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You never really knew how much you took some things for granted until they were taken away. For instance, fresh food. Even if it was cafeteria food. It was still real food, and being able to slip into the kitchen and pilfer a few ingredients for a sandwich between mealtimes was overlooked as long as you didn't duck kitchen duty when it was your rotation and didn't take too much. Jordan figured that the gratitude for the little things would wear down back to normal levels after a while, but he was still appreciating it.

Or he had been, anyway, until a bag of flour came sailing out of the kitchen door, narrowly missing him to hit the wall nearby, and releasing a massive white cloud that obscured the whole hallway for a few seconds. Jordan hastily covered his mouth and nose with his hand to avoid choking on airborne flour. When it had settled enough, he picked up the bag of flour and stepped cautiously into the kitchen. "You know, flour can actually be explosive under the right conditions," he started, and then stopped as he saw who was in the kitchen, expression going carefully blank.

It made things easier that she was angry. That he could deal with. "Just came to grab a sandwich," he replied with bright and brittle cheer. "I'll be on my way shortly. No need for you to trouble yourself."

You aren't trying to repair things? Ferros asked cautiously.

Not a good time. She's angry, she won't listen to me. Jordan hesitated a fraction of a second, slipped into the deeper, silent mode of communication that they shared so he could directly show Ferros the complex, hidden tangle of emotion he felt regarding Ofelia: pity mixed with affection, a protective urge that fought with the irritated wish that she'd learn to take care of herself; a wistful liking all bound up in the deep, sharp hurt she'd inflicted and a simmering anger born out of her refusal to let him remain neutral in this conflict. Not, perhaps, that he could. He was biased. He knew that. But he had tried to keep it separate from his attempts to mediate, and her disbelief was a wrench thrown into a carefully balanced inner system. He hadn't dealt with his own problem yet. How could he address one that involved someone else as well?

Ferros rumbled comprehension and worry and affection, coiled his sympathy deep and quiet around his human's mind.

Jordan made his way carefully around the edges of the mess towards the big refrigerators. He wasn't going to let Ofelia's presence drive him out; he would get his damn sandwich. That was what he'd come in for.

The sudden crash and Ofelia's subsequent stillness wiped away some of the resentment and brought the worry back in full force. A tiny, cynical part of Jordan wondered if she'd done that on purpose. The rest of him was occupied with concern. He hurried back to crouch down beside her. "Hey, are you okay? Do you need a hand?"

Jordan gritted his teeth and stood. Help and sympathy flatly rejected. He stalked back over towards the refrigerators. "Despite what you might think," he said as he took out sandwich ingredients, "my entire life does not actually revolve around my boyfriends." He stressed the last word slightly. Yes, that was the term. "Obsessive focus on the other persons in a relationship, romantic, friendly, or otherwise, is an unhealthy and damaging mental state."

Jordan's shoulders stiffened, and he set about putting a sandwich together with exaggerated precision in his movements. "When you refused to tell me what had happened," he replied in clipped tones, "all I had to go on was my personal knowledge of Rep. Given that, what I said about him is what I felt was the most likely explanation for his behavior. It doesn't excuse him being an a*****e, but it does provide some context."

He found a plate in one of the cabinets and dropped the sandwich onto it, then took the knife he'd used over to the sink. "Incidentally," he added coolly, "I'd suggest that when someone tells you that they want to be left alone, that you listen."

Jordan stilled. His hands folded around the edge of the sink, gripping white-knuckle tight.

Ah jus' want someone, fer once in mah life, ta not call me a liar an' say it's all mah fault.

Shame and hurt and anger all at once. I don't want to hear you boys telling stories. I'm not raising liars. A constant parade of authority figures, calling truth lies and all the more pleased when fed carefully edited untruths. Psychologists and psychiatrists and learning to pretend to take pills and flush them down the toilet later.

He hadn't been there. How could he say who was the liar?

How could he believe Ofelia's assertion when his knowledge of the man he loved said otherwise?

What she perceived would remain the same. She saw his belief that she was mistaken as a deliberate contradiction of her.

"Does it have to be one or the other? There's no room for mistakes?" He couldn't keep his face blank and his voice even at the same time; he stayed turned away from her.

The anger flared again. "I asked you," Jordan said. "I asked you what happened, and you refused to tell me. How am I supposed to make a call on a specific incident when all I have to work with is general knowledge?"

He turned to stare at her, the corners of his mouth pulling down slightly. "You're right, it's only natural that I'd defend someone I love given no details to prove me wrong. It's a judgment call, all on perception. I don't think you lied. I believe that that's what you perceived and that's what you thought. Think. Lying implies an intent to deceive."