Chapter Text
The floor gives way beneath Jabber with a sharp crack, dust flying up around them as Zanka drives him down. The impact rattles Jabber’s bones, knocking the breath from his lungs in a sound that’s both half laugh and half choke.
Before Jabber could even blink, Assistaff came down fast—too fast. The spikes hover—not piercing, but enough to threaten.
For a split second, everything stills. Jabber’s eyes go wide—not with fear, but surprise. Then his mouth curls, slow and deliberate, into a sharp grin.
Zanka’s arms shake as he jerks his Jinki at the last possible moment, the curved edge of Assistaff slamming across Jabber’s neck instead, pinning him to the ground completely. The spikes on either side of his head bite into the floor, trapping him there.
Zanka doesn’t move, but his breathing is hard—chest heaving and hair falling loosely over his face as he stares down at Jabber like he’s trying to decide something he already knows the answer to.
Jabber matches Zanka's stillness, his pink eyes holding Zanka’s blue ones, before a breathless laugh bubbles out of him.
Zanka’s hands tighten almost imperceptibly around Assistaff.
“Wow, Zan-Zan,” he says, voice light and teasing despite the threat of Zanka’s Jinki at his throat. “Looks like you still got some spirit in ya after all!”
Zanka tilts Assistaff just enough to force Jabber’s chin upward, baring his throat fully. Their faces are close now—close enough that Jabber could see the tension in his jaw, the way it tightened almost imperceptibly as he held himself still. Zanka doesn’t pull away.
“Shut up,” Zanka mutters back, though the bite in it was weak. His side aches where Mankira caught him earlier, feeling it now that the adrenaline was fading—a sharp, irritated cut under his ribs. At least Jabber hadn’t injected him this time, a small mercy—Zanka acknowledges. The thought of what could’ve happened if he had made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
Meanwhile, Jabber is still grinning at him from below. Which was only slightly alarming to Zanka considering he’s sure he’d heard a crack when he hit the ground—Only slightly because well, it’s Jabber—But he was trying not to think about it.
They stare at each other, breaths ragged and uneven, the space between them filled with nothing but the sound of them trying to remember how to breathe. The fight should’ve ended already. It always does—Cleaner versus Raider, violence resolved, sides reaffirmed.
But this isn’t that.
It never is.
Zanka’s grip falters.
Assistaff slips from his hands, clattering to the floor beside them as his legs decide to finally give up beneath him. He collapses forward, weight dropping onto Jabber, limbs tangling together in a clumsy heap.
Jabber lets out a sharp, involuntary sound as the impact jars his ribs.
Zanka freezes, then exhales shakily, forehead dropping against Jabber’s shoulder. His whole body feels heavy now, exhaustion crashing over him all at once, adrenaline fading from his system.
For a long moment, they just lie there—breathing, hearts pounding against each other. The buzz of the fight was only an echo now, faint, yet distant.
Zanka felt Jabber’s hands come up, settling against his back. Not quite pushing him away, but also not pulling him closer. He just rests them there, fingers splayed like this is where they were always meant to end up.
Zanka should pull back.
He knows he should.
Jabber is a raider, an enemy. A problem that should've been dealt with properly the first time they’d crossed paths. Every instinct and rule drilled into him screams that this is wrong.
And yet—
Zanka shifts instead, adjusting his weight carefully, his body angled just enough to give them room to breathe. His head was still buried against Jabber’s shoulder when he lifted a hand, hovering near Jabber’s side yet hesitating like it was caught in between two decisions.
The gentleness of the moment feels almost unbearable, completely at odds with the violence that put them here.
Zanka tells himself that this is practical. That these meetings—these fights—are necessary. Jabber pushes him, forces him to be better, faster, stronger. Every clash sharpens him in ways training never could, and that's all this is.
That's all it can be.
His fingers touch Jabber anyway.
They slide along his side, slow and deliberate. Zanka’s sure the skin beneath is already mottled with bruises and cuts. But his touch is careful—too careful—as if he’s afraid of what might happen if he presses too hard.
Meanwhile, Jabber just exhales, body melting into the contact like this is the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it would be, in a world where they weren't Cleaner and Raider.
Zanka swallows.
His hand drifts, sliding across to his chest, and down to his stomach, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. For a moment, he pauses.
Two of Jabber’s fingers tap lightly against Zanka’s back.
Once, twice.
A ghost of permission.
Zanka’s hand slides under the fabric fully, palm warm against tan skin, fingers sweeping higher until they skim over Jabber’s ribs. He feels Jabber shiver beneath him, breath catching just slightly.
There.
Zanka presses down, just enough to test it.
Jabber winces, a sharp intake of breath—but he doesn't pull away. Doesn't even tense, or complain. He just lets it happen, jaw tightening for a moment until his breathing evens out again.
“Second time,” Jabber murmurs, almost fond. “You're gettin’ predictable.”
Zanka’s hand stills.
For a moment, the world narrows to the sound of their breathing and the steady thrum of Jabber’s pulse under his fingers.
Then, Jabber reaches up and grabs Zanka’s wrist, grip firm where he holds it.
“That’s enough,” he says, grin still wide. “Don't hesitate next time.”
The words send a cold shiver down Zanka’s spine.
He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, pushing himself upright in one sharp motion. His chest suddenly feels tight, breath suddenly too shallow.
He doesn’t look at Jabber.
“Idiot,” he mutters, grabbing Assistaff and turning away before he can think too hard about what Jabber had just asked of him.
Jabber laughs softly behind him.
The laughter follows Zanka out.
Jabber stays where he is long after Zanka leaves.
The silence settles heavy around him, broken only by his breathing. His chest aches—more than it should. Not sharp or exactly painful, just… tight.
And then he coughs—once, twice—a hand instinctively coming up.
A smear of red stains his palm when he draws it back.
Jabber just blinks at it, unfazed as he wipes his hand off on his pants. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth instead.
“Damn,” he murmurs to himself, rolling onto his side. It aches where Zanka had driven him down earlier, but he pays no mind to it. “You really did get me good this time.”
Something warm curls in his chest as he lets his eyelids flutter shut, the echo of Zanka’s weight still lingering against him.
Worth it.