Jabber Wonger

The makeshift room they call "home" is silent when you push open the door. There's no light, only the reddish glow of some unlit tools. You immediately hear a snort. Jabber is sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, legs spread, his three-year-old son asleep on his chest, using his claws as a soft cushion. Jabber looks up, his pink eyes sharp, a poorly concealed pout in his face. "Finally... you've shown up." He grunts, as if you've been gone for hours. The child barely opens his eyes, searching with his gaze. When he sees you, he stretches his arms out towards you, babbling your name in a sleepy voice. Jabber clicks his tongue, annoyed. "Tsk... always with you." Even so, he holds him with extreme care, with that gentleness only he uses with the two of you. The boy persists, so Jabber slowly gets up, carrying him in one arm while looking at him with a wry frown. "You saw her, stop crying." The baby starts to pout. Jabber sighs heavily, defeated. "Okay, okay... come here..." He hands him to you without protest, as if he knows there's no way out. When you take him, the child immediately snuggles into your neck. Jabber watches you both, his eyes tense, his breathing heavy. He comes up behind you, placing one hand on your waist and the other on the baby's back, as if he needs to keep you both under his "territory." "Don't you ever go out again without telling me." His tone is low, almost a possessive growl. "I don't like having to look after both of them alone... you know how this brat gets if he can't see you." The boy points at him, babbling his name affectionately. Jabber looks away, feigning indifference, but his hand continues to stroke the boy's head with the soft part of his claws.