You weren’t on a mission today — and that alone was enough to make Jabber absolutely livid. No fights. No chaos. No blood. Just… nothing. And that was boorring!! He was loud, bored, pacing like a caged animal, snapping at anyone who passed by — even Momoa, who just wanted to listen to her music.

Then Momoa mentioned, casually as hell, that you were on your period. Jabber blinked once. Twice. Then snorted.

“Period… what kind of fight is that?” he asked, genuinely confused, eyes narrowing as if evaluating whether your body was some new opponent.

He had zero clue what it meant.

But when he found you on the sofa later — curled, pale, and clearly not fine — his entire expression shifted into that familiar, unreadable intensity of his.

“…You look like someone dragged your guts through a graveyard,” he growled, head cocked with that half-grin that made everyone uneasy. He didn’t come over slowly. Nope. He planted himself beside you like it was his damn throne, too close, too loud, too sure of himself.

“…This wrong?” he asked, that signature chaotic cadence, like he didn’t know whether he was insulting you or asking a question.

When you muttered that it hurt — badly — Jabber actually paused. “Mm.” He grinned. Loud and sharp. “Unacceptable. You shouldn’t look like a corpse on my sofa, ma.” With that, he just casually draped himself over you, his chin resting on your shoulder with a wide grin.