This is just a drabble inspired by a headcanon that was plaguing me after I started thinking about what might happen after the end 'The Words' and I just had to write it so it would leave me alone. Pure word vomit.

It's not that I'm afraid. I'm not afraid of anything, thank you very much. Not anymore. I control my emotions, I don't let them control me. Fears are nothing next to my intelligence. I rationalise them out of existence, analyse all the improbabilities the human part of my brain views as certainties and stop the spirals before they even curl up. So I'm afraid of nothing, certainly not insects barely the size of my palm.

I'm just cautious of the germs that they carry on their tiny spindly legs. And wary of their unpredictability, of course, that's the logical reaction to have. I like things that I can understand, like people. I can study their actions then manipulate their feelings until they're doing what I want them to, without them even knowing. It's a skill I've been able to perfect over the years because I've had the proper exposure but bugs are things I'd only seen close-up in textbooks before this trip. I could name you every genus, every family, draw you diagrams within a micrometre of accuracy but never before could I tell you what it feels like to be face to face with an angry millipede. We don't have many inside the wall. Well, not enough that I've ever had to confront one. People are things I can control, and that's how I like my interactions with other living creatures to go. Then I know what will happen and I know that I won't be surprised.

I can't talk to insects, or rather they can't understand when I do. So I am unable to control them, and that isn't how I like it. No matter how many times I scream, "stop taunting me and get out of the bath!", the preying mantis keeps prancing in the porcelain as if he were deaf.

You see, that's when the physical symptoms start, when I've been screaming and shouting at these stupid things. Only after. And only because of the strain, I need to make sure you understand that. My heart rate is increased because of the exertion so I need to calm it by sitting still for a while. When Tris holds me close and tells me to inhale for four counts and exhale for eight, it's to slow my breathing that became rapid with anger. I tell her not to fret about my sweaty palms and the tears spilling down my cheeks. This is what happens when humans experience such extreme emotions. I'm confident that I'm exhibiting a totally normal reaction to what is, quite frankly, a pest: annoyance. I'd get rid of the creatures myself but I think Tris rather enjoys it. I'm not afraid. I simply like to indulge her, that's all. There's a fire behind those chocolate eyes when she succeeds in catching a flying insect in a net and I like to know that at least one of us is entertained.

We've only been here for three days and we've already had several of these incidents. Johanna invited us and we agreed because it seemed like a pleasant location for a vacation. Of course in her description of the cabin, she hadn't warned us about the centipede that lives in the bedroom nor the sheer amount of spiders that seem to wander through here each night. Tris claims she doesn't mind.

She calls it a love language. When we first got together after the war, after everyone discovered the Bureau and life outside the wall, after I almost got executed and Tris almost died fighting David, I was still learning to control the difficult part of my brain that had been limiting me for my whole life. There would be things that would worry me and Tris would try her best to eliminate them. She'd usually succeed, her Dauntless training proved very useful in the early stages of our relationship. I suppose I think to view it as some kind of expression of love is ridiculous. Yes, she loves me and I love her. It would be silly of me to dispute that, especially when I've given you so many hints already. When our world was still in turmoil, when my fears came in the form of people trying to murder me and Tris fought them off, I could understand when she said she did it because she loved me. But coming to my aid to deal with a stupid insect isn't love, its nothing that serious.

I need to stop slipping and referring to insects as things that scare me. It's only an excuse for her to make a fuss. An excuse for her to remind me how she's trying her best to make this a perfect vacation for me, how nothing is out to get me anymore. She strokes my hair behind my ear and repeats the word 'perfect' like an affirmation, perfect morning, perfect day, perfect vacation, and I just sit there like an insect trapped in a jar. Her soft lips whisper "nothing's out to get you, Jeanine. I won't let anything hurt you", into my temple until it massages my pain away but I've still not moved from my foetal position on the floor or answered her questions asking if I feel better. I don't know how to respond to these expressions of raw emotion from her even after all these years. It is not in my DNA, quite literally.

I guess I could say my 'love language' is trying to better express my emotions, trying to fight against my damaged genes and let her in. Everybody knows that I've never been one to shy away from a challenge and this is no different. I try to find the words to tell her how much I appreciate the little things she does for me. I do appreciate her, very much, my own personal bug collector.