Chapter Text
The door to the Cleaners’ HQ shuts behind Zanka with a soft, final click.
It’s late—late enough that the building feels hollow, like it’s holding its breath. He doesn’t linger. He never does. The errand is routine, unremarkable, the kind of task handed out because it doesn’t need discussion or backup. In and out. Simple.
Cold air meets him immediately as he steps outside. The city is quieter than usual, softened by the hour, lights dimmed and distant. Zanka adjusts his coat and starts walking.
He moves the way he always does—silent, controlled, aware. His steps barely register against the pavement, his presence easy to overlook if you aren’t looking for it. He keeps to the edges of the streets, passing through pools of light and shadow without pause, eyes forward, thoughts steady.
There’s no anticipation, no expectation. Just the errand, the path ahead, and the quiet that follows him like a second skin.
Zanka keeps to himself as he disappears into the night, not expecting to run into anyone at all.
Then he sees him.
Across the street, partially obscured by the glow of a streetlamp and the dark line of a closed storefront, a familiar silhouette stands out too sharply to ignore. Zanka slows—not enough to draw attention, just enough to register what his instincts are already telling him.
Jabber.
The recognition settles in his chest, heavy and unwelcome. Of all nights.
Zanka doesn’t approach. He doesn’t even look for long. His gaze flicks away almost immediately, shoulders staying loose, expression unchanged. He keeps walking for a few steps as if nothing has happened, as if he hasn’t just crossed paths with someone he didn’t plan for.
He considers his options with quiet efficiency.
He could turn the corner ahead, melt into the next street before he’s noticed. There’s an alley just past the convenience store—narrow, dark, easy to disappear into. Either would work. Either would keep this a non-encounter.
The city hums softly around him, distant and indifferent. Zanka adjusts his pace, weighing the exit points, already preparing to vanish back into the quiet—because running into Jabber was never part of the errand.
Zanka shifts his weight, already committing to the decision to disappear, when a sharp laugh cuts through the quiet.
Not loud. Not enough to draw a crowd. But unmistakable.
“Wow,” Jabber’s voice carries easily across the street, casual and amused, like the night exists purely for his entertainment. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here.”
Zanka freezes for half a second too long.
Across the street, Jabber has turned fully toward him now, grin spreading wide and unapologetic, eyes bright with that familiar, infuriating spark. He doesn’t hesitate. He never does. The moment he spots Zanka, he changes direction like it’s instinct, boots hitting the pavement with deliberate confidence as he starts crossing over.
Zanka clicks his tongue softly under his breath.
So much for the alley.
He keeps walking anyway, adjusting his route just slightly—not enough to look like he’s fleeing, but enough to test whether Jabber will follow. The answer comes immediately.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Jabber calls out, laughter threading through his words. “You see me, I see you—don’t tell me you’re suddenly shy.”
Zanka doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t speed up either. His shoulders remain relaxed, hands in his pockets, stride even. If Jabber wants to make this a scene, Zanka won’t be the one to give him the satisfaction.
Footsteps approach from behind, unbothered, unhurried.
“So,” Jabber continues, voice closer now, deliberately loud enough to make sure Zanka hears every word. “Out alone on Christmas Eve? That’s cold, even for you.”
Zanka exhales slowly through his nose.
“None of your business,” he replies flatly, not breaking stride.
Jabber laughs again, sharp and delighted, like that was exactly the response he was hoping for. “Ouch. Straight to the point. Missed me too, huh?”
Zanka finally stops.
He turns just enough to look at Jabber over his shoulder, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable but tight around the edges. “You’re blocking my path.”
Jabber steps into his line of sight fully, grin widening as if he’s just won a game no one else knew they were playing. Up close, he looks far too pleased with himself—hands tucked into his jacket, posture loose, head tilted like he’s studying something interesting.
“Am I?” Jabber glances around theatrically, then back at Zanka. “Looks like a whole street to me.”
Zanka stares at him in silence for a beat, clearly weighing whether walking through him would be worth the trouble.
Jabber leans back slightly, unbothered, eyes flicking over Zanka with open curiosity. “So seriously,” he says, tone dropping just enough to sound almost genuine, “why’re you out here tonight?”
Zanka’s jaw tightens. “Errand.”
“That’s it?” Jabber raises a brow. “No dramatic backstory? No secret mission? I’m disappointed.”
“Then leave,” Zanka replies.
Jabber hums, rocking back on his heels. “Nah.”
He steps closer, close enough to invade Zanka’s space without quite touching him, grin softening into something sharper, more intent. “You don’t strike me as the ‘late-night stroll’ type. Especially not alone. Especially not tonight.”
Zanka meets his gaze, eyes cool and steady. “You notice a lot for someone who should mind his own business.”
“I get bored,” Jabber says lightly. “And you’re hard to miss when you’re pretending not to exist.”
That earns him a faint scowl.
Zanka turns away again, clearly done with this, and starts walking. Jabber falls into step beside him immediately, matching his pace without effort.
“So,” Jabber continues, undeterred, hands swinging loosely at his sides, “you gonna tell me where you’re headed, or do I get to guess?”
“You’re not coming with me,” Zanka says.
Jabber’s grin sharpens. “Didn’t say I was. Just curious how far you’d let me walk before you snap.”
Zanka says nothing, but the tension in his shoulders is answer enough.
The street stretches ahead of them, quiet and dim, Christmas lights blinking lazily in shop windows as Jabber keeps talking—easy, amused, relentless—and Zanka keeps moving forward, already regretting every decision that led him out of HQ tonight.
Jabber clicks his tongue and looks around exaggeratedly, spreading his arms a little as they walk. “Y’know,” he says, glancing up at the dark sky, “this is way too quiet. Christmas Eve’s supposed to be loud. Drunk people, music blasting, someone getting arrested for starting a fight over nothing.”
He shoots Zanka a sideways grin. “Instead, it’s just you. Kinda ruins the vibe.”
Zanka doesn’t respond. His footsteps stay even, gaze fixed forward, like if he ignores Jabber long enough the man will evaporate.
Jabber snorts. “Seriously. No carolers, no chaos. Feels… off.” His tone shifts, mock-thoughtful. “Almost creepy. Like the city’s waiting for something to happen.”
“That something isn’t you,” Zanka mutters.
Jabber laughs, delighted. “Wow, you do have holiday spirit.”
They pass another closed storefront, its windows decorated with fading tinsel. Jabber slows just a bit, studying the reflection of them walking side by side. “You ever notice,” he adds casually, “how silence makes everything feel heavier? Like it’s pressing in?”
Zanka exhales. “You talk too much.”
“Only when I’m uncomfortable,” Jabber says easily. “And this? This is uncomfortable.”
Zanka finally looks at him. “Then leave.”
Instead of backing off, Jabber’s grin sharpens. His steps falter, then stop altogether. Zanka takes two more strides before realizing Jabber isn’t beside him anymore.
“Hey,” Jabber calls.
Zanka stops. Slowly, he turns.
Jabber stands a few feet back now, posture loose but eyes focused, something more intent slipping beneath the teasing. “We should fight again.”
Zanka’s expression hardens immediately. “No.”
“C’mon,” Jabber says, hands lifting in mock surrender. “Not right now. I’m not stupid.” He tilts his head. “Soon though.”
“There’s no reason,” Zanka replies.
Jabber shrugs. “There never is.”
The quiet stretches between them, thick and sharp. A distant siren wails somewhere far away, then fades.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Jabber continues, tone light but pointed. “Figured I’d take the hint, but running into you like this? Feels like fate.”
Zanka scoffs. “You’re reading too much into it.”
“Am I?” Jabber steps closer again, closing the distance with that same unbothered confidence. “You always get like this before a good fight. All tense. All quiet.”
Zanka’s jaw tightens. “I’m not interested.”
Jabber’s grin flickers—not gone, just thinner. “Liar.”
That earns him a glare sharp enough to cut.
“Pick a place,” Jabber says, voice low now, half-challenging, half-taunting. “Pick a time. Or I will.”
Zanka stares at him, eyes cold. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Jabber chuckles softly. “You say that every time.”
They stand there in the middle of the empty street, Christmas lights blinking overhead, the city holding its breath as Jabber waits—annoying, insistent, and far too entertained—and Zanka weighs how much longer he can tolerate this before the night goes sideways.
It’s subtle, the shift, but it’s there. Zanka’s shoulders pull back just a fraction, spine straightening, breath going shallow. His jaw tightens hard enough that a muscle jumps beneath the skin, teeth pressing together as if he’s physically holding something back.
Silence stretches.
Zanka doesn’t look away this time. His eyes stay locked on Jabber, sharp and warning, the kind of look that usually ends conversations before they start. His hands curl in his pockets, fingers flexing once, twice.
Jabber notices immediately.
Of course he does.
His eyes flick to Zanka’s jaw, then to his hands, and his smirk blooms slow and satisfied, like he’s just confirmed a theory. “Ohhh,” he drawls, leaning forward a bit. “There it is.”
Zanka doesn’t respond.
Jabber’s grin widens. “I was wondering how long it’d take. You get this look right before you explode.” He tilts his head, mock-innocent. “Kinda festive, actually. Real holiday cheer.”
“Stop,” Zanka warns.
Jabber chuckles. “What? I’m just saying—Christmas Eve, empty street, just the two of us.” He gestures around them lazily. “Feels like the perfect setup. Real romantic.”
Zanka’s eye twitches.
“Careful,” Jabber adds, clearly enjoying himself now. “People might think you dragged me out here on purpose.”
Zanka steps forward in a single, controlled movement, closing the distance. He starts to get frustrated and rolls his eye and says something under his breath.
Jabber doesn’t back up. If anything, he leans in, grin sharp and infuriating. “Wow,” he says softly. “You are tense. Need to blow off some steam?”
The air between them feels charged, heavy. Somewhere nearby, a string of lights flickers, buzzing faintly.
“You talk,” Zanka says through clenched teeth, “like you want to get hit.”
Jabber laughs, bright and reckless. “Hey, if that’s your idea of a Christmas present, who am I to complain?”
For a split second, it looks like Zanka might actually do it. His hand twitches, shoulders squared, every line of his body coiled tight.
Jabber watches him closely, eyes alight, clearly pushing just to see how far he can go.
The city remains quiet around them, holding the moment suspended—waiting to see which of them breaks first.
Jabber does.
He steps closer. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just one deliberate pace forward, enough to shrink the space between them until it’s unmistakably intentional. His grin never fades; if anything, it sharpens, eyes gleaming with that familiar mix of curiosity and cruelty.
“Oh, relax,” Jabber says lightly. “You look like you’re about to snap in half.”
Zanka doesn’t move. His body stays locked in place, tension radiating off him in waves. “Back up.”
Jabber ignores that completely.
He leans in just enough to lower his voice, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for Zanka. “You know,” he adds, almost thoughtfully, “for someone who acts so untouchable, you really hate being seen.”
That lands.
Zanka’s eyes flash—cold and sharp, fury flaring so fast it’s almost visible. His breath stutters, just barely, and for a split second it looks like instinct is going to win. His arm jerks forward—
—and then stops.
His hand clamps down hard on the edge of his coat instead, fingers digging into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored. Knuckles go white. His shoulders tense, every muscle screaming restraint.
His voice, when he speaks, is low. Dangerous. “Don’t.”
Jabber straightens slightly, head tilting as he studies Zanka’s face with unnerving focus. He catches it all—the way Zanka’s grip tightens, the controlled fury simmering just under the surface, the effort it takes not to lash out.
For a moment, it almost feels like Jabber might take the hint.
Almost.
Then he chuckles.
Not loud. Not mocking. Just an easy, amused sound, like he’s pleased with himself for finding the right nerve to press. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That look.”
Zanka glares at him. “You’re pushing your luck.”
Jabber shrugs, unbothered. “I do that.”
He steps to the side instead of back, circling just enough to stay in Zanka’s space without blocking his path outright. “You always act like nothing gets to you,” he continues, tone casual, almost conversational. “Like you don’t care what anyone thinks. But the second someone says the wrong thing you’re ready to tear them apart.” Jabber’s grin widens.
Zanka’s grip tightens further, fabric creasing beneath his fingers. His jaw clenches so hard it aches. “You don’t know anything.”
Jabber hums, tilting his head again, clearly reading the warning signs and choosing—very deliberately—to ignore them. “Sure I do,” he says. “I know when to stop.”
He pauses, then adds with a lazy smirk, “I’m just choosing not to.”
The air between them feels razor-thin now, charged with something sharp and volatile. Zanka’s eyes never leave Jabber, every instinct screaming for him to act, to end this before it goes further.
Jabber just watches him, amused and alert, like he’s standing in front of a loaded weapon and enjoying the risk.
Christmas lights flicker overhead.
Jabber starts moving again.
He keeps circling—slow at first, then looser, steps uneven and unpredictable, like he’s pacing inside his own thoughts instead of the street. He talks as he moves, words spilling out faster now, overlapping each other, tone shifting every few seconds.
“Y’know what’s funny?” Jabber says, passing just behind Zanka’s shoulder. “You could’ve walked away. Like—actually walked away. Alley, corner, gone. But you didn’t.”
Zanka turns his head just enough to keep Jabber in his peripheral vision. “You’re still talking.”
Jabber grins. “And you’re still listening.”
He swings back into Zanka’s line of sight, hands gesturing wildly now, energy crackling off him. “Most people freak out when things get quiet. You do the opposite. You go all statue-mode.” He stops suddenly, leaning in. “Makes people wanna poke you. See what happens.”
Zanka doesn’t flinch. His stance stays solid, feet planted, shoulders squared. Calm on the surface. Coiled underneath. “Are you done yet?.”
Jabber laughs, sharp and breathless. “Nope. Not even close.”
He resumes circling, faster now, boots scuffing lightly against the pavement. “You ever notice how you hold yourself like you’re bracing for impact? Like the world’s about to swing at you any second?” He snaps his fingers near Zanka’s ear. “Always ready.”
Zanka’s eyes narrow. “Get to your point.”
“That is the point,” Jabber shoots back immediately. “You don’t relax. Ever. Even now—you look like you’re standing in front of a firing squad.”
“I said stop,” Zanka replies, clipped.
Jabber ignores it, words tumbling out in rapid succession. “You know what I think? I think you don’t trust silence. Because silence gives you time to think. And thinking—”
“That’s enough,” Zanka cuts in.
Jabber stops short again, grinning wide.
Zanka exhales slowly through his nose. Outwardly calm. Inwardly, every muscle stays tight, posture rigid and controlled like he’s holding himself together by force alone. His hands remain clenched at his sides now, no longer hidden, fingers flexing once before stilling.
“You want a reaction,” Zanka says flatly.
“Obviously,” Jabber replies. “You’re way more interesting when you’re annoyed.”
He steps closer again, then immediately pivots away, restless energy refusing to settle. “Most people swing by now,” he adds. “You don’t. You just… stand there. Like you’re daring me.”
“I’m not,” Zanka says.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Jabber laughs again, talking over himself now. “It’s kinda impressive, honestly. All that control. All that restraint. Must be exhausting.”
Zanka’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays even. “You’re projecting.”
“Ooo,” Jabber says, delighted. “Big word. You practicing speeches now?”
Zanka doesn’t answer.
Jabber keeps going anyway. “You know what I’d do if I were you? I’d just hit me. Get it over with. One punch. Clean. Bet it’d feel great. c’mon just one punch won’t hurt… It would be great for both of us.”
Silence.
Zanka doesn’t move.
The tension is visible now, if you know what to look for—the way his shoulders are set too firmly, the way his weight is balanced perfectly, ready. Controlled. Contained.
“You’re really not gonna do it,” Jabber murmurs, slowing at last, eyes studying him with open fascination. “Even now.”
“No,” Zanka says.
Jabber smirks. “Because you’re disciplined?”
“No,” Zanka repeats, colder this time. “Because you’re not worth it.”
That finally gets a reaction.
Jabber laughs, loud and sudden, clapping his hands once. “There it is! See? You can bite.”
Zanka’s eyes flicker with warning, but his posture doesn’t change. He stays exactly where he is, steady as a locked door.
The verbal sparring hangs between them, sharp and relentless—Jabber pacing, prodding, provoking; Zanka answering only when necessary, clipped and controlled, refusing to give him what he wants.
The street remains empty. The city watches in silence.
And still, neither of them backs down.
Jabber is the first to shift—not away, never away, but sideways, restless energy finally breaking through the careful circling. He paces a few steps down the sidewalk, then back again, laughter slipping out under his breath in short, uneven bursts, like he can’t quite help it.
He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking back to Zanka again and again. “Man,” he mutters, half to himself, half just loud enough to be heard, “you’re heavy tonight.”
Zanka doesn’t respond.
But Jabber can feel it now. The air around Zanka isn’t just tense—it’s dense, pressing down, like something packed too tightly and left unattended for too long. It’s not just anger. Not just restraint.
Jabber slows.
His pacing eases into something more thoughtful, steps dragging slightly as he studies Zanka from a safer distance. The laughter fades into a quiet hum, amusement still there but dulled by curiosity.
“You know,” Jabber says after a moment, tone lighter than his words, “this isn’t your usual ‘don’t touch me’ vibe.”
He stops pacing, leaning back against a lamppost, arms folding loosely across his chest. His grin returns, but it’s smaller now—less sharp, more knowing. “That’s new.”
Zanka remains perfectly still, posture controlled down to the angle of his shoulders. Calm, on the surface. Beneath it, something tight and unresolved hums.
Jabber tilts his head, studying him like a puzzle he’s suddenly realized has more pieces than expected. “You’re not just holding back a punch,” he says quietly. “You’re holding back… something else.”
Silence answers him.
Jabber chuckles softly, not mocking this time. “Huh. Thought so.”
He pushes off the lamppost and takes a few slow steps closer—not invading, not challenging. Just enough to stay in Zanka’s awareness. “That’s gotta be annoying,” he adds lightly. “Carrying all that around and pretending it’s nothing.”
Zanka’s jaw tightens again, but he doesn’t snap. His gaze stays forward, fixed on some point beyond Jabber, like if he looks away long enough the night will end on its own.
“You done analyzing me?” he asks flatly.
Jabber smirks. “Nah. Just making observations.”
He lifts his hands in a mock surrender. “Relax. I’m not gonna poke at it.” A beat. “Much.”
Zanka finally looks at him fully, eyes sharp.
Jabber meets his gaze
He raises an eyebrow, grin softening into something almost… gentle. “Hey. I said I know when to stop.”
For once, he doesn’t contradict himself.
Instead, he chuckles and steps back, giving Zanka a little more space. “Guess Christmas Eve does weird things to people,” he says lightly. “Makes ‘em quiet. Makes ‘em think.”
Zanka says nothing.
Jabber glances up at the blinking lights overhead, then back at Zanka, smirk returning—teasing, but careful now. “Still,” he adds, tone casual, “if you ever wanna stop pretending you’re made of stone…”
He trails off, shrugging. “You know where to find me.”
The silence settles again, different this time. Not as sharp. Still heavy—but no longer pressing toward impact.
Jabber rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets, watching Zanka with open curiosity instead of challenge.
For the first time all night, he doesn’t push further.
And Zanka—still tense, still controlled—doesn’t tell him to leave.
Jabber notices that too.
He shifts his weight, rocking slightly on his heels, eyes never fully leaving Zanka. The smirk comes and goes, replaced by something in-between—half-serious, half like he’s waiting for a door to crack open on its own.
“So,” Jabber says after a moment, breaking the silence like he always does, “we just standing here now?”
Zanka doesn’t answer.
Jabber hums. “Because I can stand. I can also walk. I can also keep talking.” A pause. “And I will.”
Zanka exhales sharply through his nose, but says nothing.
Jabber grins faintly. “Didn’t say you had to agree to anything. Just feels weird leaving things unfinished.” He gestures vaguely between them. “You know. This.”
“There is no ‘this,’” Zanka replies.
“Sure there is,” Jabber counters easily. “You just don’t like naming it.”
He takes a step closer, then stops himself, hands lifting a little like he’s demonstrating restraint on purpose. “Relax. I’m not asking you to fight me right now. Just—” he shrugs “—putting it out there.”
Zanka’s shoulders tense again, but he doesn’t shut it down. Doesn’t tell him to go. Doesn’t move.
That’s answer enough for Jabber.
“See?” Jabber says softly. “That’s not a no.”
Zanka’s jaw tightens. “It’s not a yes.”
Jabber laughs under his breath. “Didn’t say it was.”
The street feels quieter than before, like even the city is giving them space. Zanka stares ahead, eyes unfocused now, thoughts clearly somewhere else. His posture is still rigid, but something is starting to fray at the edges.
Jabber notices the way his chest rises and falls—too shallow. Controlled. Like breathing is another thing he’s keeping on a leash.
“You ever get tired of that?” Jabber asks, voice casual but lower now.
“Tired of what,” Zanka mutters.
“Carrying it,” Jabber replies. “Whatever it is you’re pretending doesn’t exist.”
Zanka doesn’t snap back this time.
Instead, he finally takes a deeper breath—slow, deliberate—and the realization hits him all at once.
He’s been holding it in.
Not just tonight. Not just with Jabber. But everything. The constant pressure. The expectations. The restraint layered on restraint until it feels like there’s no room left to breathe.
His shoulders drop just a fraction.
Jabber sees it immediately and goes still, like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away.
Zanka closes his eyes briefly and exhales, long and shaky, the sound rougher than anything he’s let slip all night. His grip loosens. His stance shifts, less defensive, more tired.
“…Annoying,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
Jabber tilts his head. “What is?”
Zanka opens his eyes again, gaze unfocused. “You.”
Jabber snorts. “Fair.”
Another breath. Deeper this time. Zanka rubs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through the cracks now that he’s acknowledged it. “I don’t need this tonight.”
Jabber nods slowly. “Didn’t think you did.”
“But you’re still here,” Zanka adds.
“Yeah,” Jabber says. “So are you.”
Zanka lets out a quiet, humorless laugh before he can stop himself. The sound surprises both of them.
He straightens again—not as rigid as before, but steadier somehow. “I’m not agreeing to anything,” he says.
Jabber’s grin returns, softer this time. “Didn’t ask you to.”
Zanka glances at him sidelong. “And I’m not saying no.”
Jabber’s eyes flicker with interest. “Didn’t say you were.”
They stand there for another moment, the tension no longer sharp but still present, coiled and unresolved. Zanka breathes normally now, frustration acknowledged instead of buried, and Jabber waits—bugging him just enough to stay, just enough to matter.
Christmas lights blink overhead.
The night doesn’t end.
But something, quietly, shifts.
And for once, it isn’t the street, or the silence, or Jabber.
It’s Zanka.
He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t say anything. The change is internal—subtle, almost imperceptible—but it’s there all the same. The tight coil in his chest loosens just enough to make room for awareness. Not calm. Not peace. Just… presence.
He realizes he’s still standing here by choice.
That thought lands heavier than any of Jabber’s provocations.
Jabber notices the change immediately.
He always does.
The restless edge to him smooths out, replaced by something slower, more deliberate. He shifts closer again—not invading, not challenging—just enough to exist in Zanka’s space like it’s natural. Like he belongs there.
“So,” Jabber says lightly, glancing up at the lights overhead, “you always this quiet when you’re thinking, or am I just special?”
Zanka rolls his shoulders slightly, a small movement meant to reset himself. It doesn’t work. He’s too aware now—of Jabber’s proximity, of the way his voice dips when he’s not trying to be annoying, of how he’s stopped circling and started lingering.
“You don’t have to stick around,” Zanka says.
Jabber hums, noncommittal. “True.” A pause. “But you haven’t left.”
Zanka doesn’t answer.
Jabber takes that as permission.
He walks a half-step closer, angling his body beside Zanka instead of in front of him, gaze following the empty street ahead like they’re just two people sharing the same space by coincidence. “You look less like you’re gonna murder me now,” he adds. “That’s progress.”
“I’m still considering it,” Zanka replies flatly.
Jabber laughs under his breath. “Yeah, but now it feels hypothetical.”
Zanka hates that he’s right.
He tells himself he doesn’t notice the way Jabber leans in slightly when he talks now, or how his tone has softened around the edges. He definitely doesn’t notice the way Jabber’s eyes flick to his face more often than necessary, like he’s checking for something.
He notices all of it.
He just doesn’t acknowledge it.
“You always hover this much?” Zanka asks.
Jabber glances at him, eyebrow lifting. “Only when someone’s interesting.”
Zanka scoffs, turning his gaze forward again. “You have a low standard.”
“Debatable,” Jabber replies. “You’re hard to read. That’s fun.”
That word—fun—sits oddly in Zanka’s chest. Not unwelcome. Just unfamiliar.
He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. Jabber flirts with everything. With danger. With tension. With people who push back. This is just another extension of that.
So why does it feel different now?
“You thinking again?” Jabber asks, voice quieter, closer.
Zanka stiffens for half a second before forcing himself to relax. “No.”
Jabber smiles. “You lie terribly.”
Zanka doesn’t respond, but his thoughts betray him.
He’s thinking about how Jabber hasn’t mocked him in a while. About how the chaos has shifted into something more focused. About how irritating it is that Jabber seems to see him—not the controlled exterior, but the cracks underneath.
And how he hasn’t pulled away from that.
Jabber nudges his shoulder lightly with his own, casual enough to be deniable. “You look better when you’re not wound so tight,” he says.
Zanka’s breath catches—just barely.
“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters.
Jabber chuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They stand there side by side now, the space between them reduced to something intentional. Zanka keeps his expression neutral, his posture composed, acting like none of this registers.
But inside, his thoughts are louder than Jabber has been all night.
Why does he stay?
Why doesn’t he tell him to leave?
Why does the teasing feel less like a threat and more like… an invitation?
Zanka clenches his jaw, grounding himself, eyes fixed on the street ahead. He doesn’t look at Jabber again.
Jabber, for his part, doesn’t push. He just stays—close, amused, quietly flirty in a way that doesn’t demand acknowledgment.
And Zanka lets him.
Not because he doesn’t notice.
But because, for the first time tonight, he doesn’t immediately shut it down.
And Zanka lets him.
Not because he doesn’t notice.
But because, for the first time tonight, he doesn’t immediately shut it down.
Jabber, apparently, takes that as a green light.
Not a full sprint—he’s never that careless—but a definite step forward. His posture shifts, confidence settling in like he’s decided on a new angle of attack. He turns more fully toward Zanka now, eyes bright, grin tilting into something bolder.
“You know,” Jabber says, drawing out the words, “you’ve been real patient with me tonight.”
Zanka doesn’t look at him. “Don’t read into it.”
“Oh, I am absolutely reading into it.”
Zanka sighs. “That’s a mistake.”
Jabber laughs, soft but pleased. “Maybe. But you haven’t told me to stop yet.”
That earns him a glance—sharp, assessing. “You’re pushing again.”
“Yeah,” Jabber admits easily. “But not the same way.”
He steps half a pace closer, close enough that Zanka can feel the warmth of him through layers of fabric. Still no touch. Jabber’s good at that—hovering just at the edge of plausible deniability.
“You always get this serious when someone pays attention to you?” Jabber asks, tone teasing, but not cruel. “Or is that just a me thing?”
Zanka scoffs. “You call this attention?”
Jabber grins. “You’re still here. I’m still talking. Feels mutual.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“Sure it is,” Jabber counters, eyes flicking over Zanka’s face like he’s memorizing something. “You could’ve walked away. You didn’t. That’s participation.”
Zanka opens his mouth to argue—and then stops.
Because he doesn’t actually have a clean rebuttal.
Instead, he shifts his weight, posture loosening just a little, the rigid edge he’s been carrying finally dulling. It feels strange, almost uncomfortable, like setting something down he’s been holding for too long without realizing how heavy it was.
“You’re exhausting,” Zanka mutters.
Jabber beams. “And yet.”
They lapse into a strange back-and-forth after that—not quite arguing, not quite banter. More like testing boundaries through words.
“You always talk like this?” Zanka asks.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to start something.”
Jabber feigns offense. “Wow. Accusing me of intentions now?”
“You thrive on them,” Zanka says.
“True,” Jabber concedes. “But I don’t usually get this much resistance. You make it interesting.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“It is where I’m from.”
Zanka shakes his head, a short, sharp motion. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re still standing next to me,” Jabber says lightly. “See? Argument.”
Zanka exhales, slower this time, and something else loosens in his chest—not anger, not irritation, but the constant friction he keeps between himself and everyone else. The frustration drains, leaving behind something quieter. More exposed.
He realizes—dimly—that Jabber isn’t mocking him right now. Not really. The teasing is there, sure, but it’s gentler, almost careful, like Jabber’s circling something fragile instead of poking at a bruise.
That realization unsettles him more than the insults ever did.
“You’re being weird,” Zanka says.
Jabber tilts his head. “You just noticing?”
Zanka looks at him fully now. “Is this—” He stops himself, jaw tightening briefly. “Is this how you are with everyone?”
Jabber’s grin falters for half a second. Not gone. Just… adjusted.
“Depends,” he says. “Most people don’t last this long.”
Zanka studies him, searching for the joke, the tell, the moment where Jabber pulls back and laughs it off. It doesn’t come.
“So that’s a yes,” Zanka says flatly.
Jabber shrugs. “Sometimes.”
That answer doesn’t help.
Zanka turns away again, gaze fixed on the street, thoughts louder now. He hates uncertainty. Hates not knowing where the line is, or if there even is one. Jabber thrives in that space. Zanka survives by controlling it.
And yet—he hasn’t shut this down.
“Relax,” Jabber says, softer. “I’m not messing with you.”
“That’s debatable.”
Jabber smiles, smaller this time. “I mean it.”
Zanka doesn’t respond immediately. He takes another breath, deeper than before, letting the last of the edge bleed out. Whatever this is—whether Jabber’s flirting is intentional or just how he exists—it doesn’t feel like a threat right now.
It feels… real.
And that scares him more than a fight ever would.
“You’re trouble,” Zanka says quietly.
Jabber’s eyes light up. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Zanka finally huffs out a breath that might almost be a laugh. Almost.
“I don’t know what you want,” he admits, low enough that it’s barely there.
Jabber watches him closely, teasing gone from his expression for once. “I don’t think you do either.”
They stand there, close and unresolved, the argument dissolving into something softer, stranger. Zanka’s guard isn’t gone—but it’s lowered, enough for him to feel the weight of Jabber’s attention and not immediately push it away.
Whether Jabber is genuinely flirting with him, or just being Jabber—
Zanka isn’t sure.
But for the first time, he finds himself wondering what it would mean if it were the former.
And he doesn’t hate the thought.
Whether Jabber is genuinely flirting with him, or just being Jabber—
Zanka isn’t sure.
But for the first time, he finds himself wondering what it would mean if it were the former.
And he doesn’t hate the thought.
That thought lingers, and slowly—almost imperceptibly—Zanka shifts. Not away, not guarded, but forward. Closer. A step, then another. He lets the space between them shrink deliberately, testing the waters, daring Jabber to notice.
“Still planning on talking my ear off?” Zanka asks lightly, tone teasing, edge just sharp enough to provoke a reaction.
Jabber blinks at him, caught off guard. “Wait—what did you just say?”
Zanka shrugs, casual. “Depends. Are you going to keep me company, or are you just going to hover and grumble?”
Jabber stumbles for a second, caught in the unexpected pushback, but his grin only widens. “Hover and grumble? That’s your takeaway?” He chuckles softly. “Wow. You’re full of surprises tonight.”
Zanka smirks, subtle but deliberate. “Maybe I like surprising you.”
Jabber freezes for just a moment, confusion flickering across his features. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and when he finally speaks, it’s slower, deliberate, teasing back. “Oh, really? You like… surprising me?”
“Sometimes,” Zanka murmurs, leaning ever so slightly closer, just enough that Jabber can feel the shift. “Depends on how you react.”
Jabber’s smirk falters into something more curious, more playful. “Oh… so now I’m your little test subject?”
“You could say that,” Zanka replies, eyes glinting in the dim streetlight. He tilts his head, letting the words hang there, waiting for Jabber to respond.
Jabber exhales through his nose, caught between laughter and mock indignation. “Wow. Bold. I like it. But you’re… dangerous, you know that?”
Zanka shrugs again, still leaning in just enough to make Jabber notice his proximity. “You’re telling me. But I like seeing how far you’ll go.”
Jabber freezes for a heartbeat, and the pause feels deliberate, charged. Then he grins, a little sharper this time, eyes lighting up with amusement. “Oh, you’re pushing it now,” he says, voice softening just slightly. “And I like it. Don’t think I won’t play back.”
Zanka arches an eyebrow, leaning a little closer still, tone teasing but low. “Play back? What does that even mean?”
Jabber laughs, short and chaotic, shaking his head. “It means exactly what you think it means. But I’m gonna enjoy watching you try to control it.”
Zanka’s lips twitch in a smirk, a thrill running quietly beneath his composure. He’s testing, pushing, seeing where Jabber’s boundaries lie—and feeling more alive with every step closer. “You really think I’m worried?”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” Jabber replies quickly, almost too quickly, stepping a fraction closer himself. “I’m… interested. Curious. And maybe a little terrified.”
Zanka glances at him sideways, expression unreadable for a second before a faint, knowing smirk spreads across his face. “Terrified, huh? Don’t lie. You’re enjoying this too much.”
Jabber’s cheeks flicker with the faintest flush, though his grin only widens. “Maybe I am. But hey, you’re the one who’s making it this fun.”
Zanka leans in again, close enough that their shoulders almost brush, voice dropping slightly. “Just seeing if you can keep up.”
Jabber’s eyes glint with both challenge and amusement. “Oh, I can keep up,” he says, tone teasing, tone flirty, and the edge of it makes Zanka’s pulse quicken. “And you? Can you handle me?”
Zanka doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head, studies Jabber for a beat, lets his smirk widen just a little. “We’ll see.”
And with that, the rhythm between them shifts entirely. The teasing becomes a game—a dance of words, glances, and subtle movements. Zanka starts experimenting with it, poking, prodding, testing reactions, watching Jabber’s every flicker of expression. He leans in, steps closer, tilts his head in ways that aren’t threatening but are deliberate, and observes how Jabber reacts.
Jabber, for his part, is both confused and thrilled. He can’t decide if Zanka’s calm, controlled teasing is intentional flirting or just his usual aloofness turned sharper tonight. But that confusion doesn’t stop him—it encourages him. He leans into the game, responds with his own teasing tone, small gestures that mirror Zanka’s closeness, subtle touches of voice or movement meant to provoke just enough without breaking the fragile tension.
The air between them vibrates with it. A low, playful energy that’s half challenge, half unspoken curiosity. Zanka’s guard, once steel, softens just slightly—not completely, but enough that the weight of his frustration seems to dissipate in Jabber’s presence. Jabber notices the shift immediately, eyes bright, grin wider than before, and leans in ever so subtly, mirroring Zanka’s closeness as if drawn to it by instinct.
And in that space, neither pushes too far, but both tease, both flirt, both test the limits of control—and Zanka, for the first time in a long while, finds himself enjoying it.
Jabber notices the shift, of course. The way Zanka leans in just slightly closer than before, the way his gaze lingers with a quiet intensity, the subtle tension in his jaw that suggests he’s testing boundaries—but isn’t backing away.
Jabber grins, mischievous and bold. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
Zanka doesn’t answer. He lets the teasing continue, lets Jabber inch closer, voice low and playful, words brushing against the edge of suggestion. And then, somehow, impossibly, Jabber is right there—so close that Zanka can feel the faint warmth of his breath, the faint brush of his jacket against his own.
Their eyes meet, and it’s just a heartbeat too long.
Zanka feels it—the sharp thrill of proximity, the rush that comes from waiting for the other to make the first move. Jabber leans just a little closer, lips teasingly near, a whisper away, and the world around them seems to slow. The Christmas lights flicker lazily above, casting dim reflections off the wet pavement, distant car horns muted by the night.
And then Zanka notices it.
They’re still standing in the middle of the street. The sidewalk. A few feet from the curb. Completely exposed.
A brief smirk crosses Zanka’s face. He doesn’t pull away—not yet—but the thought sharpens the moment.
Jabber, ever perceptive, notices it too. “Mmm,” he murmurs, eyes glinting, “we can’t be here.”
Before Zanka can respond, Jabber pivots smoothly, guiding him with a firm but unhurried hand down a nearby alley. The space is narrower, darker, enclosed by brick walls that echo their every small movement. He presses Zanka against the wall effortlessly, fingers grazing lightly over the fabric of his jacket.
Zanka’s breath hitches—not from fear, not entirely—but from the thrill of control slipping into Jabber’s hands for just a fraction. He leans forward slightly, tilting his head in a way that communicates both challenge and invitation.
“You… enjoy this, don’t you?” Jabber teases softly, lips brushing the corner of Zanka’s mouth, not quite touching, just enough to make him shiver.
Zanka doesn’t respond verbally. Instead, he moves deliberately, capturing Jabber’s lips in a harsh, consuming kiss that leaves no room for hesitation. The sudden force of it—the bite, the hunger—startles even Jabber for a heartbeat, but he melts into it immediately, giving back with equal intensity.
Their jackets rustle, sleeves brushing, fabric catching under the faint glow of the alleyway light. Zanka’s hands grip Jabber’s shoulders, tilting his head, pulling him closer. Jabber presses eagerly into the contact, a mix of surrender and demand in every touch, every tilt of his body against Zanka’s.
The kiss deepens, teeth grazing briefly, tongues brushing, sharp and teasing, a rough dance that leaves no doubt of their roles: Zanka relishes the power, the thrill of dominance, while Jabber leans into it, delighting in the sharp, delicious tension.
Zanka pulls back just slightly, enough to gasp for air, forehead resting against Jabber’s. His breath is shallow but steady, excitement threading through the control he’s exerting. Jabber’s grin is wild, eyes hooded, chest rising and falling against Zanka’s.
“You’re… relentless,” Jabber whispers, voice husky.
“And you love it,” Zanka replies, low and almost cruel, before diving back into the kiss with renewed intensity.
They shift slightly, jackets rustling, bodies pressing together, breaths mingling. The alleyway echoes faintly with their movement, private and insulated from the world outside.
Zanka tilts his head, hands running over Jabber’s back, fingers threading into the fabric of his shirt, tracing deliberately, testing responses. Jabber moans softly into the kiss, letting himself be pressed, teasing back in subtle ways—breathless murmurs, whispered provocations, teasing bites.
The moment stretches, raw and unrestrained, tension and release mingling in the faint winter air. Zanka smirks against Jabber’s lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “Don’t get comfortable.”
Jabber laughs breathily, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief and something softer. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
And just like that, the alley becomes their own world. Zanka’s dominance sharp and thrilling, Jabber’s surrender eager and unrestrained, each teasing, pushing, testing, biting, and yielding in a dance that’s as much about control as it is about desire.
Every kiss, every brush of fabric, every inhale is electric.
Their sleeves rolled, collars slightly disheveled, the faint smell of their respective colognes mixing in the confined space. Clothes rustle as Zanka’s hands roam, Jabber’s fingers catch at his jacket, tugging just enough to provoke reaction.
Zanka smiles into the contact, delighting in Jabber’s every shiver, every moan. Jabber leans harder, pressing into the sensation, thriving on the sharp edges of Zanka’s control.
Time seems to dissolve around them. Outside, the quiet city, the distant Christmas lights, the empty street—all of it fades, leaving only the heat of their bodies, the press of lips and hands, the thrilling edge of power and surrender.
And in that alley, pressed together, teeth grazing, breathing hard, the world outside is nothing. Just them. Just the tease, the push, the pull, the delicious tension—and finally, finally, the release in the form of hungry, demanding, consuming kisses that leave no doubt who wants what.
Time seems to dissolve around them. Outside, the quiet city, the distant Christmas lights, the empty street—all of it fades, leaving only the heat of their bodies, the press of lips and hands, the thrilling edge of power and surrender.
And then—Zanka’s wrist vibrates.
The sudden movement, the sharp buzzing against his skin, slices through the fog of heat and adrenaline like a knife. His eyes snap open mid-kiss, pulling back just enough to see the device strapped tightly around his wrist.
He freezes. Brain clicking into overdrive.
#1 He hasn’t done the errand he was sent out for.
#2 He is currently making out with a Dread Headed Raider in a narrow, dark alleyway, half-hidden but far from invisible.
#3 He has no idea who is calling him.
Zanka stiffens, jaw tightening, and finally, reluctantly, pulls back completely. Jabber notices instantly, smirk faltering just slightly in curiosity. “What?” he murmurs, brushing his lips lightly over Zanka’s jaw in a teasing, lingering motion.
“Nothing,” Zanka mutters through clenched teeth, though his pulse is still thundering in his ears. His hand shoots to his wrist, eyes narrowing at the screen.
Jabber, sensing the pause, tilts his head and grins, moving closer anyway. Not with the same soft pressure as before—this time, more deliberate. His hands trail over Zanka’s shoulders, down the line of his chest, and before Zanka can object, he’s tugging at the collar of Zanka’s uniform, pulling it just enough to expose the curve of his neck.
Zanka swallows hard, jaw clenching. “Don’t—”
“Shh,” Jabber interrupts with a quiet laugh, lips brushing over the skin of Zanka’s throat as his teeth catch just slightly, leaving the faintest scrape before pulling away and pressing again. Hickeys bloom along the exposed skin, tender and sharp at once, each press a quiet provocation. Jabber’s grin is wild, mischievous, and Zanka can feel the mix of pleasure and frustration curling in his chest.
“Jabber—” Zanka starts, but the vibration from his wrist interrupts again, louder this time.
He curses under his breath, fumbling to grab the device, finally pressing it against his ear.
“Hello?” His voice is clipped, still catching on the adrenaline and pleasure of Jabber’s teeth and hands teasing at his neck.
“Zanka! Where the hell are you?!” Riyo’s voice comes through, sharp and frantic, immediately pulling Zanka out of the heat of the moment.
Zanka freezes, eyes darting around the alley, mind catching up. “Riyo…” His tone drops slightly, distracted, alarmed.
“Enjin’s worried sick. You’re supposed to be back hours ago!” Riyo continues, voice rising, tinged with panic. “Where are you? We tried calling. What the hell are you doing?”
Zanka’s brain scrambles. He glances down at Jabber, who is still smirking against his neck, the trail of hickeys now visible across the pale skin above his collar. Jabber pauses, eyes glinting with teasing amusement, clearly enjoying the mix of Zanka’s exasperation and lingering desire.
“I—” Zanka breathes out, realizing just how ridiculous the situation looks in his head. “I—uh… I’m… doing something… personal?”
“Personal?” Riyo echoes, suspicion creeping in. “Zanka! Stop joking! Where are you?”
Zanka groans softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m… outside. In the city.” He glances at Jabber, who leans a little closer, lips brushing again, and sighs. “I—okay. I’ll be back. Just… later. I’ll explain.”
Riyo huffs, clearly not satisfied but clearly terrified enough to relent for the moment. “Just… hurry, alright? Enjin’s pacing like a lunatic.”
“I know, I know,” Zanka mutters, and finally presses the disconnect button.
He exhales heavily, and when he looks at Jabber, he’s simultaneously furious and… something else entirely. Jabber, sensing the shift, leans in, lips grazing the exposed skin again, leaving one more soft mark near the base of Zanka’s throat, then pulling back slightly to look him in the eye.
“You gonna answer that like a responsible adult or what?” Jabber teases, voice low and sultry, grin wicked.
Zanka swallows, hand instinctively gripping Jabber’s shoulder, tugging him slightly closer, even as his mind screams errand, duty, everything else. “You’re insane,” he mutters.
“And yet,” Jabber says softly, teeth grazing lightly over Zanka’s jaw, “you still let me do this.”
Zanka’s chest tightens, pulse hammering, mind racing. He’s still against the wall, pressed close, uniforms wrinkled, jackets brushing, the warmth of Jabber’s body radiating through him. He can feel every inch of Jabber’s playful dominance—the masochistic thrill in every teasing bite and press against his neck—and he realizes, suddenly, how much he’s enjoying it.
He exhales sharply, letting himself relax just a fraction, and for the first time, lets his frustration—the lingering tension of the day, the Dread Headed Raider chaos, the unfinished errand—slip entirely into the sharp pleasure of the moment.
“You’re…” Zanka mutters, voice rough, “you’re going to be the death of me.”
Jabber just grins, teeth grazing lightly over the skin again before tilting his head back slightly, letting Zanka’s fingers tangling in his jacket, his hands on Zanka’s shoulders, guide him closer. “Maybe,” he murmurs, “and you’re enjoying every second.”
Zanka’s pulse leaps, and without thinking fully, he tilts his head, closing the distance again, lips crashing onto Jabber’s with renewed force, biting, pressing, tasting, all while the faint lights of the alley glow softly over their bodies, jackets wrinkled, breaths ragged, heat rising.
And outside the alley, the city hums obliviously.
Jabber, emboldened, tilts his head, eyes glinting, and leans forward again, lips brushing against Zanka’s in a soft, insistent motion, like he’s daring him to resist.
But this time, Zanka doesn’t hesitate. He pushes him back firmly, hands pressing against Jabber’s chest, eyes sharp, jaw tight. “Enough,” he snaps, voice low and dangerous. The heat of the moment lingers, but he needs distance.
Jabber chuckles softly, caught off guard but not deterred. “Whoa, someone woke up cranky,” he teases lightly, taking a step back but still grinning.
Zanka exhales, hands brushing down his uniform, straightening the wrinkles, fixing his collar and smoothing the lines of his jacket. Each motion deliberate, trying to regain composure, to look presentable, to feel like himself again.
Meanwhile, Jabber doesn’t move. He just watches. Staring. Giving him that look—half amusement, half hunger, entirely unreadable yet infuriating. Every subtle movement Zanka makes seems magnified under Jabber’s gaze, and Zanka can feel the tension rising in a different way now.
Finally, Zanka straightens fully, meeting Jabber’s eyes. He swallows, voice clipped but carrying a hint of uncertainty he can’t entirely mask. “Look,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the alley, the street, the entire ridiculous situation. “We should just… ignore this.” He pauses, blinking, and then rambling slightly, trying to explain, justify, and regain control all at once. “It was… a mistake. Not… not that I regret it, exactly… but—maybe another time we can… I don’t know, talk about it? Not really, because… our jobs, and—”
He shakes his head, frustrated at his own words. “This shouldn’t happen, okay? Not with… with all the… stuff between us. You know what I mean. It’s…”
Jabber’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly at first, then sharpens into clear displeasure. His grin fades just slightly, replaced by something more insistent, more pointed. “No,” he says softly, voice carrying just enough to make Zanka’s pulse skip. “We’re not ignoring it.”
Zanka hesitates, caught between logic and desire, jaw tight, throat dry. “Jabber—”
But before he can finish, Jabber steps forward suddenly, brushing past his defenses with a flirty, calculated force, and presses a single, lingering kiss to Zanka’s lips. It’s brief, teasing, playful—a reminder of what they just shared, a provocation, a challenge.
Then, just as quickly, Jabber pulls back, flashing a grin that’s impossibly infuriating, and straightens with a slight bow, tone light and teasing. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Bad Attitude. This… isn’t over.”
Before Zanka can respond, Jabber darts off down the alley, boots echoing against the wet pavement, disappearing into the dim city lights.
Zanka stands frozen for a moment, breath catching, pulse racing, still pressed against the alley wall. He swallows hard, running a hand over his face and jaw, trying to process what just happened. His mind loops in confusion: How did I let this happen? How did I—?
He exhales slowly, finally closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I… I can’t believe I let that happen,” he mutters under his breath, voice tight with a mix of frustration and disbelief.
He straightens, brushing off his jacket, smoothing down the remaining wrinkles in his uniform, trying to regain composure, trying to feel like the Zanka who has control over everything—except, clearly, not Jabber.
He glances down the alley where Jabber disappeared, lingering on the faint echoes of laughter and boots. Something tight in his chest refuses to loosen completely. He doesn’t know whether to be angry, frustrated, or… slightly exhilarated.
Zanka mutters to himself again, voice rough but low: “Damn it… and he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Even as he steps back onto the sidewalk, the city stretching out before him again, the cold air biting at his face, he can’t shake Jabber’s grin from his mind, the teasing tilt of his head, the way that one last kiss felt like a challenge—and like a promise.
And somewhere, buried under irritation and disbelief, Zanka realizes he’s already anticipating the next time.
The walk home is quiet. The city is practically asleep, only the occasional hum of a distant car or the faint flicker of a streetlight breaking the stillness. Zanka’s mind is still tangled in the night’s chaos—Jabber’s smirk, the sharp bite of his teeth, the heat of the alley—but a new awareness creeps in with each step. He glances down at his collar, brushing at the fabric where Jabber’s hickeys mark his neck, realizing with a sinking sort of embarrassment that the neck portion of his work outfit barely covers the darker patches.
Great. He mutters under his breath, tightening his coat around his throat. Hopefully, he thinks, there’s still some store open where he can pick up concealer or something to hide it. But the further he walks, the more he realizes: it’s far too late. Every store is dark, closed, the shutters drawn like the city itself is conspiring to leave him exposed.
He huffs in frustration, tugging at his collar again. There’s no choice. He has to get back to the Cleaners’ HQ, sneak in unnoticed, and hope no one sees him in this state. Speed becomes his priority, each step measured and cautious as he navigates the nearly deserted streets.
When he finally reaches the HQ, relief washes over him. But as he pushes open the door, he freezes. The dim light from a single hallway lamp reveals the scene: everyone is passed out, sprawled across couches, chairs, and floors, snoring quietly in post-work exhaustion. No one is stirring. No one will notice him—hopefully.
He moves silently, boots barely making a sound on the polished floor, heading for his room. His heart slows slightly as he reaches the door, hand on the handle, about to step inside…
“…Zanka.”
He jumps, hand jerking back. Riyo is there, stepping out from the shadows behind him, eyes wide but calm, voice quiet and concerned. “Where have you been? And I finally got Enjin to calm down,” she continues, tone softening. “I was going to stay up until you got home… just to make sure you made it back safely.”
Zanka exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. Just Riyo. Not Enjin. Relief hits him in a wave, but with it comes a prick of guilt. He had no idea how much worry he had caused, and the thought gnaws at him. Enjin, like a father figure, had been pacing and worrying—and now Riyo had gone through the trouble of keeping him calm. He knew he should make up for it, somehow, but right now, he’s too exhausted and frazzled to even think of a plan.
He glances down at his hands and then at his neck, realizing the hickeys are still clearly visible. Panic flares. He doesn’t want Riyo to see. She’s sharp, and she’ll ask questions. Too many questions. He needs to get into his room, close the door, and pretend like nothing happened.
“I… I’m fine,” he mutters, brushing past her, trying to sound calm while tugging at his collar to cover the marks.
Riyo’s eyes narrow slightly, subtle, but perceptive. She tilts her head, studying him for a heartbeat. “Uh-huh,” she murmurs. “You sure?”
Zanka stiffens, hands tightening on the door handle. “Yeah. Just… tired.” He tries to force a laugh, but it comes out strained, awkward.
Riyo doesn’t push immediately, giving him space for a few steps, but then she moves slightly closer, concern lacing her tone. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”
Zanka swallows, heart thudding. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to force a neutral expression. He can feel her gaze lingering near his neck, and for a terrifying moment, he’s convinced she’s going to ask, demand, or comment.
Then she smiles faintly, soft, almost reassuring. “I’m glad you’re home, though,” she says quietly, voice gentle. “Really glad you made it back safe.” Her eyes flick toward his collar again, then away, not saying anything about the faint hickey visible above his uniform. Her restraint is intentional—she’s seen it, but she doesn’t push. “You can go to sleep now. We’ll talk… maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. It’s Christmas tomorrow, and with Rudo around, I want everything to be… extra special. So we need our rest.”
Zanka’s chest relaxes almost fully, relief flooding him. Her silence about the marks feels like a small mercy, like an unspoken agreement. He bows slightly, mutters a quiet “thank you,” and closes the door once she steps back.
Leaning against it for a brief moment, he exhales sharply, rubbing at his face. His pulse is still elevated, adrenaline and lingering desire making it hard to think clearly. Finally, he steps inside, kicks off his boots, and heads toward the shower.
The warm water pours over him, washing away sweat, grime, and some of the tension from the night. But his mind refuses to calm. Every detail replays: Jabber’s grin, the teasing bites, the press of his body in the alley, the flustered panic of sneaking back into the HQ. The hickeys, the teasing, the flirty kiss before he ran… it all collides in his thoughts, sharp and insistent.
After a long shower, he steps out, toweling off, and changes into his PJs. The softness of the fabric is a relief against his still-sensitized skin. He sinks into his bed, curling up beneath the blankets, but sleep doesn’t come easily.
His mind drifts back to the alley, the teasing, the heat, the chaos of the night. He thinks of Jabber, of the grin that refused to be tamed, and of the pull he felt, both frustrated and elated, and the faint shame of how easily he had been drawn in.
Hours pass slowly. He tosses, turns, relives moments in fragments, and finally, somewhere between exhaustion and lingering adrenaline, he drifts into restless sleep.
The quiet of the room surrounds him, the faint hum of the city beyond his window, and for the first time that night, Zanka allows himself to be still—if only for a moment.