, bozo, it's not happening. You work your ass off, like I told you, and maybe, in like, three fucking years, when you stop confusing hexapods and exopacks, we'll revisit this conversation." 

There. You could have done better, sure, but also a lot worse. Who does he think he is, anyway? That little pest, making demands. What's next? Telling you what to do, probably. Men love to do that. Ugh! 

"I need a drink," you decide, walking away. And it would have been the end of that if Jake hadn't started following you. What, now? You don’t really care enough to ask, though, and just mutter a, "stalker," before silently allowing him to trail after you like a little kid who didn’t get his way. Sullen. Pouting for real now. Ah! 

Two hours later, you're tipsy as fuck, swaying to a song only Jake knows the tune of. He's terribly bad at it, you note, almost fond, but he's also more open than you've ever seen him—stolen whisky in hand, grinning at his own off-key voice, and watching you dance with something warm in his eyes. Itburns, you think. But you're very drunk, and it doesn’t make much sense. The only reasonable thought reaching all the way through your hazy mind is a chagrined, if a little smug, for some reason, he only likes me because I know where to find free booze. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care.) 

It's…nice. You'd almost forgotten what it feels like, making friends. Not that you and Jake are yet, though, without a doubt, you are heading in that direction, at a pace you usually reserve for learning about a new amphibian too. Which would—should be scary, but is suspiciously not, for some unfathomable reason. 

His gruff, no-nonsense approach to everything, including you sometimes, never fails to amuse you. The sense of humor he does have, surprisingly, is lame as hell, of course, but also rather entertaining if you're into watching someone self-sabotage on a daily basis, which you are. The fact he doesn't like Grace very much automatically puts him on your smart people list, though he is, in fact, the most idiotic man you've ever had the pleasure to meet. 

("Oel ngati kameie. There's a g in there, Jake." 

"Ngat." 

You're going to kill yourself, you think. "No." 

He groans, slumping further down in his wheelchair. "What does that even mean? I see you just fine, you're right in front of me." 

"Oh my god." What have you done wrong? Is this some kind of cosmic punishment? "I See you, with a capital s, you idiot." When he just looks more confused, you take a minute to lament your precious time being lost on such a loser. Taking a deep breath, you try, "seeing someone is to set aside any and all preconceived notions you may have had on them. You—it's spiritual, alright? To recognize, see into. To understand them. Yeah?" 

"Uh-uh." 

The sigh you let out ruffles his hair with the force you put into it. "Have you never felt seen? Like, truly, uncomfortably seen? Just laid bare for someone to—to take or judge, hoping they won’t. Hoping they give back instead."

"...I don’t have a fucking clue what you're talking about.") 

But, well—you've discovered yourself to be partial to stupidity, especially when it comes in the form of a rough-around-the-edges war veteran. Ah. 

Whatever. 

───────

There's not one precise moment where it all falls into place, but it does. Like falling asleep, or whatever it is that people say: slowly, then all at once. One day, you're a monster, the next, a human being. The entirety of the biolab lets out the breath they've been unanimously holding for the last couple of weeks. 

Coming down from that particular high is a bit embarrassing, truth be told. Mom spends an entire week not talking to you, and while Grace does, it's stilted, wrong. You don’t want to further humiliate yourself by apologizing, so you do the next best thing. Instead of beelining for Jake the moment you step foot in the biolab, you rush over to Grace's side and barely hesitate before hugging her hard enough to suffocate. You even rub your cheek on her shoulder, for good measure. She doesn’t hug you back, but she also doesn’t verbally eviscerate you on the spot, which is always a good sign. 

Mom has taken to clapping and cooing every time you do something slightly nice. Revolting. Dad doesn't look at you as if you're one step away from a full mental breakdown. Norm, while still cautious around you, is not afraid to make jokes anymore, and when you actually laugh at one of them, he lights up like a christmas tree. 

To make sure he knows how much you appreciate him not being a complete ass to you during your…episode , you make Jake a favorite person of the week paper badge, which he politely accepts but doesn’t wear, much to your chagrin. He does, however, tape it to the bare and very sad looking wall behind his workstation. Good enough. 

To make sure he knows how much of a dick you still are—for your reputation's sake, really—you laugh at him at lunch, every time he looks put out at not being included in a conversation, or when Grace starts a particularly inspired tirade when he so much as opens his mouth. 

To your eternal delight, he does the same: when you start to rant about something vaguely engineering-related and Grace decides now is the perfect time to debate man versus nature, or each time your anti-rambling leash gets away from you and you talk and talk and talk until you realize no one's paying attention. 

He's trying not to show how impatient he's become, but he's shit at it, what with the constant fidgeting and sighing he does when you go over something he already knows. Which you do on purpose, of course, to teach him the greatest virtue of all, the one you have not mastered, but know the principles of because mom is a hard-ass. Patience. He takes it all with impressive style—he only glares at you twice a day, now! 

Everytime he gets on your nerves, you try very hard to not bring up his dead brother. The first time you do, in fact, threaten him with something unrelated to Tom so he'll just stoptalking, he does, looking impressed and, perhaps, a bit pleased. The grin he sends your way definitely is, but also definitely not the reason you daydream about all the ways you could be a bitch without mentioning his brother. No-uh. 

He even takes your side whenever you fight with Grace, now that you're not being the worst person to ever exist every time you open your mouth. He's like a guard-dog, sitting behind you, arms crossed over his chest, glowering at the witch and emanating a menacing shroud of…something. He's got to have learned that in the marine! And you ought to ask him to teach you.

You do the same thing, naturally—the more, the merrier, right? Though you don’t—physically can’t stay still and stare down someone into submission, you make it up by being an annoyance she can’t ignore. You're used to being on her radar, anyway. What's one more time? Ah.

(It's not sunshine and rainbows every day, though. 

Case in point: five days after your miraculous climb back from hell, you're having a terrible, no good day—the kind of day you almost forgot existed, what with the most pressing matter of scheduling your shit out, where everything is too bright, too loud, too much—and you're wearing your noise canceling headphones. 

Jake comments on them. He's being rude, in that joking kind of way you two seem to have found common ground in—but you're not in the mood. Your eyes sting. Fuck. 

Abruptly, you stand up, and his mouth shuts. It opens right back up though, but you don’t want to hear it, so you turn and stomp your way out. You don’t show up for your evening—tutoring? Lecture? Whatever. Whatever. 

You also forgo your night activities for some quality sleep—the One True Great Equalizer— and the day after, you wake up a new person. You forget all about Jake and his unwanted, unfunny jibes until lunch, where he silently, but most importantly, sullenly, sits right beside you for the first time. 

"I'm sorry," he says, sliding a peach flavored yogurt toward you—a yogurt, you note, delighted, without the disgusting, vomit-inducing chunks of fruits in it. 

You hone in on it with a single-minded focus, almost answering him with a distracted whatever for when it all crashes back. Uh. Well. You tell him, "you're so clingy," with an appropriate eye-roll, before scarfing down his peace offering in twenty-six seconds. 

And that’s that.)

(He never goes back to sitting across from you.) 

All is well.