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It still hit him at odd moments, usually when he wasn’t trying to think about it at all. Jake Sully, former Marine, former nobody with nothing waiting for him back on Earth, was a father.
The reality of fatherhood, Jake was discovering, was a tapestry woven from threads of profound wonder and relentless, mundane repetition. In the couple of weeks since Neteyam’s birth, he had cycled through emotions so intense they left him breathless: a love so fierce it felt like a new organ in his chest, a protective anxiety that jerked him awake at the slightest sigh, and a bone-deep, grinning pride every time the little guy managed a new sound or focused his golden eyes on his father’s face.
And a couple of weeks in, the word father still landed strangely in Jake’s head, like a stone dropped into water that hadn’t yet decided how to ripple. It surfaced at odd moments—when Neteyam’s fingers curled reflexively around one of his, when Neytiri said ‘our son’ without hesitation, when Jake caught his reflection and saw himself holding a child instead of a weapon.
The realization came to him again as he crouched inside the mauri, shoulders hunched, tongue caught briefly between his teeth in concentration while he tried—again—to fasten a loincloth around a very uncooperative infant.
“Buddy,” Jake muttered under his breath, gentle but strained, “you gotta work with me here.”
Neteyam squirmed with single-minded determination, his small limbs kicking and twisting as if the simple act of being dressed was a personal affront. Jake sighed, adjusted his grip, and tried to remind himself that this was normal. That babies did this. That his son was not deliberately waging war against him.
“You know,” Jake muttered, mostly to himself, “back where I come from, we invented stuff that sticks to itself. And elastic bands. And things that don’t require three hands and the patience of a saint.”
Neteyam responded by wriggling harder, tail flicking sharply against Jake’s wrist.
Jake huffed a laugh despite himself. He was starting to get the hang of things—of the rhythms, the constant low-level exhaustion, the way his awareness seemed permanently tuned to this small, fragile being. Still, there were moments like this, absurd and intimate, where the sheer unreality of it all made his chest feel tight.
I’m a father.
He had a son. A living, breathing little person who depended on him for everything, who knew his touch, who quieted at the sound of his voice. He had never planned for this. Never imagined it. The concept felt both too vast and too simple.
Earth hadn’t exactly been a place that encouraged thoughts of family or future, not for someone like him. It was a distant privilege he’d never dared to map. Survival had taken up too much room. Making it to the next day had been the goal. After Venezuela, even that had felt like too much to hope for.
But somehow—against every conceivable odd—he was here now. Light-years away from the ruins of a dying planet, from everything he’d ever known. In a body that was once his brother’s science project, a body he was not born with. He was a husband and a father, trying to dress his weeks-old son while his mate bathed nearby.
Life was funny like that. A punchline the universe had written just for him, and he loved it.
“Okay, buddy, hold still. Almost done,” Jake murmured, his large hands fumbling with the final knot on the clean loincloth. Neteyam, unimpressed by the procedure, squirmed, his tiny legs pumping in the air. “I know, I know. This is tyranny. Unacceptable conditions. We’ll file a complaint later.”
Neytiri had slipped out a few minutes earlier to bathe, leaving Jake with Neteyam. Her departure was accompanied by a look that was equal parts trust and warning—the kind that said don’t do anything stupid without needing words.
Neteyam had been napping then, small and warm and impossibly perfect, and Jake had taken the opportunity to breathe, to stretch his back, to let himself exist without hypervigilance for a few minutes.
The peace lasted precisely twenty minutes. A soft, fussing grunt from the hanging woven bassinet signaled the end of the nap and the beginning of a diaper change.
Jake had become passably proficient at it. With a concentration that would have amused his old squad, Jake managed to secure the loincloth. He leaned back on his heels, exhaling in quiet triumph.
“Ha,” he said softly. “Mission accomplished.”
Neteyam blinked up at him, unimpressed.
Jake cleaned up quickly, disposing of the soiled loincloth and washed his hands with clean water from a gourd. When he returned, Neteyam had begun to fuss, small sounds building in his throat.
Jake scooped him up without hesitation, settling him against his chest, one broad hand supporting his back. For a moment, that was enough. Neteyam relaxed slightly, his weight warm and solid in Jake’s arms, and his small head fit neatly beneath his father’s chin.
Jake held his son close, rocking gently, breathing in the sweet, unique scent of baby—a mix of milk, the forest-scented oils Neytiri used, and something purely, indefinably Neteyam.
Then Neteyam protested again, wriggling insistently. He shifted, let out a protesting chirr, and pushed weakly against Jake’s chest with both hands, clearly announcing that whatever comfort he’d needed had been satisfied and that further restraint was unacceptable.
“All right, all right,” Jake murmured, amused despite himself. “You don’t want to be held. I get it. Independent already, huh? At least give your old man a couple of years first,”
He lowered Neteyam carefully onto a woven mat laid out on the floor, rolling him gently onto his stomach. Neteyam let out a small grunt of effort, arms splayed, face screwed up in concentration. Jake laid out Neteyam’s small collection of toys around him: a smooth river stone, a knotted cord of soft leather, and his favorite—a small, crudely carved wooden direhorse.
Jake had whittled it months ago while Neytiri slept nearby, her belly heavy with their son. The little figurine wasn’t perfect—the proportions were slightly off, the legs a bit too thick—but Jake had sanded it smooth, fitting it carefully to the size of an infant’s grip. To Neteyam, it was a thing of magic.
Neteyam’s golden eyes, already so perceptive, locked onto the direhorse instantly. A coo of interest escaped him.
Jake settled cross-legged beside the mat, picking up the direhorse. "See? It’s your pa'li," he said, his voice dropping into the animated, slightly silly register reserved for infants. He nudged it forward along the mat, making the toy 'walk' across the mat with stilted hops.
Jake clicked his tongue and mimicked the low sound of the animal, rough and exaggerated. Neteyam stared, eyes wide, utterly enthralled. His fingers flexed, grasping at the air, when Jake brought it close enough. Jake obliged, letting Neteyam clutch it, then gently tugging it away again, repeating the motion.
Neteyam cooed and kicked his legs, utterly enthralled. His tail lifted slightly, swaying as he focused, the tuft at the end flicking back and forth with each excited movement.
Jake’s heart felt like it might overflow.
The pure, unfiltered joy of seeing his son discover the world was a miracle Jake would never tire of. Jake could have watched him like this for hours—just observing the slow, earnest way Neteyam explored the world, the complete seriousness with which he regarded each new sensation.
The way Neteyam’s brow furrowed in concentration, the delighted gasp when he finally managed to bat the toy with a clumsy fist, the absolute triumph in his eyes—it was better than any victory he’d ever known.
Jake continued the performance. Walk, circle, whinny. Pick up, repeat. The direhorse walked. The direhorse jumped. The direhorse made its terrible noise. For the tenth time. The fifteenth.
By the twentieth minute of making the same wooden horse trot in the same small circle, Jake’s back was starting to ache from leaning over, and the repetition was wearing thin. “And… the brave pa’li… climbs the mountain… again,” he narrated, his voice losing some of its initial theatrical energy. He made a soft whickering sound. Neteyam, oblivious to his father’s waning stamina, kicked his legs in delight.
The day had been long—settling a dispute between hunters, reviewing the progress of the new communal areas—and his brain, still buzzing with responsibilities, craved a different kind of engagement.
It was during another slow, predictable trot that Jake’s gaze drifted from the toy to his son’s back. To the tiny, perfect tail.
When he’d first inhabited his avatar body, the tail had been a bizarre and clumsy appendage. He’d knocked things over, had to consciously think about its movement. Now, it was as natural as breathing, an extra limb for balance and expression.Seeing it on his son, though, was something else entirely.
Neteyam’s tail was absurdly small, barely more than a thick cord with a puff of hair at the end, and it moved with an honesty that made Jake’s chest ache.
As Jake made the direhorse trot in a circle, Neteyam’s tail mirrored the excitement, swishing slowly from side to side like a metronome set to the rhythm of infant delight. Then, as the wooden horse did a particularly dramatic pratfall (courtesy of its shorter leg), Neteyam gave a delighted gurgle and his tail flicked straight up, the tuft pointing at the ceiling like a tiny, triumphant flag.
It was unbearably… cute. The single cutest thing he had ever seen in two lifetimes.
And then, an idea bloomed in Jake’s sleep-deprived, utterly besotted brain. A terribly, mischievous, and irresistible idea.
Jake hesitated for a brief moment—long enough to consider Neytiri’s warning look, but not long enough to change his mind.
He kept the direhorse show going, making the toy prance and snort before placing it in Neteyam’s grubby little hands. As Neteyam became fully engrossed, gumming the direhorse’s head with intense dedication, Jake slowly, carefully, rotated the mat so that his son was now facing away from him. Neteyam’s back was now to Jake, that perfect, adorable tail presented like a target.
Jake stared at the tiny tail for a long moment, lips pressing together as he fought a grin. This was probably a bad idea.
Jake held his breath. He reached out one finger, his touch feather-light, and brushed the very tip of the tail.
Swish.
The tail flicked away, an automatic reflex. Jake glanced up. His son didn’t react otherwise—no cry, no turn of the head. He remained focused on the direhorse, utterly unconcerned.
A slow grin spread across Jake’s face, his ears perking up. Emboldened, Jake tried again. This time, he used two fingers to give the tail a gentle, tickling stroke.
Swish-swish.
Again, the tail swished away, followed by a couple of quick, irritated flicks that carried unmistakable intent. Though Neteyam still didn’t look back. Jake’s shouders shook silently, amusement bubbling up warm and uncontained in his chest.
Now, fully grinning like a fool, Jake couldn’t help himself. For the third time, he reached out once more and gave the tail a gentle tug, barely more than a tease.
SWISH-SWIPE-SWIPE!
The tail lashed with clear annoyance–whipping back and forth, irritation clear in the movement. This time, Neteyam stopped his playing. He stopped staring at the toy and turned his head, looking over his shoulder with a puzzled, adorable scrunch of his features.
Jake instantly withdrew his hand, arranging his face into what he hoped was an expression of pure innocence. Neteyam’s scrutinizing golden eyes swept over his father’s blank face, then around the empty space behind him.
“What’s wrong, buddy? See a bug?” Jake offered.
Neteyam stared at him for a long moment, then looked around, confusion evident. Finding no culprit, his brow still furrowed in mild offense, he grunted and turned back, reclaiming his direhorse. His tail now swaying with a distinctly peeved rhythm.
Jake’s resolve lasted all of ten seconds. The temptation was too great. He reached out again, this time pinching the tail gently between two fingers.
Neteyam whirled around again, faster with a sharper sound of protest. His face was a masterpiece of infant indignation—lips pursed, nose scrunched, eyes narrowed in a scowl that was a perfect, tiny echo of Neytiri’s fiercer version.
Jake pulled his hand back just in time, schooling his expression into something vaguely respectable, though the amusement danced plainly in his eyes.Neteyam studied him intently, face scrunched in concentration, tail swaying with irritation. He scanned the space around him, clearly trying to solve the mystery of the phantom tail-puller, his face scrunched in deep concentration.
Jake bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud. It was unfair how cute it was.
Finding nothing—again—Neteyam let out a frustrated little noise and returned to his toy, tail swaying in irritated little arcs.
Jake didn’t even hesitate when he reached out again and gave the tail another gentle pull.
That was the final straw.
Neteyam dropped his direhorse.His face crumpled, frustration spilling over into indignation and distress. He let out a sharp, indignant noise that rose quickly toward a cry, his body tensing as his frustration finally spilled over. It was the building rumble before the storm, the clear announcement that his patience, which was microscopic to begin with, had been exhausted.
Jake couldn’t hold it in anymore. A deep, rolling laugh burst from him, filled with pure, unadulterated delight. The sight of his tiny son, so fiercely annoyed by a prank he couldn’t comprehend, was endlessly endearing.
“Okay, okay—hey, hey,” Jake crooned, still chuckling as he scooped Neteyam up off the mat in one smooth motion.
Neteyam protested loudly as Jake lifted him, fists clenched, tail still twitching angrily. Jake adjusted his grip, settling Neteyam against his shoulder, one hand supporting his back, the other cradling the back of his head. He rocked gently, murmuring soothing nonsense while pressing a light kiss to the side of Neteyam’s head.
“Shhh, shhh, I’m sorry. Daddy’s sorry.” he said softly, laughter fading into something warmer, fuller. “That was mean, huh? Yeah, yeah, Daddy’s a big dumb skxawng.”
Neteyam’s cries softened, then broke off into hiccupping breaths. Jake kept rocking, rubbing slow circles against his back, his voice dropping into a steady, calming rhythm.
“You’re okay. I got you. I promise I’ll try not to mess with your tail again,” Jake continued to murmur nonsense, soothing his son, but the amused, proud smile never left his face. “No guarantees, though. You’re just too cute.”
Neteyam settled gradually, his body relaxing against Jake’s chest, the tension draining away as familiarity reasserted itself. His tiny fingers clutching around Jake’s choker. Jake rested his cheek briefly against his son’s head, closing his eyes.
Jake lets out a soft exhale.
Fatherhood, he thought, was strange and exhausting and terrifying—and somehow, impossibly, exactly where he was meant to be.