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The infirmary was dim.
The light that caught on the window and the bed frames threw long, unsteady shadows across the walls. Somewhere down the hall, someone was leaving on a mission, another just returning.
Somewhere closer, Zanka breathed. It was ragged and uneven, like his lungs hadn’t agreed yet on whether to keep going. His face looked wrong in rest, stripped of its usual sharpness.
You sat there with your back against the wall, knees drawn up, and your arms folded tight as if that might keep you alert. You’d been there long enough to stop counting the hours, long enough for the room to feel smaller when you stood, as if it noticed your absence.
It didn’t matter because he was still out.
He was still, in the way that only came after violence, when the body finally surrendered to whatever it needed to do to keep living. Bandages wrapped his torso, his arm slung awkwardly across his chest, skin sallow beneath the grime that no amount of scrubbing would fully remove. You learned in the past few hours—days—that’s how poison clung. It took the color out of people and left them hollow.
You told yourself you were watching for complications, helping Eishia handle the mess that returned from The Border. She had warned you about the fever, about the way it might spike without warning, about the way poisoned bodies didn’t always follow rules.
Someone needed to be there in case he stopped breathing, or started convulsing, or—
His fingers twitched.
You straightened instantly, attention snapping sharp. It was nothing, just a reflex. Still, you didn’t look away. You waited through the next breath. And the next. Staring didn’t fix anything. It didn’t make bodies heal faster, or mistakes undo themselves. His face looked wrong in rest, stripped of its usual sharpness.
Then, Zanka’s brow creased, jaw tightening like he was bracing for a hit that never came. Sweat had gathered along his hairline, dampening the dark strands that clung to his forehead.
You shifted onto your knees, reaching for the cup of water on the stool beside the cot. He didn’t wake when you pressed the rim lightly to his lips, but he swallowed on instinct, throat working sluggishly before stilling again.
You set the cup back and wiped your hands on your pants, grounding yourself in the familiar roughness of the fabric. Outside the infirmary, someone laughed, a short, sharp sound, the sound of adrenaline bleeding off too quickly. Life went on. It always did.
Zanka stirred again.
This time, his hand moved, fingers curling and uncurling like he was reaching for something just out of grasp. You hesitated only a second before catching his hand, steadying the movement so he wouldn’t tear at the bandages.
“Easy.” You spoke reflexively.
His grip tightened. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Yet, just enough to anchor.
You froze, eyes dropping to where his fingers had closed around yours, warm and clumsy and undeniably deliberate. For a moment, you considered pulling free. You should’ve. There was no reason to let him cling to you like that, no reason to indulge unconscious habits.
People grabbed onto whatever they could when they were drifting. You knew that. You’d seen it before. So you stayed still, afraid he’d slip.
However, his breathing evened, shoulders loosening as if some unseen tension had finally released its hold. The crease in his brow smoothed. The sound he made this time was softer, almost content, and that—
You cut the thought off immediately as Zanka woke. It was slow, like it was a heavy burden to drag him back. Not gently. Not all at once.
Pain came first, something white hot and spreading, crawling through his ribs and down his arm like it was looking for somewhere to settle. His breath hitched, sharp enough to pull a sound from his throat before he could stop it.
The room swam—the light above blurred into halos. The ceiling swayed, unfamiliar, wrong. His body refused to move the way he expected it to; every attempt met with a heavy, useless resistance.
“—Mmmf—” The sound was barely there. His own voice, fractured.
You felt it before you heard it; that tension in his grip changed, tightened, then faltered. Consciousness, finally. You didn’t wait to see his eyes open, so you pulled your hand free.
His hand closed on air, fingers curling uselessly before his arm sent a spike of pain up his side that stole his breath.
“—wait—” The word barely made it past his teeth. He tried again, throat burning. “W—”
A cough tore through him instead, brutal enough to make his vision spark. His chest screamed in protest, breath coming shallow and fast as he fought it down. Talking hurt. Moving hurt. Everything felt too heavy, too wrong.
“Don’t.” The word barely held together.
Zanka’s voice scraped out of him like it had to fight for the right to exist. He shifted on the cot and paid for it immediately, breath hitching, jaw tightening as pain flared through his side.
“I should get Eishia.” You hesitated. Just long enough for him to notice. “She’s been waiting for you to wake up.”
“How long?”
“Two days.”
“That bad, huh?”
“I’ll get Eisha…” You ignored his ill-timed joke. “You need—”
“I know what I need.” He grunted, wincing hard enough that his fingers curled into the sheets. He rode it out in silence, breathing shallow until it passed. When he spoke again, it was slower. Measured. “Not yet.”
You stayed where you were, hand still hovering near the door frame. “You almost tore your stitches earlier.”
“Didn’t.” He muttered.
“Because I stopped you.”
That earned you a glance, sharp despite the haze, something alert flickering behind it. He took you in properly then: the set of your shoulders, the way you hadn’t actually moved to leave.
“…How bad was it?” He asked, “…are the others…”
You didn’t answer right away. You crossed back to his bed instead, sitting on another bed, just short of where you’d been before. Close enough to be honest. Far enough to keep your distance.
“Banged up.” You answered. “Annoying about it. Already back on rotation.”
He exhaled through his nose, something bitter and familiar creeping into his expression. “So I really was the problem.”
“You were the one who got unlucky.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.”
“Easy to say from the outside.” He scoffed quietly.
“Easy to say from anywhere.” You corrected. “You didn’t fail. You got hit by something—someone—nasty.”
“Ain’t that a nice way of dressing it up?”
“You don’t get to turn bad luck into a character flaw.” You put it bluntly.
Zanka studied your face, searching for something—pity, maybe. Reassurance. He didn’t find it. Instead, he found something steadier. Something that didn’t flinch. You watched him spiral in place, jaw set like he could grind the thought down if he tried hard enough.
Then, you spoke again. “Say it was me…”
You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t soften it, either. Just leveled it at him, steady as you always were when things mattered.
“If it were me in that bed.” You had continued, “What would you be saying right now?”
His gaze snapped back to you. “That’s not—”
“If I’d taken the hit.” You pressed. “What would you tell me?”
The room felt smaller all at once. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. You waited. Let him sit in it. Let the question do its work.
Zanka’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled against the sheets, slow and deliberate. Because it was different. Because the thought of you lying there—broken, pale, blaming yourself—made something sharp and ugly twist in his chest.
He wouldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t stand by. Wouldn’t let you talk yourself into hating your own survival. Something warm crawled up his neck, sudden and uncontrollable. Heat rushed to his face, ears burning, chest tight for reasons that had nothing to do with injury.
Zanka huffed a breath, sharp, then crooked his mouth into something almost like a smile. “…You look rough.”
You blinked. “What?”
He tipped his head, studying you in that infuriatingly casual way, like he hadn’t just been cornered by your question. Like his heart wasn’t still tripping over itself.
“Eyes are all red…” He went on. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost sleep over me.”
There it was. The insult was light, almost playful, but aimed with intent. A probe. A test to see how far you were willing to push back.
Your spine straightened immediately. You opened your mouth, then stopped. Reset. Your guard was sliding back into place piece by piece.
“You’re one to talk.” You crossed your arms. “You look like death warmed over.”
He scoffed. “Wow. One little poisoning, and suddenly I’m unrecognizable.”
“Severely poisoned.” You corrected. “And beaten.”
“Details.”
The word came out rougher than intended.
Zanka’s breath hitched halfway through the next inhale. He tried to cover it with another huff of a laugh—but it caught, sharp and dry, turning into a cough he couldn’t swallow back down.
Once. Twice.
He bent forward instinctively, hand fisting in the blanket as his shoulders jerked. The sound tore through the room, raw and ugly, like it scraped on the way out.
“Hey—” You were at his side before you thought better of it, hand drawn to him. “Don’t—don’t push.”
“I’m—”
Zanka tried to wave you off, but the motion set it off again. Another cough, deeper this time. Wet. The color drained from his face as fast as it had come. Reality settled back in a heavy and unforgiving way.
“I’m fine.” His voice was hoarse. He leaned back against the pillows, breathing unevenly, eyes unfocused for half a second longer than they should’ve been. “Just—”
“I’m getting Eishia.” You cut in, sharper now. “You don’t get to joke through this part.”
“Don’t.” His hand closed around yours, not hard, not pleading. Just enough to stop you. “She’ll freak out.”
“She’s supposed to freak out.” You snapped. “That’s literally her job.”
“…I just woke up.” His grip loosened as another cough threatened, his throat working as he swallowed it back with visible effort.“Give me a minute.”
“Your soldier's minute is up,” you said, already stepping away.
When you left, the room felt colder. Zanka let out a weak breath, half laugh, half surrender.
Zanka stared at the spot where you’d been sitting, chest still aching, heart doing something stupid and painful that had nothing to do with broken ribs.
He stared at the ceiling, the faint cracks in the stone blurring as his breathing finally caught up with him. Each inhale was dragged. Each exhale burned. His body ached in that deep, hollow way that came from being pushed too far and asked to pretend it hadn’t mattered.
He let his head fall back into the pillow.
When it happened, when Jabber had closed in, when the poison had started crawling through his veins, he hadn’t been afraid. Not really.
There had been a moment, somewhere between the blow that knocked the wind out of him and the cold that followed, where he’d stopped caring whether he stood back up. Not because he wanted to die, but because it felt easier not to fight it.
He’d thought, If this is it, fine. Thought maybe being average, being late, being just a little too slow, that maybe it all added up to something he’d earned.
No one had been there in that moment. No one he could see, all dealing with their own injustices.
The idea that someone had been watching over him while he slept, had chosen to sit through the long, quiet hours when he couldn’t even prove he was still worth it, had never crossed his mind.
He swallowed, throat tight.
The door opened again, softer this time. Zanka didn’t look over. He didn’t want to see the pity.
“…Zanka?” Eishia’s voice was small. It was careful, like she was always afraid of being too loud in a world that already hurt. Always mindful of others around her.
“Yeah…” He responded, forcing calmness. “Still breathing.”
She hesitated. He could hear her shuffling closer, the rustle of fabric, the clink of something metal she was probably clutching too tightly. She checked his vitals in silence for a moment, movements gentle, almost reverent. When she spoke again, it wasn’t about numbers.
“They wouldn’t leave.” She spoke up again.
Zanka frowned, not responding. His chest felt wrong. Too full. Too empty. He couldn’t decide.
“They kept saying they would.” Eishia’s words tumbled out now, soft but earnest. “Said they were just stepping out. Or that they’d be back in an hour. Or after a mission.”
Eishia wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the floor, cheeks pink, hands twisting together.
“They talked to you.” She added everything quickly, like she was afraid she’d said too much already. “When you were out. Not like—just…everything. About patrols. About nothing. About how annoying you are.”
A faint, surprised huff escaped him before he could stop it. Zanka squeezed his eyes shut. He’d thought no one would notice if he didn’t wake up. Had been so sure of it.
Eishia cleared her throat. She risked a glance at him then. Small. Brave. “They were just… worried.”
The word hit harder than any punch.
Zanka was staring at the wall again, but his hands were clenched in the sheets now, knuckles white, chest aching for a reason he finally understood. He didn’t know how to face you yet. But for the first time since the raid, he knew one thing for certain: he wanted to live.
When you came back, Eishia was already at Zanka’s bedside.
She startled a little when she noticed you, her shoulders jumping before she smoothed herself out. Her eyes flicked to you, then away, then back again, measuring something you hadn’t realized was visible.
Zanka felt more awake. Too awake. Staring at the wall like he was trying not to look at either of you.
You stopped just inside the doorway. “How is he?”
“Stable.” Eishia cleared her throat. Then, after a beat, “But not ready.”
Zanka turned his head sharply. “I’m fine.”
You didn’t look at him.
Eishia adjusted the chart in her hands, careful, deliberate. “Your vitals are still inconsistent. Breathing’s shallow due to—
“I can move.” Zanka bit. “That’s what matters.”
She nodded, as if considering it seriously.
“You can. You shouldn’t.” She nodded again. Her gaze flicked to you again, quick, almost apologetic, before settling somewhere neutral. “I’m recommending another day. Two, if I have the authority.”
Zanka opened his mouth to argue.
“She does.” You put your foot down for her, which Zanka clearly didn’t appreciate.
“This isn’t just about the injuries,” Eishia added, carefully. “Your body went through a lot. Poison recovery isn’t linear. Pushing too soon could cause setbacks.”
You crossed your arms, relief and concern tangling in your chest. “That makes sense.”
“And,” she added, still not looking at either of you, “it’s better for recovery if someone familiar is nearby. You know, just in case.”
Your breath caught. Zanka froze.
Eishia finally glanced up then, cheeks pink, expression carefully blank, as if she hadn’t just placed something fragile and dangerous directly between you.
“You don’t have to.” She was always polite, always soft. “But it helps.”
You nodded once. “I can stay.”
Zanka swallowed.
“I’ll check on you later.” Eishia scribbled the note quickly, decisively, then stepped back. “Try to rest.”
When the door closed behind her, the room felt different.
Quieter. Safer.
You moved back to the chair without a word, settling into it like you had so many times before, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything at all.
Zanka watched you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t ask you to stay. Yet, when you sat down, his shoulders finally loosened, breath easing just a little, as if his body had been waiting for confirmation it didn’t have to fight alone.
—
By the time another night settled in, Zanka had lost track of how many times he’d woken up.
Sleep came in pieces now. Thin, shallow things that broke apart the moment he shifted or breathed too deeply. Each time his eyes opened, the room was a little different, light slanting in at a new angle, shadows rearranged, the air cooler.
You were always still there.
Others drifted in and out. Short visits. Awkward ones. People who didn’t quite know what to say to someone who’d nearly died and didn’t want to talk about it.
You stayed through all of it.
Sometimes you spoke, small corrections, dry comments, reminders to lower their voices. Mostly, you didn’t. You just existed in the room like a constant, unmoving thing.
By the time the infirmary lights dimmed for the night, the chair had become yours in a way that felt permanent. Zanka woke again to the sound of fabric shifting.
You were rubbing at your eyes, head tipped forward, hair falling into your face. Your shoulders slumped in a way he hadn’t seen before, guard down, exhaustion finally winning.
“You should go.”
You looked up, startled. “…I’m fine.”
“You’ve been sayin’ that all day. I’m tired of you bein’ tired.” He tilted his head. Zanka shifted, wincing, then settled again. “You don’t have to stay.”
“Don’t read into it.” You exhaled through your nose, annoyed at being caught. He watched you stand, stretch stiffly, then wave a hand at him like you were brushing something off. “Besides, I have something for you…”
You reached into the corner where the infirmary stored personal effects, fingers closing around something longer than the med kits, heavier than the spare blankets.
Zanka frowned. “If that’s another lecture—”
You ignored him.
When you turned back, his breath caught. His assistaff rested across your palms.
Cleaned. Polished where the metal had been dulled by grit and blood. The grip had been rewrapped with care, the bindings neat, deliberate — not flashy, just right. The fracture near the joint, the one he’d pretended wasn’t there until it nearly cost him everything, had been reinforced. Not erased. Strengthened.
Something in his chest snapped.
He scoffed, short and sharp. “What, you got something you need?”
You stopped. “What?”
He pushed himself up a fraction, pain flaring, but he didn’t care. His jaw set hard, eyes flicking over the careful repairs like they offended him.
“Let me guess…” He went on. “This is the part where I say thanks and you get to feel good about helpin’ the cripple, right?”
The word hit the room like a thrown blade. Your expression didn’t change, but the air around you did.
“Why are you doing this?” His laugh was bitter. “Nothing’s ever free, is it? So what is it. Favor? Leverage? You want me owin’ you something?”
“You almost died.” You were cold in delivery. “I did this—”
“Because you pity me.” Zanka cut in, harsh. “Because I got sloppy and paid for it and now everyone’s hovering like I’m some kind of lesson.” He looked at the staff again, jaw clenched. “I don’t need you coddling me. I need to get stronger.”
The word stronger came out like a vow. Or a punishment.
Silence.
Then you laughed. Not loud. Not amused. You were past humor and irony. He was right, you were tired.
“You really think this is how it works? That someone does something decent and it has to be a transaction?” You stepped closer instead, voice low now. “I wasn’t taught that care comes with strings attached.”
Zanka stared at you, something raw flickering behind his eyes, shame, anger, confusion , all tangled together.
“You forgot…” You put it as simply as you learned it. “That some of us help because that’s the only reason we survived.”
The words cut cleaner than any insult. You set the assistaff down on the table beside his bed. Not gently. Not roughly.
“Use it.” You instructed. “Or don’t.”
You didn’t argue.
That was the part he didn’t expect.
You didn’t snap back, didn’t raise your voice, didn’t defend yourself past what you’d already said. You just looked at him for a long moment, expression unreadable, like you were deciding whether something was worth the cost.
Then, you walked past the chair. Past the bed. Past the assistaff you’d left behind. The door closed softly behind you.
The next time he saw the infirmary doors open, he half-expected, stupidly, for you to be there.Instead, Eishia handed him his release papers without comment, eyes careful, and polite.
“You’re cleared.” She confirmed. “Take it slow.”
Zanka nodded, staff in hand, the repaired weight unfamiliar now. He waited anyway. Counted breaths. Watched the doorway like it might change its mind. Nothing.
When he stepped outside, the compound felt…off.
People glanced at him, looked away too quickly, or didn’t look at all. Conversations dipped when he passed, then resumed just a beat too late. Zanka told himself it was in his head. That everyone always stared at someone who’d nearly died.
Rudo gave him a thumbs-up from afar, trying. Someone else clapped him on his good shoulder and said Good to have you back.
No one mentioned you and that was worse.
Zanka caught his reflection in a pane of metal as he walked; he was gaunt, pale, eyes too sharp. He looked like someone who’d been talked about. Like someone people were careful around. As if they knew. As if they’d seen the way you’d left.
Zanka tightened his grip on the assistaff. You should’ve been there. Not because you owed him anything, but because you always were.
The realization settled heavy in his chest as he crossed the yard alone: whatever he’d said in that room hadn’t stayed there. It had followed him out. And this time, there was no chair waiting beside his bed. No quiet presence anchoring him. Just space.
And the sick, twisting certainty that he’d mistaken your care for weakness and driven it away.