Work Text:
Clipboard in hand, you stand rather patiently at the base of the metal monstrosity’s gangplank. The sun is vicious, even with how low it sits in the skies. It won’t be long until night falls, and with the movement of the machine coming to a complete halt, you’re certain Zandik must be done for the day.
At least, you hope he is.
Footsteps sound from the depths of the machine as he makes his way to you. They’re slower than usual, frequently stopping before starting with a gait that’s uncharacteristic compared to the brisk walk he favors. Ready with your pen for his notes, you await his immediate report that never comes.
Only his hand gripping the railing as he makes it far enough to lean outside, tossing the contents of his stomach out onto the sands below. They hit rather wetly, only just loud enough to be heard over the sound of his wretches that sound like he’ll have a few burst blood vessels in those already-red eyes of his.
A cough rings out as you drop the clipboard in the sand, thoughts of proper transcription lost amidst the vision of Zandik nearly falling off the ramp. The moment you’re in range to touch him, his arm swings out in your direction as if to ward you away. With an easy duck, you tuck your shoulder beneath his armpit and plant your hand on his back.
“It’s alright, take a couple breaths and then we’ll get to solid ground.”
His mouth opens to argue, but you can almost see him turn green before he clamps it shut. Guiding him down to where the clipboard lay abandoned, you murmur while leaning your head closer, “Keep swallowing - you can’t throw up that way.”
Whether he does it or not, you can’t say, but he doesn’t throw up again. At the base of the ramp, you guide him to sit with your hand waving off in the distance in front of him. “Focus on the cliff walls, get your bearings.”
Reaching into the folds of your protective cloak, you pull your half-full canteen out and start working at unscrewing the lid. “What happened? You said the motion tests would go for ten minutes to get a complete-”
“ It didn’t happen. Obviously.”
On any other day, there’d be a bite to his words that you’ve long since grown immune to. Years of dealing with his flights of fancy will do that to a person. But it’s so weak that you don’t even register its existence as you hold the canteen toward his outstretched hand. Attempting to give him an out, or at least an excuse to change the subject, you ask, “Were the instruments malfunctioning? How old did you say this one might be?”
Zandik looks up at you - you were right, there are burst blood vessels in the whites of his eyes. With a quiet sigh, one that speaks of an exasperation that annoys him to no end, you reach forward to brush the hair off his sweating forehead, tucking it behind his ear for just a moment before it stubbornly falls back into place again. It no longer sticks to his skin, so you simply leave his waves to their own devices.
Red eyes avert to the canteen before he brings it to his lips, stopping just short to finally give you whatever answer he deems acceptable. “ No. ”
He’s paused by a sip that he holds in his mouth before swallowing and grimacing at the strong mineral taste. Little can be done to purify the water out here beyond making sure it would at least not make you ill. One more drink, quicker this time, before he deliberately responds, “There are no gyroscopes, and no points to secure oneself. The original pilots must have had specialized equipment, or unique modifications to make it so disrupted balance-”
“Oh, so you’re motion sick.”
Zandik’s hands flex hard enough around your canteen that it groans under the pressure.
Not so far away is the camp that you’ve set up with him for this research trip. Two squat tents hold fast against the wind beginning to pick up, the temperature dropping thanks to the sun finally dipping beneath the horizon and casting the valley into shadows. Despite offering your shoulder for him to lean on, Zandik stubbornly makes his way there with the forgotten clipboard in one hand and your drained canteen in the other.
It doesn’t take much to get a small fire going as a light source - something you do, as he settles on a rock near the fire pit and stubbornly writes his notes in the rapidly dimming sunlight. Zandik won’t thank you for it, nor will you expect that from him.
There’s always been a sense of expectation that you’ll just… do things for Zandik. Whether that’s quietly going along with research that would easily get you expelled alongside him, or scribing the notes for what he finds during that research, or even just squatting down on your heels and poking dutifully at a fire until it’s bright enough not to strain his eyes.
Pinprick-sized sparks rise in its smoke as you shift dry wood around aimlessly, no longer worried about stoking it in favor of wasting time. If you were to turn around and enter your tent with the intention of turning in for the evening, how would he fare? Would Zandik take it on himself to make dinner for the both of you, or just himself? Or at all?
Most likely the latter. Not out of spite, but simply because he’d become engrossed in rehashing his findings from the day until the ink ran out of his pen.
“Zandik,” you start, then wait for him to lift his eyes and look at you expectantly. Maybe once upon a time he might’ve demanded you make it quick, or at least provide something interesting, but hostility like that has been stamped out. With his attention grabbed, you ask, “is soup alright tonight? It shouldn’t be too hard on your stomach.”
His mouth opens to respond, a flash of sharp teeth that disappear when he closes just as quickly. Regarding you with a guarded expression, he asks, “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
“I’m not asking to embarrass you. I’m asking because I care. ”
“That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it?” The clipboard lowers until it’s flat in his lap, forgotten in favor of the conversation you’ve presented - and a cheap dig at you that doesn’t feel as sharp as it should be. “Caring too much. It’s going to get you in trouble.”
“Maybe I should specify that I care about you. Do you plan on getting me in trouble?”
And he thinks about it. Zandik brings a thumbnail to his lower lip, pushing at the pale pink of his flesh there as you set to work grabbing out the equipment you’d need for dinner. There are enough supplies to support the two of you out here for weeks, despite needing to be back at the Akademiya sooner than that. Rations aren’t dwindling, so you maybe put a little more meat in the pot, a few extra spices.
“Trouble has a way of making itself, whether one wants it to or not. Statistically speaking, taking into account my interests and the activities those entail, there’s a high probability of me getting you into trouble.”
“Your interests align with mine, so I’ll be finding it with or without your help.” A compressed cube of beef stock falls into the pot with a quiet plop, sinking and beginning to break apart to color the slowly-boiling water. “You’re thinking too hard about all this anyway. I just feel bad you’re not feeling well after the test run today, that’s all. It’s not a big deal.”
“Something can be learned in every moment, including this one. I just feel bad you’re sticking your neck out for me when it wouldn’t be reciprocated, that’s all.”
You bristle at his mockery of your own words, but you find yourself even more annoyed at his flippant admission that he wouldn’t return the favor. Because he has. Multiple times.
“So what would you call that time you stayed with me when I fell asleep in the House of Daena through the night so it would look like we were working on something and I wouldn’t get in trouble by patrols?”
“We were working on something-”
“Or when my dorm was damaged and I didn’t have anywhere to stay, so you smuggled me into your dorm every night for two weeks?”
A harsh breath leaves him, and it isn’t until the light flickers across his face that you realize there’s the smallest tilt of his lips. “Considering the damage was my fault, it only made sense.”
With a wry smile of your own, you stir the pot and try not to draw attention to the fact he’s let the walls drop just a little. “And then there was that time you stopped me from getting mugged-”
“I did no such thing.”
“Ah, but you would have. ” The broth will need some time to settle, giving you the time needed to settle next to Zandik on the large rock he occupies, notes forgotten entirely. “Anyway, haven’t you ever heard that old saying about not looking a gift sumpter beast in the mouth? If I want to care about you, then let me. It’s not hurting anything.”
The pen he’s holding shifts from hand to hand, twirling between his fingers in an aimless pattern that still feels practiced. Relative silence rules for a moment - never truly falling thanks to the sound of the wind through the canyon, the vultures in the distance, the metal machine forever groaning as it settles after the joyride Zandik attempted not so long ago.
In the span of time it takes for the soup to start bubbling and the scent of your heavy-handed spices settling in the small camp, Zandik finally turns back to his notes and murmurs, “Thank you for caring, I suppose.”
It takes everything in you to simply smile and not to goad him about how difficult it was to be a little grateful that he has someone as benevolent and caring to look after him when he overestimates his abilities in Khaenri’ahn Golem Piloting.