Sully family x eldest daughter reader
Part 11 < Part 12 > Part 13
Tw: mentions of depression
I decorated the brick before I threw it
The mat rustler beneath him every time he moved, the sound far too loud in a marui that had forgotten how to be anything but careful.
That moment at the doorway.
The tear slipping down her cheek.
The way she had looked at Lo’ak, hurt in a way Neteyam had never seen before.
Like something inside her had finally given up.
She had still reached for Tuk first.
Even breaking, she had put someone else ahead of herself.
Neteyam pressed the heel of his hand into his eye.
Stop it, he told himself.
Beside him, Lo’ak groaned.
“Will you quit moving?” he muttered. “I’m trying to sleep.”
Neteyam stared up at the ceiling.
Their parents thought they couldn’t hear them at night, voices low, worried, afraid in ways parents tried not to be.
Neteyam had heard every word.
Something hot flared in his chest.
“You should shut up,” Neteyam whispered back, harsher than he meant.
Lo’ak lifted his head. “What’s your problem?”
Neteyam turned on him, keeping his voice low but fierce. “How are you not losing your mind right now?”
“She’s not okay,” Neteyam hissed. “Dad said it. Mom knows it. You can hear her crying every night.”
Neteyam kept going, words tumbling now, unstoppable. “She takes us to the river. She plays with us. She covered for us. She always protects us.”
“And now she can’t even get up without hurting herself and you’re worried about sleep?”
Lo’ak shoved him lightly. “I didn’t mean it, okay?”
“I know,” Neteyam shot back. “But you said it.”
“I was scared,” he muttered.
“Well so am I but I don’t say stupid things like you,” Neteyam said.
They glared at each other in the dark.
They might have kept going.
Might have said things they couldn’t take back.
They dropped back onto their mats, eyes squeezed shut, bodies going limp in a way that fooled absolutely no one but.
Jake paused at the edge of the sleeping area.
Heard the too-careful breathing.
The footsteps moved away.
In the dark, Neteyam opened his eyes again.
There was nothing left to say.
Only the heavy, shared knowledge that their big sister was hurting—
And they didn’t know how to fix it.
Lo’ak waited until their father’s steps had faded again.
Then he whispered into the dark, voice small but stubborn. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Lo’ak picked at the edge of his mat. “And it’s kind of true, isn’t it?”
Neteyam’s eyes snapped open.
Lo’ak kept going, words spilling because once they started they wouldn’t stop. “She can’t walk,” he muttered. “She can’t hunt. She can’t do anything she used to do. And everyone still treats her like she’s Eywa’s greatest gift.”
Neteyam pushed himself up on one elbow, scowling.
“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t real,” Lo’ak insisted, defensive heat creeping into his whisper.
“Can you please shut up,” Neteyam breathed.
Lo’ak blinked at him. “What?”
“Your words already hurt her once,” Neteyam hissed. “Do you ever learn?”
Lo’ak bristled. “I said I didn’t mean it!”
“But you keep saying it!”
Lo’ak threw his hands up. “Because it’s TRUE!”
Neteyam felt the urge to hit him again, hot and immediate, his fists curling into the mat.
“She can’t walk,” Lo’ak repeated, voice wobbling now, louder despite himself. “Why doesn’t anyone just tell her? Mom and Dad keep pretending everything’s fine.”
He didn’t understand everything. But he understood her face.
Understood the way she had looked when the word landed.
“I don’t care if it’s true,” Neteyam shot back. “It hurts her.”
“Well maybe she should just know!”
“Maybe you should just shut up sometimes!”
Lo’ak recoiled. “You shut up!”
“At least I’m not pretending!”
“At least I’m not making it worse!”
They were too wrapped up in their argument. Until a shadow filled the doorway.
“That’s enough,” Jake said quietly.
Jake stepped closer, arms folded, exhaustion and disappointment written plain across his face. “What’s going on?”
“Lo’ak said she’s useless,” he blurted. “That you and Mom should just tell her she can’t do anything.”
Lo’ak flushed. “I didn’t—”
“Word for word,” Neteyam added.
Silence dropped like a stone .
He looked at Lo’ak and saw it. Confusion. Hurt. A kid too young to understand the weight of language, lashing out at something terrifying because he didn’t know how else to fight it.
But the damage still counted.
“That’s enough out of both of you,” he said. Calm. Dangerous. “Or else.”
Neither of them breathed.
“Tomorrow,” Jake continued, “you’re staying with your grandmother. Until you can learn some manners.”
“Yes, sir,” Neteyam said immediately, shooting Lo’ak a glare that promised this is your fault.
Lo’ak rolled his eyes, crossing his arms, but he didn’t argue.
Jake let the silence sit a moment longer, making sure it landed.
Then he turned toward the doorway.
The boys dropped back down fast, eyes shut, hearts pounding.
Jake stood there in the dim light, listening to them.
But that didn’t make the words undo the hurt it caused his daughter any less.
After a moment, he left them to the dark.
Bright in the way that made everything from the night before feel too real to hide from.
Neytiri had been awake for a long time before she went to them.
She had listened to the uneven breathing from the sleeping area, to the way her sons shifted more than they slept, guilt gnawing at them even in dreams. She had watched her eldest finally drift into a fragile rest only when exhaustion conquered hurt.
She knelt beside Neteyam first, then Lo’ak, resting a hand on each of their shoulders.
They startled awake like guilty things.
For a moment, they didn’t remember.
Their eyes dropped instantly.
Neytiri had brought food, simple, warm, easy to eat. She set it in front of them. “You did not eat last night,” she said. “So you will eat now.”
Neither of them reached for it.
They couldn’t seem to look anywhere but the floor.
“I’m not angry right now,” she added, quieter. “But you will listen.”
Small bites. When they were halfway through, Neteyam’s control cracked.
The words tumbled over themselves. “I didn’t mean for her to get hurt. I didn’t want that. I just— I was mad and I didn’t think and then she looked at me and—”
Lo’ak’s hands curled tight in his lap.
Tired of pain in her children’s faces. Tired of fear in their home. Tired of everyone learning lessons that carved instead of taught.
They went to her instantly.
Neteyam buried his face against her shoulder, trying not to cry because he was too old for that, because he was supposed to be strong like his father, but the tears came anyway.
Lo’ak clung at her side, jaw set stubbornly, eyes burning as he refused to let them fall.
“I know,” Neytiri murmured, hands moving over their backs, grounding them. “I know you did not mean it.”
They were shaking. “You love her,” she continued. “And she loves you. That is why it hurts.”
Neteyam nodded against her.
“I will take you to your grandmother today,” Neytiri said, not unkind. “You will stay with her. You will learn how to speak with care.”
They did not argue. They knew they had earned it.
Neytiri pressed a kiss into each of their temples, holding them a moment longer than she usually would.
This was a trying time. For all of them.
Neytiri kept a steady hand at each boy’s shoulder as she guided them out.
They moved quietly, the morning feeling heavier than it should have. The smells of food, of woven mats warmed by sunlight, of smoke from the banked fire, all of it felt normal.
As they passed the main space of the marui, both boys looked.
Jake sat beside (y/n), close but not crowding, a bowl in his hands and patience carved into every line of his body. He was saying something gentle, something meant to coax, meant to tempt. The kind of voice he used when she was small and stubborn about certain foods. “Just a little,” he was trying. “For me.”
She moved the food around with the tip of her fingers like she was trying to remember what it was for. Her eyes were open, but far away, fixed on a place none of them could see.
She had insisted she would walk. She had made bargains with the future, clung to when, to soon, to tomorrow.
Now she just looked tired.
Like she had set the hope down because it was too heavy to carry anymore.
Jake kept talking, soft, warm, desperate in a way he hoped she wouldn’t notice.
She nodded at the right times.
She did not look at them And that might have hurt the most.
Lo’ak slowed without meaning to.
Wanted to grab her hand, blurt it out, force the words into the air —
I’ll take it back forever.
But fear glued his feet to the floor.
What if she still looked at him the way she had in the doorway?
Her grip tightened — not harsh, but firm.
Neteyam walked stiffly beside him, staring straight ahead now because he couldn’t survive another second of seeing the quiet surrender in his sister’s posture.
Behind them, Jake tried again. “Come on, baby girl,” he murmured.
And she gave him a small, distant smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Neytiri guided her sons out into the daylight. The air felt cooler.
Lo’ak scrubbed hard at his face like he could erase what he’d seen.
He had wanted her to fight.
He opened his mouth anyway, too late, the apology clawing up his throat—
But Neytiri moved them forward.
And the words never made it out.
Jake had tried cheerful. He had tried gentle.
(y/n) sat propped against the folded hides, bowl in her lap, fingers nudging the food around like she was mapping it instead of eating it. Her shoulder was bound, her abdomen wrapped, legs stretched useless and quiet in front of her.
Jake sat beside her. Close enough to touch.
Close enough to catch her if she tipped.
“Okay,” he said softly, like they were negotiating a treaty. “One bite.”
Put it in her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed.
Complying more than eating out of hunger.
Jake waited for the next one.
But she went back to pushing the food around.
Jake inhaled slowly through his nose.
He knew that if he tried pushing her too hard she’d just begin ignoring him because he had done the same.
“Good,” he said, nodding like she had just done something incredible. “That’s good, baby girl.”
A small smile flickered across her face. Polite. Practiced and Gone in a second.
“Wanna tell me what’s going on in that head?” he asked.
Jake leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to catch her gaze.
A faint breath of air through her nose that might’ve been almost a laugh. “Maybe.”
Jake nodded. He could work with that. He bumped her gently with his shoulder.
“You get to be,” he said. “You went through hell.”
Her fingers tightened around the spoon. She stared at the bowl. Not at him.
“Hey,” he tried, softer now. “You don’t gotta be brave with me.”
She nodded. But she didn’t change.
Just picked up another bite and ate it like she was paying a toll.
Jake’s chest ached. This wasn’t hunger.
This was eating so Dad stops worrying.
Be anything but the mess she really was.
Jake wanted to grab the whole world and shake it for what it was putting his little girl through.
Instead, he kept his voice calm.
“You don’t feel like it?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes flicked to his for half a second. Then they dropped again.
“No,” she admitted, barely audible.
Jake nodded. “Okay,” he said.
He rubbed a hand down his face, searching for something—anything—that might reach her. “I’m still gonna sit here,” he added.
She gave the tiniest nod. He could stay.
He talked about stupid clan drama.
Her mouth twitched once or twice.
But mostly she stared at the bowl. Lost somewhere far away.
Jake kept glancing at her legs. Hated himself every time.
Because he knew she was thinking about them too.
Finally he reached over and brushed his thumb along her temple, pushing a braid back. “I love you,” he said.
She nodded again. “I know,” she whispered.
And she took another bite.
Because he wanted her to.
Jake rubbed the back of his neck.
“So,” he tried, “yesterday.”
Her shoulders tightened a fraction.
“You pulled your stitches,” he said gently.
She looked down at her hands.
But she wouldn’t meet his eyes let alone say something.
“What were you thinking, baby girl?” he asked finally.
There were a thousand answers he was ready for.
He would have taken any of them.
“Were you trying to reach Tuk?” he offered, trying to help her build a bridge to him. “Did you think she needed you?”
He exhaled slowly. “Did it hurt?” he asked.
That one made her blink. Of course it hurt.
But that wasn’t the question, really.
“Did you think it didn’t matter if it hurt?” he tried instead.
That made her flinch.bHer lips pressed thin.
Jake felt something twist in his chest. “Talk to me,” he whispered. “I’m not mad.”
That made it worse because she knew he wasn’t yet nodded like she was given an assignment.
Jake leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on in here,” he said, tapping lightly at her temple.
Her eyes filled. Not crying. Just… shining.
Jake closed his eyes briefly.
He wouldn’t force it out of her. He couldn’t. He rubbed circles over her knuckles instead. “I just need you to understand something,” he said quietly. “When you hurt yourself like that… it scares me.”
Her breath hitched. Guilt slammed into her.
Jake hated that too.bHe squeezed her hand. “I’m not saying that to make you feel bad,” he added quickly. “I’m saying it because I love you, and I need you here with me. Whole. Healing.”
Her eyes dropped again. A tear slid down. She wiped it away before it could fall.
Jake leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to hers. “You don’t gotta break yourself to prove you can still be useful,” he whispered.
No answer but she leaned into him.
Jake watched the silence settle between them like fog. Full of things she would not say.
He could see them moving behind her eyes—fear, shame, anger, grief—swirling so fast she probably didn’t know where one ended and the other began.
But she wouldn’t hand them to him.
Moved until he was directly in front of her, knees bracketing her good leg, careful of the bandages, careful of everything and with both hands he cupped her face.
Her skin was warm under his palms, tear tracks still faint along her cheeks. He tilted her chin until she had to meet his eyes.
And Eywa— she looked so lost.
Like the path forward had disappeared and she was too scared to admit she couldn’t see it.
Jake’s chest ached. “There you are,” he whispered. He brushed his thumbs under her eyes.b“You never gotta be scared of letting me in,” he told her.
His voice shook a little, but he didn’t hide it.b“I’m your dad. I’m always gonna be your dad.”
Her mouth trembled, lower lip wobbling like when she was being scolded.
“I will always be here for you,” he promised. “You don’t lose me. Ever.”
“If you tell me something hurts—if you’re angry, or scared, or confused—I am never gonna be disappointed in you for that.”
He leaned closer.b“Never.”
A tear spilled over. Jake caught it with his thumb. “I want to help you,” he said, honest and raw. “But I can’t if you shut me out. I can’t fix what I can’t see.”
Her eyes closed, she wanted to fall into him and let him carry it.
But she didn’t have the words.
All she had was the ache.
A small sound left her throat “Can I have a hug?” she whispered.
Jake didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, baby. Of course you can.”
He shifted carefully, moving behind her, spreading his legs on either side of hers so he could brace her without touching the injuries. He slid his arms around her middle, slow, secure, pulling her back against his chest.
Jake rested his chin on top of her head, cheek in her hair, arms firm around her ribs.
“I got you,” he murmured.
She nodded, small, silent. She just curled her fingers into his forearm and held on.
At that moment she didn’t want answers. Didn’t want plans. Didn’t want hope.
She just wanted somewhere to hide from her problems for a little while.
So Jake became that. A place the world couldn’t reach.
He rocked her gently, slow enough not to hurt, breathing steady so she could follow it if she needed. “Whatever you want, baby girl,” he whispered into her hair.
He felt the way her weight gave up trying to hold itself together and simply rested in him.
Her fingers loosened on his arm, her breathing deepened, the tight little tremor in her muscles unwound one thread at a time until she was nothing but warmth and exhaustion tucked against his chest.
Jake exhaled carefully, like any sudden movement might wake her.
Sleep meant her mind wasn’t clawing at her for a while. Sleep meant she wasn’t trying to be brave.
It should have made him feel better.
But mostly it broke his heart.
Because she slept like someone who had run out of options, like someone who didn’t know what else to do but shut down.
Jake rested his cheek against the crown of her head and stared out across the marui, jaw tight.
He could see it happening. The light in her dimming.bThe fight going quiet and none of his stories, or jokes, or promises seemed strong enough to reach where she was drifting.
Except that when she had nothing left she still asked for him.
He tightened his arms around her carefully, protective without pressing the wounds, his body curved around hers like armor. “I got you,” he murmured, though she was too far under to hear it. He couldn’t shield her from the war in her own head. That part was out of his hands.
Anything that came from outside?
It would have to go through him first.
Jake’s gaze dropped to her legs.
Rage flickered through him, hot and useless.
Why hadn’t he been there?
Why that day of all days had she been off playing instead of at his heels like usual, peppering him with questions, stepping in his tracks, laughing when he pretended to be annoyed?
Why hadn’t he called her back?
Why hadn’t he felt that something was wrong?
If he had gone a different route.
If he had heard her screams.
If he went hunting with Neytiri.
Jake squeezed his eyes shut.
The image of her blood never left him. How small she had looked. How breakable.
“I should’ve been there,” he whispered.
The words scraped on the way out.
She should have been safe.
She should have been following him.
He should have been able to reach her in time.
Jake pressed his mouth to her hair, breathing her in like he could reassure himself with it.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice thick. “I’m so damn sorry, baby girl.”
Jake felt it like a knife and a blessing all at once.
He shifted slightly, adjusting his hold so she stayed warm, so nothing disturbed her.
Couldn’t rip the past apart with his hands.
But he could sit here and try and give his little girl comfort.
When Neytiri returned from her mother’s marui, the air around her still carried the weight of what had been said and what had not. The boys had gone without protest, heads bowed, guilt sitting on their shoulders like wet cloaks. Kiri had clung for a moment, confused by the current running through the family, but Mo’at had gathered them all with quiet authority, promising food, rest, and lessons in gentleness.
It had been the right decision.
It did not make it hurt less.
Neytiri stepped inside and let her eyes adjust to the dimness. The fire had been banked low. The world felt narrowed, pulled inward toward the center where her mate sat with their daughter.
He was propped against the hides with his legs braced carefully around (y/n), arms wrapped around her in a way that was both protective and afraid to press too hard. She was folded into him, tucked beneath his chin, her body curled as if she could make herself smaller if she tried hard enough.
But she was sleeping deeply.
That alone eased something in Neytiri’s chest.
Jake looked up when he heard her. “How are they all?” he asked, voice rough.
“Worried for their sister,” Neytiri answered as she crossed the marui.
Jake huffed, something bitter and tired in it. “Didn’t seem like worry when their words broke her hope.”
Neytiri knelt beside them, her hand coming to rest gently on Jake’s shoulder before drifting to brush a braid away from her daughter’s temple. She studied the tear-swollen lashes, the exhaustion carved into such a young face, the way sleep had finally stolen her away when she coukd no longer outrun exhaustion.
“No,” Neytiri said softly. “That was fear.”
“They are children,” she continued, though there was no defense in it, only explanation. “They saw something they did not understand, something that might happen to them, and they struck at it because they were afraid.”
Her fingers lingered in (y/n)’s hair. “She has always been the strong one,” Neytiri murmured. “They did not know how to look at her when she was not.”
“She looks so small,” he said, as if he were confessing a crime. “Like she’s trying to disappear.”
Neytiri leaned forward and pressed her lips to the crown of their daughter’s head.
“How is she?” Neytiri asked at last, though she feared she already knew.
Jake’s breath caught on the way out.
“She’s becoming depressed,” he managed, the word heavy, foreign in his mouth and yet horribly familiar. “I can see it happening.” He looked down at their daughter as if the sight might confirm it.
“She barely talks to me,” he admitted, voice cracking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I keep trying. Stories, jokes, anything. She just gives me enough to get me off her case.”
Jake pressed his lips to (y/n)’s hair, eyes shining with a helplessness he despised in himself. “I don’t know how to reach her,” he whispered.
Neytiri rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder, her hand sliding up to cradle the back of his neck. “She is still in there,” she told him. “I see her.”
Jake closed his eyes. “I know,” he said. “I just…”
He trailed off, unable to finish, because the end of that sentence was unbearable.
I don’t know how to get her back.
Neytiri understood anyway.
She shifted closer, one arm wrapping around both of them. “We will keep trying,” she said.
Jake nodded. What else was there to do?
Their daughter slept between them, caught in the fragile mercy of rest, and her parents kept watch, listening to each breath as if it were proof that she had not drifted too far to return.
(y/n) stood in the center of the village, legs bare beneath her, feet pressed into soil she could not feel. Around her the air rang with voices, but no one came close, and the distance between her and everyone else stretched wider with every heartbeat.
Her father stood in front of her. His face was not angry.
“You’ll never walk again,” he said, and the words fell like stones. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Her mother turned away from her. Neytiri did not look at her daughter. Neytiri looked past her, as if she were already gone. “No one wants a useless child,” she said, and the grief in her voice was colder than rage.
The clan began to murmur.
Whispers slid through the air like insects.
They stepped back from her as one, eyes averted, hands drawing their own children away as if whatever had broken her might be catching.
Neteyam would not meet her gaze.
Lo’ak’s mouth twisted. “Why would we call someone like that our sister?” he asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Kiri looked at the ground.
She searched for one face.
Her baby sister broke from the line and crawled toward her, hands outstretched, confusion in her wide eyes, love unquestioning and whole.
(y/n) fell to her knees, relief cracking through her like light. “Tuk,” she breathed.
But Neytiri was faster. Her mother swept in, lifting the little one up, turning away, shielding her youngest from contamination.
“She must not play with failure,” Neytiri said.
And the space between them became endless.
The world turned its back.
Every single one of them.
The murmuring grew louder, rising, swallowing her, pressing her smaller and smaller until she thought she might disappear entirely.
(y/n) tore awake with a sob.
Her body jerked, breath ripping into her lungs, tears already hot on her cheeks as the dream clung to her vision and refused to release its claws.
For one terrible second she did not know where she was.
Did not know if they had truly left her.
Wrapped tight around her middle.
Jake’s voice was in her ear before the panic could crest.
“Hey,” he whispered, already awake, already holding her closer. “It’s okay baby girl, dads got you.”
He gathered her up as much as he could without hurting her. “It was a dream,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to her hair. “Just a dream.”
But she cried like it had been real.
Jake felt every tremor of it move through her, rage and heartbreak rising in him so fast he thought he might choke on it. He did not ask what she saw. He could guess, and the guesses were bad enough.
“I’m here,” he told her again, stronger this time, like he could build truth out of repetition. “You hear me? I’m right here.”
She nodded against him, desperate, trying to lean closer as if she could crawl inside his ribs and hide there.
Her sobs began to break into hiccups, exhaustion dragging her back toward the surface of sleep, but this time she clung to him like a lifeline because she refused to go back to sleep.
Jake rocked her slowly, whispering nonsense, promises, anything. “You’re my little girl,” he murmured. “Nothing changes that. Nothing.”
Jake glanced up as he heard movement across the mauri, soft but urgent, and Neytiri was there in the next breath, dropping to her knees in front of them, eyes wide, hands hovering like she did not know where to touch first without hurting her.
Their daughter’s face broke her heart on sight.
Tear tracks glistened down her cheeks, her mouth trembling, eyes huge and wrecked by something far worse than a nightmare, and Neytiri felt that same terrible, helpless anger flare in her chest at whatever had managed to reach inside her child’s head and carve her open like this.
“Oh, my heart,” she breathed, brushing a shaking hand over her daughter’s hair.
Jake shifted, just enough so Neytiri could see her properly, but he did not loosen his hold, because he could feel how desperately (y/n) needed the pressure of him there, needed to know she was not alone. “You wanna tell me what happened?” he asked gently. “You wanna talk about it?”
She shook her head at first, a frantic little motion, like if she said it out loud it would become real, but the words were already breaking free of her in wet, gasping breaths.
Her gaze darted between them, searching, terrified. “You didn’t love me anymore,” she sobbed, voice cracking apart in the middle. “None of you did.”
Jake felt something in his chest tear.
Neytiri’s ears flattened.
“It’s because I’m useless,” (y/n) cried, the confession ripped from somewhere deep, someplace festering. “You all turned away and I couldn’t make you stay and Tuk tried but you wouldn’t let her and—”
Her voice collapsed into another sob.
Jake swore he stopped breathing.
He pulled her closer, if that was even possible, like she might fall apart if he let go, while Neytiri leaned in, both hands now on their daughter’s cheeks, forcing her to look at her.
“Listen to me,” Neytiri said, the words trembling because she could not bear that her child believed this even in dreams. “Look at me, my daughter.”
“I would never leave you,” Neytiri told her, thumb wiping at tears that would not stop. “Not in this life, not in any life Eywa could ever give me. You are my heart walking outside my body. Do you understand?”
Jake nodded hard, swallowing past the thickness in his throat. “You think we could ever stop loving you?” he asked, disbelief and hurt mixing together. “Kid, there is nothing you could do, nothing that could happen, that would make me turn my back on you. Nothing.”
“But I can’t—” she tried, and the rest dissolved.
Jake knew what she meant.
He pressed his lips to her hair. “I don’t care,” he said immediately, fiercely. “You hear me? I don’t care what your legs are doing right now. You are still you. You’re still my daughter. You’re still the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Neytiri leaned forward, pressing her forehead to her child’s. “You are not useless,” she whispered.“You are brave and kind and stubborn and good, and anyone who cannot see that is blind.”
(y/n) broke all over again.
Jake rocked her, murmuring nonsense, promises, anything he could think of, while Neytiri kept touching her face, her hair, her shoulders, making sure she felt them there.
Eventually the worst of the sobs softened, turning to hiccups, then shaky breaths, and she sagged between them, wrung out, exhausted, but still clinging.
“Bad dream,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” he said, voice breaking a little. “It lied to you.”
The reassurance should have soothed her but it didn’t.
It was in the way her breath began to hitch faster instead of slowing, in the way her eyes, still wet, still terrified, suddenly sharpened with something wild and desperate that neither of them could reach nor comfort.
“My daughter ,” she tried again, softer now, hands warm on her daughter’s face. “Listen to your mother. You are loved. You are never—”
Something in (y/n) broke.
It snapped like a bowstring pulled too tight for too long.
“I am!” she screamed, the sound ripping out of her so violently it startled even Jake. “I am useless!”
Her whole body shook as she tried to push away from him and yet could not escape his hold, trapped between needing comfort and hating that she needed it, rage and grief tangling together until neither of them made sense.
“I can’t walk!” she sobbed, voice splintering. “I can’t do anything, I can’t help, I can’t run, I can’t fight, I can’t even get to Tuk without needing to be carried, I am a burden!”
“Hey—hey, no,” Jake breathed, tightening his arms around her as she thrashed, careful of the wounds, terrified she would hurt herself worse. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever call yourself that.”
But she was already spiralling, the words pouring out faster than he could catch them.
“I’ll never walk again!” she cried, not because she believed it completely but because fear made it feel true, because saying it hurt less than hoping. “What if I don’t? What if this is it? What if I stay like this and everyone has to take care of me forever?”
Neytiri shook her head, tears streaming freely now, her composure shattered by the sight of her child in this kind of pain.
“No,” she said fiercely. “Your path is not finished. Eywa is not so cruel.”
“Then why?” (y/n) demanded, her voice breaking on the word, fury turning upward, outward, to the sky, to fate, to anything that might answer. “Why did it happen? Why me? Why couldn’t I be faster, why couldn’t I fight harder, why couldn’t I—why—”
The question dissolved into a sob.
“Why?” she screamed again, hoarse, lost.
Jake crushed her to him, pressing his face into her hair because he could not stop his own tears anymore, because he had asked the same questions a thousand times.
Why hadn’t he been there.
Why hadn’t he reached her sooner.
None that would ever be good enough.
He held her while she shook in his arms, while her anger burned itself out against the solid wall of him, while Neytiri kept talking, voice trembling but steady, telling her daughter over and over that she was not a burden, that she was a gift, that the clan loved her, that her parents loved her, that nothing—not injury, not fear, not even fate itself—could ever change that.
“Let it out,” Jake murmured against her temple, even as it broke him to hear it.
“Why?” she whispered again, smaller now, the fight draining, leaving only hurt.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, honest because she deserved that.
She cried until she had nothing left.
Jake had promised himself he would not do this yet.
He had told told himself that their daughter needed rest time for the swelling to go down and the stitches to hold, that moving her too soon was a risk he could not take, but promises were fragile things when weighed against the sight of a child who had begun to look at the world as if it had already abandoned her.
The bite along (y/n)’s shoulder curved ugly and deep, teeth having punctured and torn before the beast shook her, leaving edges that would never be neat again. The skin there was angry, swollen, the sutures pulling at flesh that wanted to curl away from the memory of violence. Along her abdomen the damage was worse, the pattern unmistakable, a devastation where muscle had been crushed and dragged, purple fading to yellow around the margins while red still ruled the center. Her leg bore the imprint of powerful jaws, bruising sunk so deep it looked painted beneath the skin, the line of stitches recently disturbed where she had forced them open, desperate and stubborn and determined to comfort her littlest sister.
Those scars would not be gentle when they healed.
They would be jagged, lightning etched into her.
Every time he saw them it felt like someone drove a blade straight between his ribs and twisted.
There were two things Jake Sully could not handle in this world. The first was his little girl crying, and the second was his little girl hurt, and right now he was living in the cruel overlap of both.
Neytiri finished rewrapping the bandages, tying them with the efficiency of a healer and the tenderness of a mother, and Jake made the decision before he could talk himself out of it. He stepped forward, sliding his arms beneath (y/n) as if she weighed nothing, careful of the sling, careful of the leg, careful of every place that had already suffered enough.
She did not speak at all.
She simply let him lift her, her head falling against his shoulder, her body small in a way that made his throat tighten, because she had been growing so fast and now grief had folded her back into something smaller.
The walk to the stream was quiet except for the forest around them. He felt eyes on him, pretending not to stare, hunters stepping out of the path of their Olo’eyktan carrying the most precious thing he had ever known.
He lowered himself onto the bank, settling with her cradled in his lap, back against his chest, her good arm resting across his forearm while the other lay bound and still. Water moved over stone in front of them, sunlight scattering across its surface, life continuing in the casual way it always did.
For a while, he just held her.
“You know,” he said, voice low, almost thoughtful, “back on Earth I was a marine. A warrior. Different planet, different jungle, same basic job description. Carry a gun, follow orders, try not to get killed. I was young dumb and stupid.”
She did not move, but he felt the faint shift of her attention.
“There was this place,” he went on, eyes tracking the water instead of the past, “Venezuela. Hot, messy, wrong place at the wrong time. One second I was moving, next second I wasn’t. Spinal injury. Just like that, the whole world kept going and I didn’t.”
His jaw tightened, but he kept talking because she needed truth, not pretty lies.
“I watched everyone else walk away from me. I pushed my parents away because I couldn’t stand the look in their eyes, I pushed my brother away because if I let him help me it meant admitting I needed it, and I let myself get mean and bitter and small because it felt easier than hoping.”
He exhaled slowly. “I was just like you.”
“You look like me,” he continued, nudging her gently with his chin. “You got my face, my dumb expressions, your mom still hasn’t forgiven either of us for that. You’ve got my stubbornness too, though I’d argue yours is worse, and thank Eywa you didn’t inherit my thick skull because this family could not survive two of those, you’re much prettier though.”
He felt the faintest huff of breath against his chest.
“But here’s the difference,” he said softly, serious now. “My spine was broken. Yours is swollen. Cartilage pressing on nerves, yeah, it’s scary and it hurts and it’s unfair, but it’s temporary. The pathways are still there. Your body just needs time.”
He tightened his hold, just enough that she would feel the certainty in him. “There is still hope for you, baby girl. There is still a chance.”
She whispered it so quietly he almost missed it “There isn’t. I’ll never walk again.”
He swallowed hard, because despair was more dangerous than rage.
“You’re not healed yet,” he told her gently. “We don’t write the ending before the story’s done. Please, sweetheart, don’t decide forever based on right now.”
Her voice trembled. “I want to help. I don’t want to sit inside carving toys and fixing bows. I want to go with you. I want to do things with you.”
She tipped her face up at him, eyes enormous, wet, pleading, and he felt his heart crack straight down the middle because he wanted that too, he wanted it so badly he would do anything to grant her wish.
He brushed his thumb along her cheek.
“And we will,” he promised, forcing faith into his voice because she needed to borrow it from somewhere. “Once you’re better, there’s going to be more dad-and-daughter time than you’ll know what to do with. You’ll get sick of me.”
But she leaned back into him anyway, as if some part of her wanted to.
She was quiet for a long time after that.
Jake could feel the way her thoughts kept circling, bumping into doubt, into fear, into that dark place she had been drifting toward all week, but the edge of it had softened now that she was in his arms with the world moving gently instead of pressing in.
“Do I really,” she asked hesitantly, voice small, “look like you?”
Jake blinked, then huffed a laugh under his breath, the sound warm and startled out of him in a way that surprised even himself.
“Oh, kid,” he said, shaking his head as he leaned down so his cheek brushed her hair. “When you were born, I wouldn’t shut up about it. I carried you around like some kind of trophy. Norm, Max, anyone with ears—I was like, ‘Hey, look at this, I made a copy of myself but better.’ Your mom didn’t know whether to kiss me or kill me.”
He could still remember Neytiri’s expression, the flat stare she had given him while he paraded their newborn around like he had personally sculpted her. Twelve months she had carried that child, labored, bled, endured, and the baby had come out wearing his face.
“You were my little doppelgänger,” he went on, smiling into the memory. “Mini replica. I’d hold you up next to my face and ask people if they saw it, and they’d nod because they wanted me to stop talking.”
A tiny, breathy sound escaped her that might have been a laugh.
“I loved it,” he admitted softly. “Loved it so much I’d invent reasons to pick you up. Didn’t matter if you were already asleep or your mom had just put you down or you were supposed to be resting. I’d be like, ‘Nah, I think she needs dad for a bit.’”
He squeezed her gently. “Truth was, I needed you.”
She tilted her head a fraction, listening.
“Is that why you let me come with you all the time?” she asked. “Even when mom said I’d be in the way?”
He snorted quietly. “Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “Because I’d miss my little shadow.”
The words hung there, simple and honest.
“You follow me everywhere,” he continued, voice warm with it. “Council meetings, training grounds, patrol prep. And when you were younger you’d sit there staring at me like I hung the stars, copying how I stood, how I crossed my arms, how I talked. Drove me nuts.”
“I loved every second of it.”
She shifted a little closer into him.
Jake rested his chin on the top of her head, “I can’t wait until you’re all better,” he said, and there was hope in it. “Because why have one of me when there can be two, right? I could use the backup. Olo’eyktan stuff’s easier when I’ve got my best fighter at my side.”
Her voice was soft, uncertain. “Even if I’m slow?”
He tightened his hold just a little.
“Especially then,” he said. “Means I get more time with you.”
Jake closed his eyes for a moment, holding his daughter by the river, and let himself imagine a future where she walked beside him again, arguing, teasing, alive with that fire that made her who she was.
There was something he had not said yet, something that had been sitting in his chest like a stone.
He swallowed and forced himself to speak it because at the moment he was doing all the talking, he needed to coax her into opening up.
“You know what the worst part is for me?” he asked quietly.
“The worst part wasn’t seeing the blood,” he continued, his voice rougher now, less controlled. “It wasn’t the run to get you help or the waiting or the not knowing if you were gonna wake up.”
He tightened his arms around her, careful of the bandages, careful of causing her hurt.
“It was the moment I realized I couldn’t get to you fast enough,” he admitted. “I’m your dad. It’s my job to protect you, and that thing had you in its mouth and I wasn’t there.”
His throat worked to keep the words flowing.
“I hate that,” he said, the words dragged out of somewhere deep and ugly. “I hate that you’re hurting every day because of it. I hate that when you wince there’s nothing I can do to trade places with you. If I could, I would. In a heartbeat.”
Jake rested his cheek against her hair and let himself be honest in a way he usually wasn’t allowed to be because his children needed to see him as strong but this time one of his children needed to see him admit that he wasn’t always strong.
“I feel better by talking to your mom,” he told her. “By making sure you’ve got what you need. By sitting with you. By doing something, even if it’s small, because doing nothing makes me feel like I’m drowning.”
He let out a shaky breath. “And I feel lucky,” he whispered. “So damn lucky. Because I almost lost you, baby girl. I thought I had. I thought I was going home without you, and I don’t know how I would’ve survived that.”
His hand trembled slightly where it rested over hers. “I wake up every day and you’re still here, and that’s a miracle to me.”
She drew in a breath that hitched halfway through.
Jake tilted his head so he could try and see her face.
“What about you?” he asked gently. “How do we make it hurt less?”
Her voice came out small, frayed at the edges. “How do I stop feeling so horrible? It hurts more than the wounds do.”
He pressed his lips together, fighting the rush of emotion that wanted to choke him silent, because he needed to be steady for her, not shattered.
“I can’t fix it if I don’t know what it is,” he told her softly. “I can’t fight something I can’t see.”
He nudged his temple lightly against her head.
“You can always count on your dad,” he said, and there was an iron will in it. “You can always trust me. There is nothing you can say that will make me love you less, nothing that will make me disappointed in you, nothing that’ll make me walk away.”
For a moment he thought she wouldn’t, that she would retreat back into that terrible silence that had been swallowing her piece by piece.
For a moment Jake thought she would retreat again, that the fear would snap shut like a trap and he would lose her back to that terrible quiet.
“I heard him,” she whispered, voice already wobbling as if the words themselves hurt coming out. “I heard Lo’ak.”
Jake felt something cold move through him but he stayed still, stayed steady, because if he reacted too fast she might pull it back.
“He said it like it was nothing,” she continued, breath hitching. “Like it was just true. Like everyone already knew and he was just the only one who said it.”
Her throat tried to get the word out. “Useless,” she breathed.
The word sat there between them, ugly and heavy.
Jake closed his eyes for half a second, then opened them again and waited.
“He didn’t even sound mad,” she went on, voice trembling harder now. “He sounded confused. Like he didn’t understand why you and mom still… still act like I’m the same and it sounded true”
Her hand gripped at the bracelet on his arm.
“I can’t walk,” she said, and the simple honesty in it was devastating. “I can’t help. I can’t run errands, I can’t even pick Tuk up without hurting myself. Everyone has to stop what they’re doing because of me.”
“You and mom don’t sleep, always checking my bandages. Kiri keeps staring at me like I’m going to disappear. Neteyam won’t leave me alone for more than five seconds, and Lo’ak…” she swallowed. “Lo’ak thinks this is it.”
Jake’s jaw clenched but he let her talk.
“I used to be good at things,” she rushed on. “I used to help. People needed me. Now I just lie there and everyone whispers and I can see it on their faces that they’re scared I’m never going to get better and they’re pretending for me.”
Her voice cracked. “What if they’re right?” she asked.
The question was small. Terrified.
“What if this is it?” she whispered. “What if I’m just… this now?”
She shook her head slightly, angry tears slipping down her temples. “I don’t want you to have to take care of me forever,” she said. “I don’t want mom to look tired all the time because of me. I don’t want my brothers fighting because of me. I don’t want Tuk growing up thinking I’m something broken she has to be careful of.”
Her fingers dug into his arm.
“I don’t want to be the daughter everyone feels sorry for,” she said, voice rising, desperate. “I want to be me again.”
The words tumbled faster, tripping over each other. “When Lo’ak said it, it felt like he pulled it out of my head,” she admitted. “Because I already thought it. I just didn’t want anyone else to say it out loud.”
She sucked in a breath that shuddered. “It hurt more than the stitches,” she whispered. “It hurt more than when the thanator shook me. Because if he’s right, then everything is over.”
Jake could feel her trembling now, the effort of holding all of this in finally giving way. “I’m scared you’re going to get tired of me,” she confessed, barely audible. “I’m scared one day you’ll look at me and wish I was different.”
Her voice broke completely. “I’m scared you only love the girl I was and then you won’t love me anymore.”
The words seemed to tear something open inside her, and she folded in on herself, shoulders shaking as sobs ripped through her chest. They were loud, messy, the kind that stole breath and, t came from a place too deep to hide from.
Jake gathered her closer immediately, pressing her into him as if he could shield her from her thoughts.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice thick, heart splintering at the sound of her breaking apart in his arms. “Hey, no. No, baby, listen to me.”
He let it burn through her because it had been living inside her too long already.
When her sobs softened enough that she could hear him, Jake brushed his thumb across her cheeks, catching tears before they could fall into her ear.
“You think I loved you because you could run fast?” he asked quietly. “Because you could carry things or shoot straight or take care of everyone else?”
He shook his head, pressing his cheek against her hair. “I loved you the second I saw you,” he said. “Before you ever did anything. Before you ever helped anyone. Before you could even hold your own head up.”
His voice trembled but he did not let it break.
“You were this tiny little thing who looked exactly like me, and I remember thinking I would burn the world down before I let anything happen to you.”
“That didn’t come with conditions,” he told her firmly. “It didn’t have a clause that said ‘only if she’s useful’ or ‘only if she’s strong.’ I love you because you’re my pumpkin. Because you’re you. Because you’re my daughter.”
Her breathing hitched, slowing, listening.
“You being hurt doesn’t make you harder to love,” he continued. “It makes me want to love you harder. You being scared doesn’t make me tired of you. It makes me want to chase whatever is scaring you away. And if you think for one second that I’m ever going to look at you and wish you were different, then you don’t know your old man at all.”
He tipped his head so he could try and see her face.
“You could never disappoint me by surviving,” he said. “Because your dad would have been very sad if you hadn’t.”
The words hung there, solid and immovable.
“You didn’t choose what happened,” he went on more gently. “You didn’t choose getting mauled by a thanator. You didn’t choose the swelling. You didn’t choose any of this. And I will never, ever blame you for it.”
Her sobs had weakened now, falling into small shivers instead of shaking like a tree in a stkem.
Jake kept talking, working through every fear she had handed him. “You’re not ruining us,” he said. “You’re not making us tired. We’re scared because we love you, not because you’re a burden. Your brothers hover because they don’t know what to do. Your sister watches because she thinks if she blinks you’ll vanish. Your mom doesn’t sleep because you are her heart and you’re hurt.”
He brushed his thumb under her eye. “And me?” he asked softly. “I sit with you because there is nowhere else I’d rather be and because you need me.”
The silence after that was different.
He felt her breathing even out, felt her weight settle into him instead of fighting him, felt the tightness slowly loosen as if she were unclenching from the inside.
He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Do you feel any better?” he asked.
She hesitated, then gave a small nod against his chest. “A little,” she admitted, voice raw but honest.
Jake let out a breath he had not realized he’d been holding. “Okay,” he murmured, rubbing her arm. “We’ll take a little.”
He rested his chin on top of her head again, rocking her slightly, the way he had when she was smaller and the world had been simpler.
“And when those horrible feelings come back,” he told her, “because sometimes they do, you come find me. You hear me?”
“You talk to me. You dump all of it on me. That’s my job.”
His voice softened into something fierce and tender all at once. “You never have to worry about burdening me while I’m breathing.”
She turned in his arms suddenly, twisting as much as her injuries would allow, and before Jake could brace for it she had buried herself against him, both arms wrapping around his middle with desperate strength.
“Easy, easy,” he breathed automatically, one hand flying to support her back while the other hovered uselessly near her bandages. “Watch the stitches, sweetheart.”
She shook her head against him as if the warning meant nothing, locking him in place so he could not peel her off even if he tried. It was not careless,it was need, pure and overwhelming, the kind that came from finally letting herself believe he was not going anywhere.
Jake stopped trying to adjust her.
He felt the tremor of her breath first, then the tears soaking his chest as tears slipped free again. She was crying hard, but it was different now, not the frantic unraveling from before.
“I see you, dad,” she sobbed.
The words hit him like a blow.
He pressed his cheek to her hair, eyes stinging, arms coming tighter around her. “I see you too, pumpkin,” he murmured back.
He saw the brave parts and the terrified parts, the anger and the guilt and the stubborn hope she kept trying to bury. He saw the child she had been and the one she was now and every version she might become, and he loved all of them so completely it scared him.
He sat there with his daughter clinging to him and let her empty out whatever was left, rubbing slow circles between her shoulders, whispering nonsense comforts under his breath, the same way he had when she was small enough to fit against one arm.
Eventually the storm eased. Her grip loosened, though she did not let go, breath evening out into hiccupping pulls of air.
Jake kissed the top of her head.
“Alright,” he said gently, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her before she could protest. “Let’s get you home before your mom has my hide.”
She made a small sound of reluctance but let him move her, too wrung out to argue.
He stood carefully, adjusting her weight, painfully aware of every inch of her that hurt.
“First thing we’re doing,” he told her, trying for lighter, steadier, “is checking those stitches so I don’t get yelled at.”
A faint breath of a laugh brushed his collarbone.
Jake started back toward the marui, carrying his daughter close, feeling the exhaustion settling into her bones, feeling the way she stayed tucked into him like she had when she was little and the world had been too big.
He glanced down at his daughter, already looking like she’ll drift off and thought, thank eywa.
He had finally gotten through to her, he might just save his little girl from falling in the same well he did.
Jake felt the warmth of the marui wrap around them as he ducked inside, careful not to jostle the sleeping weight in his arms. The fire had burned low, light moving in soft gold along woven walls, along hides, along the place where their daughter had been resting before he stole her away.
(y/n) had not stirred once on the walk back.
She was limp against him, mouth parted slightly, lashes still damp, the aftermath of crying written all over her even in sleep. One of her hands was curled in the front of his chest piece as if she had fallen asleep mid-grip, afraid he might still vanish.
Jake didn’t have the heart to pry it loose.
“Neytiri,” he said quietly.
She crossed the space between them in seconds, eyes going first to their daughter’s face, then to the sling, then to the wrappings around her abdomen and leg, reading her like a one reads a map. Her hands were gentle as she began to check the bandages, fingers sliding beneath edges, assessing warmth, dampness, tension.
It had begun to bloom through the cloth in slow, ugly shapes, the marks of strain, of stitches asked to do more than they should.
“What did you do?” she demanded, voice low and sharp.
Jake winced like he had been caught stealing.
“I—” he started, then stopped himself because there was no point pretending he didn’t know what she meant. “I took her down to the stream and I jostled them a bit.”
“You should have been more careful ,” she hissed.
He laid (y/n) down carefully on the prepared hides, easing her hand free at last, tucking it gently over her chest.
That did not help his case.
Neytiri checked over her daughter, lifting bandages, jaw clenched, fury and fear braided together. She adjusted the wrappings enough to keep them from worsening, but she did not speak again, not while their daughter slept.
He stood, and without needing to be told, he followed her outside.
Neytiri turned on him the moment they were clear of the doorway.
“You could have torn them open,” she snapped, voice shaking. “She is barely holding together and you carry her across half the forest and disturb her wounds in the process.”
Jake ran a hand through his hair, already exhausted. “She needed air,” he said. “She needed something other than those walls closing in on her.”
“She needed rest,” Neytiri shot back.
“She needed hope,” he answered.
They stood there, both breathing hard, both terrified in different languages.
Jake scrubbed a hand over his face.
“She talked to me,” he said finally, softer now, the fight draining out of him. “Really talked. About everything. About what she’s afraid of. About thinking we’re going to stop loving her.”
Neytiri’s anger faltered.
“She cried it out,” he went on. “All of it. And yeah, it pulled her stitches but Neytiri… for a little while the thoughts inside her head stopped trying to suffocate her.”
His voice broke. “For now, the emotional wounds are stitched up,” he said hoarsely. “Can you give me that?”
She saw the guilt in his posture, the way he braced himself for her judgment, the way he carried his failures like stones even when he had done something right. She saw the desperation of a father trying to reach a daughter slipping through his fingers.
The man who would tear the sky down for their children.
She stepped forward and pulled him into her arms.
Jake froze in surprise before melting into it, forehead dropping against her temple, breath leaving him in a rush he had been holding since the river.
“I know,” she murmured. “I know.”
She felt how hard he loved them; it was a living thing, enormous and unruly, sometimes reckless, always true. She had fallen in love with him for that, and some days she wanted to shake him for it, but she would never trade it.
“I love the way you love our children,” she whispered.
Jake closed his eyes because truly he loved his family and there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for them.
The afternoon light filtered warm through the woven walls of the marui, catching in drifting smoke and turning everything soft around the edges. Jake sat cross-legged with tools spread between his knees, wood shavings gathered in lazy spirals across the hide, while (y/n) leaned against his side with fierce concentration written across her face.
She was tired, still pale, but she was upright, awake, present, and for Jake that alone felt like a miracle he did not dare question too closely.
Her fingers worked carefully, tongue caught between her teeth as she polished the curve of carved beads, each one imperfect but made with love. Jake watched the effort it, offering quiet suggestions, steadying the piece when her hand trembled, praising every small victory like it was the greatest craftsmanship Pandora had ever seen.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Told you you had a better eye for this than I do.”
She huffed, pretending she didn’t glow under the praise, but he felt the way her shoulder pressed closer into him.
Then noise at the entrance caught their attention.
Neytiri stepped in with Tuk in her arms, Kiri just behind her, Neteyam and Lo’ak lingering in the doorway like they weren’t sure they deserved to cross the threshold. They had been gone most of the week, sent to Mo’at so tempers could cool and lessons would be learned, and the boys had returned quieter than usual, glancing toward the center of the marui with something like dread.
(y/n) saw them and her entire face changed.
The heaviness that had lived there for days lifted like fog chased by sun, and suddenly she was beaming, bright and open in a way that they felt hadn’t been seen in forever
“Kiri!” she called, excitement bubbling up before she could stop it. “Look!”
She held up the string of beads, pride shining through exhaustion. “Dad helped but I carved them. I made you a necklace.”
Right across the marui, dropping to her knees beside her sister and taking the beads like they were priceless treasure, eyes wide, already slipping them over her head.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, and she meant it.
Neteyam and Lo’ak stayed back a moment longer, uncertainty warring with relief, because the last time they had stood near her she hadn’t looked at them, the last time she truly looked like them her heart was broken.
Jake felt the shift in (y/n) beside him, the hesitation, the memory of hurt, and he met her eyes.
She drew in a breath and lifted something else.
“Lo’ak,” she said, trying for casual though her voice trembled a little, “I fixed your bow.”
She held it out toward him, showing the rewrapped grip, the tightened string.
“I was right,” she told him. “It was slack.”
She turned to Neteyam, lifting a braided band from the pile at her side. “And I made you this. So you stop stealing mine.”
Neteyam’s composure shattered first.
He crossed the space quickly, carefully, and when he reached her he wrapped his arms around her shoulders with such gentleness it nearly hurt to watch. His face buried in her hair, breath shaking, and Jake could see tears he was trying very hard not to let fall.
Lo’ak stood frozen another heartbeat, eyes huge, guilt written plain across every line of him.
“Why aren’t you mad at us?!” he burst out suddenly, the question exploding from him like it had been trapped there all day.
(y/n) flinched a little at the volume, then looked down at her hands.
“I was,” she admitted, honesty costing her. “I was really mad.”
She swallowed, then forced herself to look at him. “But you were scared,” she said. “And I was scared too.”
Her gaze flicked back to her dad for just a second, drawing strength from him, then returned to her brother. “I know you didn’t mean it,” she finished.
He stumbled forward, dropping beside them, crying openly now in the shameless, wholehearted way only children could. “I’m sorry,” he kept saying, over and over, words tumbling into each other. “I didn’t mean it, I swear, you’re not useless, you fix stuff better than me, I’m the useless one—”
Neteyam made a wet, offended sound at that, but he didn’t let go of his sister.
Neytiri knelt and set Tuk down.
The baby crawled immediately, drawn to her sister like she always was, little hands reaching, babbling.
(y/n) laughed softly, brushing tears from her own face, and handed Tuk the small wooden toruk Jake had helped her finish earlier.
“There you go,” she whispered.
Tuk grabbed it with delight.
Jake watched the knot of them together, arms tangled, apologies murmured, forgiveness offered clumsily but sincerely, and he felt something in his chest unknot that he had not dared hope would loosen again.
Neytiri moved to stand beside him.
For a while they said nothing.
They simply watched their children find each other again.
Neytiri turned her head, studying her mate, seeing the exhaustion carved into him, the stubborn hope he had refused to surrender, the way he had walked into the dark after their daughter and brought back her light.
She loved him so much it almost frightened her.
Because he had saved (y/n)’s smile.
And by saving it, he had helped the rest of them to find theirs again.
Neytiri reached for his hand.
In front of them, their children laughed through tears, and for the first time in days, the marui sounded like home.
Jake had barely finished helping her settle against the cushions, tools and half-finished carvings gathered around her, when shadows gathered at the mouth of the marui. They lingered there, hesitant, whispering among themselves, feet scuffing the woven floor as if none of them were certain they were allowed to enter.
(y/n) noticed before he did.
Her spine straightened a fraction, breath catching, eyes flicking toward the doorway with something like fear and hope tangled together.
Sa’ley hovered half a step behind him, hands twisting together. Ralu tried to look normal and failed miserably, and Kxani kept blinking fast as if she could push back tears by sheer force of will.
They looked like kids who had watched their friend die.
Jake felt the air change, thick with memory, thick with that awful moment in the forest where they watched their friend almost die, they thought she did die.
Sa’ley made a broken sound and rushed forward first, dropping to her knees beside the bedding and grabbing (y/n)’s hand like she needed to confirm it was warm. Ralu followed, then Kxani, each of them touching her in some way, her arm, her shoulder, her hair, as if they were terrified she might dissolve if they didn’t keep contact.
They were crying before they realized they were.
“We thought—” Ralu started, then had to stop because his voice betrayed him.
“We saw—” Sa’ley tried, but the words collapsed.
Kxani simply pressed her forehead to (y/n)’s knuckles and sobbed.
Jake watched his daughter’s face crumble under the weight of it, guilt rising in her expression.
“Hey,” she whispered, shaky, overwhelmed. “I’m okay. I’m right here.”
He stood at the edge of the group, hands clenched so tight his knuckles had gone pale, jaw locked, fighting a battle with himself. Jake could see it, the effort not to fall apart in front of her, the desperate attempt to be steady, to be something she could lean on instead of another person she had to comfort.
He stepped forward at last, slow, and sank down near her feet.
“I thought you were dead,” he said, the moment Neytiri arrived to chase of the thanator, the thanator still trying to get to her and all he could to was pull her away and hold her in his arms powerless to do anything haunted his dreams
“I saw it,” he continued, eyes glassy, refusing to blink. “When it bit down, I thought— I thought that was it. I thought I asked you to come with us and that was the last thing you ever did.”
His breath hitched, mortified by the tremor, furious at himself for it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should never have let you come.”
(y/n)’s mouth parted. “Tarsem—”
“I should have stopped you,” he pressed on, the words tumbling now. “We should never have gone that far from camp. I should have been faster. I should have done something.”
She reached for him, wincing at the pull, but she reached anyway, fingers brushing his wrist.
“You didn’t make the thanator attack,” she said softly. “You didn’t do that.”
For a moment they just stayed like that, hands linked, both alive, both wrecked.
Jake leaned back slightly, folding his arms, pretending he was not studying every look that crossed the boy’s face.
The terror of almost losing her.
He had worn it once, this kid clearly loved his daughter more than as a friend.
Tarsem had also been the one who dragged her out of isolation years ago, the one who kept inviting her, the one who stood stubborn when others whispered. He had given her laughter, companionship, a place among her peers.
He did not chase him off.
And when Tarsem finally lifted his gaze and met Jake’s eyes across the marui, the boy went very still because he understood immediately that this was an evaluation he had not prepared for.
He just held the look long enough to say, I see you boy.
Behind them, (y/n) laughed wetly through tears as Sa’ley started recounting, in increasingly dramatic fashion, how Ralu had screamed like a dying hexapede while throwing rocks at the thanator, and slowly, painfully, the sound of grief began to loosen into something lighter.
Jake listened to it, memorizing it.
And some boy with stars in his eyes was going to be a problem later.
But for now, Jake let it be.
@sillyfreakfanparty @athenannann @animegamerfox @nxstqlgia @saltedcoffeescotch @smthsmthblahblah @umlasblog @gypsiegoop @ihatecupcakesandpiss @seawavesss @seawavess@fastleopard1521 @marija4674 @dick-graysons-hole @abyssalresonancedemon @hiyikohijirikawa-blog @crucificu @th3realslimb1tch @c1eepypas1a @yangduarte @verona-aliyah @any-maybe @minghaofied @thatgirljas13 @poppyw4 @ilocuras24 @elliether @l0nesomedrifter @naturallycuriousblog @defonotelis @gypsiegoop @yangduarte @frey-williams @akamenaruto14 @lissadelta
