She comes back from a public ceremony one afternoon to find him assembling a bookcase in her room. He'd been putting it off for weeks, but after yesterday he wanted to do something nice for her. Jane had begun to form quite a formidable collection of books after her semi-retirement and he knew she would appreciate more shelves to store them. And on his part he wanted to contribute a little to her home. Improve it a little with his presence there.
He hears the front door open and shut and the next moment she's standing in the door of her bedroom. He grins up at her from his seating position, but instead of – whatever he expected, her face goes white.
He just manages to get up from the floor before she thunders up to him and starts shrieking at him to get out get out. He tries to answer her, explain something, but she won't stop yelling at him, and he's trying to back out the door when she grabs him by the arm.
He startles so bad he actually drops the hammer, but she ignores it, half-pinning him against the wall (He had forgotten how strong she was) and growling something about no privacy, this is my room and he's not even sure, but he grabs back at her, his hand finding her forearm and clenching. She actually snarls, shakes him off, and he snaps back at her, something defensive, and then she's pushing him, actually pushing him out of the room.
The door closes behind him and the sound rings through the silent apartment.
He's still standing there a moment later when she comes out of the room in a flurry and makes a beeline for the front door. He reaches out to her, but she's out of the door before he can say a word.
His hands are shaking and he fights the urge to sink down into the nearest chair. Instead, he takes a few backwards steps, looks at the empty room in the aftermath, and lets his mind start to race.
He looks at his work desk, at a gift he started days ago still in the making. As he works his mind's eye goes back to their confrontation, watches her come in from the cold, into the room. Watches the red rise like flags in her cheeks as she pushes him, watches her yank away from his grasping hand, and he can suddenly see it. He can see her. He can see the her pushing him away, the way she snaps like a feral dog every time he lifts his hand in greeting, the display of teeth and the bristling fur. She doesn't want him to be in charge. She wants to be the one that pushes him against the wall. Needs to be, to feel like she's in control of something in her maelstrom life, because her default setting has been changed to self-defense and everything can look like a threat let alone the man who cut into her throat.
But at the same time he can see the turmoil and the hunger, the wanting, like a whirlpool, sucking him down. The need for him. And there's something horrible in the wanting and the needing. It's not like his own desire – he wants to fill every void in her life, be her friend, her brother, her – whatever she wants him to be. He wants to give everything. And she wants to take, but it's as if she doesn't know what it is she wants, as if she's going to swallow him whole, devour him.
He shudders and now he does sink into the nearest chair, bracing his elbows on his knees and clenching his hands together so they don't shake visibly.
It's never easy to really look at people and it's rarely good, the things he sees in them. But at least now he knows, and he can imagine what needs to be done, and a sliver of optimism flickers through the depths of him like light glinting off a silver minnow. He can fix this, he thinks. He swallows his anger and gets to work.
He's just finishing up at his desk when the front door opens. He stiffens up, turns around to see her come in and head straight for her room. At least she doesn't slam the doors this time.
He gives it a minute, letting her settle in, before he goes up to her bedroom door and knocks gently.
There is a stunning quiet inside and then the door shoots up and she is standing there blocking the entrance with her body and glaring up at him. "We're knocking now, are we?" she says.
"Jane, I'm sorry. I want to apologize for that, earlier. I didn't know it would bother you so much, although, uh, in retrospect I guess I should have."
Her jaw tenses. The apology isn't exactly mollifying her.
"Anyway, I want you to know I respect your privacy and the sanctity of your space. I just wanted… to improve it a tiny bit, putting that up. Maybe," he suggests, running a hand through his hair, "the plan could have been executed a little better."
She jerks her chin up and he sees her nostrils flare. "Yeah, maybe." But the tension eases on her shoulders and she folds her arms over her chest and waits.
He clears his throat. "Anyway, I, uh, have something for you. Consider it a good faith gift."
Her arms uncross and she takes what he's handing her – a pocket-sized in scale replica of the Normandy. Not amazingly detailed, but recognizable.
"I noticed you have a few models of Turian and Asari ships and such," he shrugs, "and, uh, I've been working on this for a while and finished it after you left, always liked working with wood. I figured you might like it." He leaves it at that, fighting the urge to justify the gift, watching the way her mouth relaxes a bit.
She looks up at him holding his crude gift overly carefully, and at last she says, sounding a little stilted, "Thank you."
And then she's stepping back, pulling open the door, and inviting him in with a nod. "Wanna finish setting it up? I'll clean up afterwards." She says and turns her back on him while he quietly comes in.
The closer he gets the more prickly she becomes. But something in her is tugging at him insistently and he's not sure anymore whether he should ignore it.