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They learned each other in fragments.
Five minutes stolen between jobs. Ten minutes behind a half-crushed stairwell. A breath held too long because someone might hear.
Jabber never relaxed first.
He always arrived coiled tight, shoulders hunched, teeth clicking one time when he noticed Zanka already there. Zanka would always be sitting on something inconvenient, whether that be a crate or a bent railing—his legs swinging like he wasn’t waiting on someone dangerous.
“You’re late” Zanka said the first time, not accusing. Just observant.
Jabber bristled. “You didn’t have to come”
“But I did.” Zanka tilted his head. “You okay?”
The question hit wrong. Jabber laughed, sharp and ugly. “Dont ask me shit like that.”
Zanka didn’t apologize. He just nodded, like he’d expected it.
“Okay,” he said. “Then don’t answer.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
Instead, Jabber stayed.
Talking started small—almost accidental.
Zanka asked questions like he wasn’t trying to pry. What Jabber ate when and if he remembered. Whether the scars on his hands were old or new. If he slept.
Jabber lied at first.
“Fine.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Drop it.”
But Zanka never pushed harder when Jabber snapped. He just waited. Eventually, Jabber found himself filling the silence because it felt worse not to.
“I don’t sleep much,” Jabber admitted one night, voice low. “Feels like…if I stop moving, something bad’ll happen.”
Zanka hummed. “Yeah. I get that.”
Jabber glanced at him with a hint of surprise in his eyes. “You don’t look like you do.”
“That’s because I learned how to pretend.”
That answer sat between them, heavy but honest.
Zanka taught Jabber grounding without calling it that.
“Okay,” he said once when Jabber’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “Look at me.”
“No.”
“Jabber.”
Something about hearing his name—soft, not sharpened— made Jabber obey.
Zanka held up two fingers. “Name two things you can hear.”
Jabber scoffed. “This is stupid”
“I know. Do it anyway.”
“…wind,” Jabber muttered. “Metal creaking.”
“Good. One thing you can feel.”
Jabber hesitated. Then, quieter: “The ground.”
Zanka smiled like Jabber had just done something incredible.It pissed Jabber off how much that smile mattered.
Sometimes they talked about nothing.
Zanka complained about the smell of certain areas. Jabber insulted Zanka’s staff. Zanka called him feral. Jabber didn’t argue.
Other times, it got heavier without warning.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve done?” Zanka asked one night, staring at the sky through a cracked ceiling.
Jabber froze.
“You don’t have to-”
“I killed someone who was begging,” Jabber said flatly while avoiding eye contact. “Didn’t even need to. Just…felt right.”
Silence.
Jabber was waiting for disgust. Fear. Withdrawal.
Instead, Zanka asked, “Did anyone ever teach you how to stop?”
Jabber swallowed. “Stopping got me hurt…”
Zanka shifted closer, close enough that Jabber could feel the warmth of him. “That doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you adapted.”
No one had ever said that to him.
Jabber started to scratch at his own neck, hard enough to draw blood. Zanka caught his wrist immediately—not rough, not panicked.
“Hey,” Zanka murmured. “You don’t have to punish yourself just for existing.”
Jabber yanked free—but he didn’t leave.
Zanka learned Jabber’s tells.
The way his jaw locked before an outburst. The way he paced when his head got too loud. How he’d scratch at old scars when he was overwhelmed.
Jabber hated how easily Zanka could see the way his anger boiled over into something ugly, something desperate. That Zanka didn’t flinch when Jabber dug his nails into his own palms until they bled.
“Pain doesn’t mean love.” Zanka said once, quietly, like he was afraid of scaring him off.
Jabber laughed then—sharp and hollow.
“That’s not what I was taught.”
Still, he stayed.
When it got bad, Zanka let Jabber grip his sleeve, his collar, his wrist—anything that kept him tethered. He never teased. Never pulled away. He let Jabber cling like an animal caught in a trap. Let Jabber believe—just for a while—that wanting someone didn’t have to end in ruin
“You’re here,” Zanka whispered during one of the worst episodes. “You’re not back there with her. I’ve got you”
Jabber shook so hard he felt embarrassed by it.
“Why do you keep doing this?” Jabber rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not…worth the effort.”
Zanka laughed quietly. “That’s a fucked up way to talk about someone I like.”
Jabber stared at him. “You like me?”
Zanka shrugged. “Yeah. You’re intense. And kind of terrifying. But you try.”
Nobody has ever praised Jabber for trying before
Jabber’s boss noticed the change before Jabber did.
Too calm.
Too distracted.
Too human.
He missed cues. Hesitated on orders. Came back from missions with blood on his hands but a look in his eyes that said he was thinking about something else. Someone else.
Distractions got people killed.
So, Zodyl fixed it.
He didn’t tell Jabber right away. That would’ve been messy. Emotional. Inefficient. Besides, Jabber is smart, he’ll figure it out eventually.
And figure it out Jabber did.
His body was where Jabber was bound to find it—left there like a lesson. It was clear his death wasn’t quick.
Jabber didn’t scream.
He knelt. He shook. He held Zanka’s hand, silently hoping he would hold it tightly like he used to.
Nothing…
Something in Jabber cracked open then—not cleanly. Not like grief in stories. It was feral. Rotting. The kind of pain that felt familiar enough to be comforting.
Pain equals love, whispered the voice he’d grown up with.
So Jabber obeyed.
After Zanka, Jabber stopped regulating anything.
He bit harder. Fought dirtier. Let blades linger too long against his skin just to feel something. He welcomed the ache in his bones, the burn in his lungs. If he destroyed enough, maybe the hole inside him would cave in on itself.
It never did.
Sometimes, in the middle of missions, he’d hear Zanka’s voice anyway.
Two things you can hear, one thing you can feel.
Jabber would choke on it. Spit blood onto the ground. Laugh like he was unhinged because that was easier than admitting he missed being held together.
At night, he would gently scratch the nape of his neck. The same place Zanka used to scratch when Jabber shook too hard. Jabber didn’t smoke. Didn’t drink. Didn’t numb himself the way others did.
He just breathed in the memory until it hurt.
Until it ruined him.
Until loving Zanka and losing him became indistinguishable from the violence Jabber had always known.
And somewhere deep inside the wreckage of his chest, Jabber wondered—not for the first time—if this was the point all along.