Chapter Text
Jake heard it by accident.
Which was, if he was being honest with himself, the only way he ever heard anything that mattered lately—slipping through the edges of his life while he was busy being in charge.
It wasn’t shouting. It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t even the kind of whispered scheming he’d come to expect from Lo’ak when the kid was deciding whether to do something stupid.
It was… careful.
Soft enough that it took Jake a second to realize the sound was words and not the river moving over stone.
He stopped with one foot half-lifted, hand still on the woven edge of the sleeping platform ladder, listening. The marui had settled into that late-afternoon hush: the distant clack of someone shaping reed, the thump of a child dropping something and being hissed at, the calls outside from the reef. Light slid in through gaps in the walls, warm and gold and lazy.
Neteyam’s voice came from the corner where their gear was stacked—where his oldest boy had decided to clean without being asked, because of course he did.
“—so,” Neteyam said, low and even, like he was making a list for a mission briefing. “Today. I tracked the ilu herd and kept them away from the shallows. I fixed the fishing net where it tore. I helped Tsireya’s cousin with the spear tip. I checked the perimeter posts. I—” There was a pause, a small huff of breath. “I didn’t lose my temper when that guy tried to start something.”
Lo’ak snorted. “Wow. Gold star.”
Neteyam’s response wasn’t sharp, just tired. “I’m serious.”
Jake’s chest tightened. He had no business standing here, listening. It felt like spying. Like eavesdropping on something private.
But his feet didn’t move.
Neteyam continued anyway, like he hadn’t noticed the way Lo’ak’s tone changed when he wasn’t trying to bait someone into chasing him.
“I’m just saying,” Neteyam added, quieter, “in case Dad asks.”
There was a beat of silence that stretched long enough to become its own answer.
Lo’ak muttered, flat and certain. “He won’t.”
Jake’s throat went dry.
He waited for Neteyam to argue. For the older brother to defend his father the way he always defended the family. For him to say, That’s not true, or He’s busy, or He cares, Lo’ak.
Neteyam just… sighed.
Not a dramatic sigh. Not a sulk. Just a slow exhale like the air had weight.
And he didn’t deny it.
Jake stared at the woven wall like he could see through it.
Neteyam’s voice came again, softer, almost careful. “What did you do today?”
Lo’ak made a sound like he wanted to shrug it off. Like he wanted to pretend the question didn’t matter, even though it clearly did.
“Stuff,” he said.
Neteyam didn’t let him. Neteyam never let him—because that was his job, right? The good kid. The steady kid. The one who noticed what Jake didn’t.
“Lo’ak.”
“Fine,” Lo’ak snapped, then immediately lowered his voice, like even anger had to stay small in their home. “I… went out with the others. I didn’t—” He cut himself off, swallowed. “I didn’t do anything stupid.”
Neteyam hummed like that was worth noting. “That’s something.”
Lo’ak scoffed. “Yeah. ‘Didn’t ruin everything.’ Great achievement.”
“You helped Kiri,” Neteyam said, like he had been watching all day. “When she got caught in the current.”
Lo’ak’s voice got defensive. “She would’ve been fine.”
“She was fine because you grabbed her arm.”
Silence again. Jake could picture Lo’ak’s face in it: the way he looked away when something landed too close to truth.
Neteyam’s voice softened. “You also didn’t mouth off at Ronal when she started in on you.”
Lo’ak let out a low laugh, bitter. “That’s ‘cause you kicked my foot. And she scares me.”
“She scares everyone,” Neteyam said, a faint smile in his voice. “Still counts.”
Lo’ak didn’t answer.
Jake’s hand tightened on the ladder rung until his knuckles ached.
What the hell was he doing?
He should step in. He should say something. He should make a joke—make it light—act like he wasn’t standing outside his sons’ lives like a stranger. He should tell them he’d heard. Tell them he did ask, sometimes—
Except he didn’t. Not really.
Not unless something went wrong.
Not unless he needed information.
Not unless he was checking for damage.
Jake’s stomach rolled, not with sickness but with something heavier. Shame, maybe. Regret. That slow, cold realization that you’d been holding a weapon wrong and every time you fired you’d hit your own.
Inside, Neteyam spoke again, and this time there was a fragile kind of hope threaded through the words, like a thin vine trying to climb stone.
“If he asks,” Neteyam said, “we can tell him. And then he’ll know. And maybe—”
Lo’ak cut him off, sharp and soft all at once. “Don’t.”
Neteyam didn’t argue. He just went quiet, like he understood that hope was a thing Lo’ak couldn’t afford. Not when it kept getting taken away.
Jake let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He backed away like the floor might creak and give him away.
Outside, the reef air hit him like a slap. Salt and sun and fish and life. He blinked hard, eyes stinging.
‘In case Dad asks.’
‘He won’t.’
How many times had Neteyam done that? Collected his small victories like offerings, stacking them neatly just in case his father looked his way long enough to see them?
How many times had Lo’ak decided it was safer not to expect anything at all?
Jake stood there, shoulders stiff, staring out at the water that glittered like a thousand eyes.
He’d thought he was doing what he had to do.
He’d thought being a father meant being hard enough to keep them alive.
But somewhere between the fight to survive and the fight to belong, he’d started treating his kids like soldiers he could bark at instead of sons he could… see.
He walked. Aimless at first. Past where the younger kids played, past where Neytiri worked with her hands sure and silent. Past the place where he’d stood earlier and watched Lo’ak spar, thinking, He’s going to get himself killed one day, and then turning away without saying the one thing that might’ve kept that thought from turning into truth: I’m proud of you for trying.
He passed a Metkayina hunter and nodded. The man nodded back.
Jake felt like a ghost moving through a life he didn’t know how to hold.
Time slid forward. The sun dipped lower. The marui shifted into evening rhythm. Food smells began to rise, smoky and rich.
And in Jake’s head, Neteyam’s voice kept repeating.
‘In case Dad asks.’
Like it was a prayer.
Like it was a joke.
Like it was a bruise.
By the time he climbed into their marui again, he’d made a decision.
Not a grand one. Not a “I will change everything in a single dramatic moment” decision.
Just… a small one.
The kind that had been missing.
Neteyam sat near the entrance, working on a strap with practiced hands, tightening and checking the weave. Lo’ak was sprawled half on a sleeping platform, half off it, pretending he wasn’t watching anything. His hair was damp; he’d been in the water recently. His face was set in that too-casual mask he wore like armor.
Jake stood in the doorway long enough that both boys looked up.
Neteyam’s eyes sharpened, immediately attentive. Lo’ak’s narrowed, suspicious.
Jake swallowed.
He was an adult. A former marine. A man who had stared down death and made it blink first.
And he was suddenly terrified of saying the wrong thing to his sons.
“Hey,” Jake said, voice rougher than he meant.
“Sir,” Neteyam replied, calm.
Lo’ak didn’t say anything. Just watched.
Jake stepped inside, forcing his shoulders to drop, forcing himself not to look like he was about to give orders.
He was used to speaking in commands. Do this. Don’t do that. Watch your angle. Stay alert.
He wasn’t used to speaking in… interest.
His mouth felt clumsy.
“What’d you do today?” Jake took a breath and asked.
Neteyam blinked.
Lo’ak actually sat up a little, like he’d heard wrong.
Jake didn’t let himself back out. He didn’t turn it into a joke. He didn’t pretend he was asking for tactical info.
“I mean it,” he smiled. “What’d you do today?”
Neteyam glanced at Lo’ak like he was checking if this was some kind of trap.
Lo’ak’s expression was… wary. Not hopeful. Hope was dangerous. Hope got you hurt.
Neteyam answered anyway, because that was who he was.
“I… helped with the nets,” Neteyam said slowly. “And tracked the ilu herd away from the shallows. Fixed a spear tip. Checked perimeter posts.”
Jake nodded, forcing his brain to hold each one like it mattered. Because it did. It mattered that his son had done these things without being asked, without being praised, without being told he was doing well.
“And you kept your head when that guy tried to start something,” Jake added, because he’d seen it earlier—Neteyam stepping between two hunters with calm authority, defusing the tension with a look.
Neteyam froze.
His ears flicked back slightly, a tell. Like a kid caught stealing fruit.
“I—” Neteyam started, then stopped. “Yes.”
Jake looked at him, really looked. At the tension in his jaw, like he was bracing for criticism even now.
“You did good,” Jake said, firm. “That’s leadership. That’s… what I need from you. What your family needs.”
Neteyam’s throat bobbed. He blinked once, fast, like he was clearing water from his eyes.
He didn’t speak.
Jake’s chest tightened again.
He turned to Lo’ak before the silence could turn into something sharp.
“And you?” Jake asked, gently, not wanting to scare the kid off.
Lo’ak’s mouth twisted. “What, you want my list too?”
Jake held his gaze. Didn’t bark. Didn’t snap. Didn’t let irritation take the wheel.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “I do.”
Lo’ak looked away, jaw clenched. For a second it seemed like he was going to refuse out of sheer principle.
Then he muttered, “Went out. Swam. Didn’t… do anything stupid.”
Neteyam made a soft sound, like a suppressed laugh. Lo’ak shot him a look.
Jake didn’t smile. Not yet. He didn’t want Lo’ak to think this was entertainment.
Jake leaned forward slightly, hands loose at his sides. “You helped Kiri.”
Lo’ak’s head snapped back. “She—”
“She was fine because you were there,” Jake said, cutting him off, voice gentle but unmovable. “I saw you grab her. You didn’t hesitate.”
Lo’ak’s nostrils flared. His eyes flashed, defensive and embarrassed. Like praise was a thing that burned.
“And,” Jake continued, “you kept your mouth shut when Ronal started in on you.”
Lo’ak made a strangled sound. “That’s ‘cause—”
“Doesn’t matter why,” Jake said, and this time he did let a small smile in. “You did it. That’s self-control.”
Lo’ak stared at him.
Neteyam stared too.
They looked like Jake had just handed them something expensive and fragile and they weren’t sure if they were allowed to touch it.
Jake’s throat tightened. He forced the next words out, because they mattered more than the rest.
“I’m proud of you,” Jake said to Lo’ak. Then to Neteyam, without looking away. “I’m proud of both of you.”
For one heartbeat, neither moved.
Then Neteyam’s face crumpled—not fully, not in a dramatic sob, but in a way that gutted Jake.
His oldest blinked hard, lips pressed tight like he was trying to keep something in.
Lo’ak’s eyes went shiny immediately. He turned his head fast, like that would hide it.
Jake felt like someone had punched him.
How bad have I messed up, he thought, if a few words do this?
He saw it then, clear as daylight: these kids were starving.
Not for food. Not for safety.
For him.
For his attention, his approval, his softness—the pieces of him he’d locked away behind survival and leadership and fear.
Jake’s shoulders sagged.
“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Come here.”
Neteyam hesitated like he was waiting for the catch.
Lo’ak hesitated like he didn’t trust being called in close.
Jake didn’t give them time to overthink. He stepped forward and hooked an arm around Neteyam’s shoulders, firm and steady, and with his other hand he caught Lo’ak by the back of the neck—gentle, guiding—and pulled him in too.
Lo’ak tensed automatically. Neteyam went stiff, surprised.
Then, slowly, both of them melted into him like they’d been holding themselves upright all day just for the chance to finally collapse.
Jake wrapped them tighter.
He could feel Neteyam’s breath hitch once, then again, the smallest tremor.
He could feel Lo’ak’s forehead press hard into his chest like he was trying to crawl under Jake’s ribs and live there.
Jake stared over their heads at the wall, blinking hard.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Both boys went still.
Jake swallowed. Forced himself to say it plain, no excuses.
“I’ve been… walking past things,” he admitted. “I’ve been so focused on what you did wrong or what could go wrong that I haven’t been telling you what you’re doing right.”
Neteyam’s hands tightened in Jake’s shirt.
Lo’ak’s fingers curled around Jake’s forearm, knuckles pale.
Jake’s voice cracked, just slightly, on the next part. “That’s on me. Not on you.”
Neteyam’s breath shook.
Lo’ak made a sound that might’ve been a laugh if laughter could be painful.
Jake tightened his grip, as if he could physically hold the hurt in place and keep it from spreading.
“I see you,” Jake said, and he meant it. “Neteyam… I see you taking care of everyone without being asked. I see you carrying weight that isn’t yours to carry. You shouldn’t have to prove yourself every day just to earn my attention.”
Neteyam’s shoulders shuddered once. He swallowed hard. “I—” he started, but his voice failed him.
Jake turned his head, pressing his cheek briefly to Neteyam’s hair.
“And Lo’ak,” Jake said, softer, “I see you trying. I see you fighting yourself every day to be better. I know it feels like you can’t win with me. That I only notice when you mess up.”
Lo’ak’s grip tightened. His voice came out rough. “You do.”
Jake flinched, not because it was cruel, but because it was true.
“I know,” Jake whispered. “And I’m gonna change that.”
Lo’ak let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck in him for years.
Neteyam pulled back just enough to look at Jake’s face. His eyes were wet. His expression was careful, like he didn’t want to hope too hard.
Jake met his gaze and didn’t look away.
“I’m gonna ask,” Jake said, firm, like a vow. “Not just when there’s a problem. Not just when I need information. I’m gonna ask because you’re my sons and your days matter to me.”
Neteyam’s lower lip trembled. He pressed it tight again, trying to lock it down.
Lo’ak whispered, barely audible, “Why now?”
Jake’s chest squeezed.
Because Jake had heard Neteyam making lists like armor.
Because he’d heard Lo’ak say “He won’t” like it was fact.
Because he’d realized his sons had learned not to expect him.
Jake didn’t try to make it pretty.
“Because I finally heard you,” Jake said, honest. “And it hit me like a damn rock. I’ve been missing you. Right in front of me.”
Lo’ak’s eyes squeezed shut. A tear slipped free anyway, trailing down and disappearing into Jake’s shirt.
Neteyam’s breathing hitched again, and this time he didn’t fight it. He leaned forward and tucked his face into Jake’s shoulder like he used to when he was little.
Jake held them both and stayed still.
No speeches. No fixing. No telling them to toughen up.
Just… holding.
After a long moment, Lo’ak sniffed and swiped angrily at his face, like the tear had offended him.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he muttered.
Jake huffed a quiet laugh, careful not to shake them loose. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Neteyam’s voice came muffled. “You… you really mean it?”
Jake’s throat burned.
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean it.”
Lo’ak pulled back just enough to look up at Jake, eyes still glossy, expression fierce and vulnerable all at once. “So… you’re gonna say it again?”
Jake blinked. “Say what again?”
Lo’ak’s jaw tightened. He looked away, embarrassed, then mumbled, “The proud thing.”
Jake felt something in him give way—something hard and old.
He cupped the back of Lo’ak’s head, thumb brushing the braid line gently. “I’m proud of you,” he repeated, slower this time, like he wanted the words to sink into bone. “Not when you’re perfect. Not when you’re easy. I’m proud of you because you’re my son and you keep getting up.”
Lo’ak’s breath caught. His eyes watered again immediately, and he looked furious about it.
Neteyam lifted his head too, eyes red-rimmed but steady. Jake looked at him and said it with the same weight.
“And I’m proud of you,” Jake told Neteyam. “For what you do. For who you are. You don’t have to earn it.”
Neteyam’s face crumpled fully this time, just for a second. He nodded quickly, like if he moved fast enough he could keep control.
Jake pulled both boys in again, arms tightening.
He closed his eyes.
Do better, he promised himself, silently and fiercely. Don’t make them beg for crumbs of you.
They stayed like that until the sounds of the marui shifted—until someone outside called that food was ready, until the scent of cooked fish drifted in, until life tried to move on.
Finally, Neteyam cleared his throat and pulled back carefully, wiping his face with the heel of his hand like he was annoyed at himself for needing it.
Lo’ak sniffed again, then tried to make his voice sarcastic, like sarcasm could rebuild his armor. “So… you’re just gonna start asking us what we did every day now?”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “Yeah.”
Lo’ak groaned. “That’s—ugh. That’s so… dad.”
Jake smirked faintly. “Correct.”
Neteyam’s mouth twitched, the beginnings of a real smile. “I… I can remind you,” he offered automatically, like it was his job to make sure this didn’t fall apart.
Jake felt the instinct—Let him. The habit of leaning on Neteyam’s steadiness.
He pushed against it gently.
“No,” Jake said. “That’s not your job. It’s mine.”
Neteyam blinked, then nodded slowly. Something in his shoulders loosened.
Lo’ak muttered, “We’ll see.”
Jake didn’t get mad at that. He didn’t demand trust like it was owed.
He nodded once. “Fair.”
Then he held out his hands, palms up, a silent question.
Lo’ak hesitated only a heartbeat before stepping forward and bumping his forehead against Jake’s chest in a rough, quick gesture that pretended not to be affection.
Neteyam followed more softly, leaning in close.
Jake wrapped them both up again, brief but firm, and kissed the top of Neteyam’s head—then, after a second’s pause, did the same to Lo’ak.
Lo’ak froze like a startled cat.
Jake grinned into his hair. “Don’t make it weird.”
Lo’ak made a strangled sound. “You made it weird first!”
Neteyam let out a small laugh, still watery but real.
Jake held them for one more heartbeat, then let them go.
They moved toward the entrance together, shoulders brushing, an old habit of staying close. Jake followed behind, watching them like he was seeing them for the first time.
Not as responsibilities. Not as risks.
As boys. His boys.
Jake’s chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t just guilt.
It was something steadier.
A choice.
And as they stepped into the evening light, Jake silently repeated the promise like a mantra, like a new way of breathing:
Ask. See. Praise. Hold. Repeat.
He wasn’t going to miss them anymore.