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The ground never really got snow, just a bitter cold that crept through every crack, and settled under the skin. Jabber knew it too well by now, but that didn’t make it any easier. Fever hummed low under his bones, nose constantly running, eyes stinging and watery. Allergies layered on top, and his muscles ached in a way that made even lifting his head from the mattress feel like a mission too far.
By the second day, he had given up trying. Missions were skipped without a second thought. He curled into his mattress, surrounded by a fortress of blankets, coat still buttoned up like it might shield him from his own body. He’d already accepted defeat. He hated it, hated the weakness, hated how miserable he felt.
It didn’t take long for Cthoni to notice. Jabber never skipped missions. He never went quiet without reason. Her ears twitched in irritation the second she realized he was gone. Hesitating outside his room was unlike her. Cthoni normally respected boundaries (somewhat) but something in her gut told her he was worse than he appeared. She cracked the door, peeking inside.
And froze.
Jabber lay sprawled, locs messy, skin flushed and damp, eyes half-lidded. Blankets surrounding him like if he were inside a cocoon. He didn’t move when she cleared her throat.
“Oh” she muttered. “Absolutely not.”
A few minutes later, a manhole opened, metal groaning as if in agreement. Jabber disappeared before he even realized it, landing squarely on Zanka’s mattress with a thump that made him groan in protest. A folded sticky note fluttered down onto his chest.
“Take care of him for me”
- Cthoni
Zanka picked it up and read it slowly. A long sigh escaped him. “Of course” he muttered, shaking his head.
Jabber didn’t protest. Not yet. He was too busy shivering violently under the layers of blankets and coat. His teeth clicked, breath short, every joint aching. Despite all that, when Zanka wrapped an arm around him and pulled the blankets tighter, an ounce of warmth settled over him. Just one ounce, but it was enough.
“I’ve got you” Zanka whispered, pressing close.
Jabber made a weak sound, eyes fluttering closed. Sleep pulled him under again, a temporary escape from the misery that was his own body.
Ten minutes later, Jabber woke for real.
He lifted himself off the mattress slowly, limbs trembling the second his feet touched the cold floor. Shivers tore through him like electricity. Reflexively, he yanked his hood up, pulling it tight over his face to avoid seeing himself in the small mirror across the room. He refused to look at the reflection of exhaustion, fever, and defeat staring back at him.
Zanka noticed immediately.
“Jabber” he said softly.
No response.
Zanka stepped closer, reaching out to catch Jabber’s chin between his fingers, turning his face to the side gently before he could pull away. He pushed the hood back.
The sight nearly stole his breath.
Red, glassy eyes—teary, swollen, raw. Cheeks flushed. Nose irritated and running. Locs everywhere and tangled. Fever sweat matting the locs against his skin. He enjoyed the miserable look knowing the chances of witnessing this again, were low. If anyone else saw him like this, they might assume the worst. But Zanka knew better.
“Don’t” Jabber muttered, voice rough yet weak.
Zanka didn’t argue. He slid the hair tie from his wrist and, with care, gathered Jabber’s locs into a loose ponytail. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, brushing through. Jabber froze, hugging himself tighter, shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths.
The longer Zanka looked at him, the heavier it became. The shaking. The prideful stubbornness. The small, desperate way Jabber was trying to hold himself together. Something in Zanka’s chest twisted, warm, and heavy. He loved how miserable he looked.
“Stay” Zanka said softly.
He moved toward the door, jogging lightly to the infirmary to grab ointment, a clean rag, and a small plastic cup. Eisha didn’t notice. The whole process was almost too fast, but Zanka returned with everything Jabber needed before he even realized it himself.
“Lift yer coat” Zanka instructed, holding the ointment. “Up to yer chest.”
Jabber froze. “No.”
Zanka raised an eyebrow. “Jabber.”
“Chill… ion swing that way.” Jabber muttered alongside a smirk. He pulled his coat tighter around himself, cheeks burning.
Zanka blinked. Lifted the coats for him forcefully then dipped two fingers into the ointment and applied it beneath Jabber’s collarbones anyway. Warmth spread immediately, and Jabber gasped despite himself.
“Breathe” Zanka said, leaning closer, brushing the ointment under Jabber’s nose. “It’ll help the runny nose.”
Jabber flinched violently. “…I hate this,” he muttered ignoring Zanka’s eyes.
“It helps” Zanka replied calmly. “Hold still.”
He guided Jabber back onto the mattress. Jabber went reluctantly, letting himself sink into the blankets with a defeated huff. Shivers tore through him, easing only slightly when Zanka pressed the rag, warm and damp, against his forehead.
The rag moved carefully down his cheeks, catching the tears from the allergies he refused to acknowledge. Zanka’s hand lingered near his temple, his touch gentle but firm. Jabber hugged himself tighter, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. His body betrayed him, weak and aching, but Zanka stayed. Steady, warm, unmovable.
“You don’t have to do this” Jabber mumbled, eyes closing halfway.
“I know.” Zanka whispered.
But he stayed anyway, watching Jabber’s chest rise and fall, listening to the shallow, irregular breaths, noticing every shiver, every flicker of exhaustion. He stayed as the ointment worked its way upward, easing the congestion in Jabber’s nose. He stayed as the blankets shifted and settled around him, as Jabber’s shivering slowed. He stayed, not asking permission, not seeking thanks.
And Jabber? He hated it. Hated being weak. Hated being seen like this. Hated how easily he relied on Zanka. Yet, every time Zanka’s hand brushed his locs, every time the rag was pressed against his fevered skin, every time warmth from Zanka’s chest seeped through layers of blankets… he felt it. That comfort. That safety. That unspoken devotion that made it impossible to pretend he was fine.
“Don’t get used to this.” Jabber muttered, eyes slipping shut.
Zanka pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “Too late.”
And he stayed. Until the shivers finally faded, until the fever’s edge dulled, until Jabber’s body gave up and finally let itself rest.
Even then, Zanka stayed. Because this.. Jabber in blankets, trembling, vulnerable, and still somehow stubborn, was worth every second.