Work Text:
Zanka wakes up the same as always: on the dot, zero to one-hundred, and ever ready to do the million little steps in his morning routine that prove nothing to anyone except his ego. The room's still half hazy brownish-warm blue that constitutes early mornings on the ground, dust particles floating idly, almost lazily in the warm, slatted beams of light leaking through the gaps in the blinds.
Jabber's sprawled across the bed, left there, like he got lost in some kind of brawl with the sheets. Half limbs, lanky and tangled, and half-curled, long arms flung overhead like he's protecting himself from some kind of hit in his dreams. Mouth open, breathing deep and loud and uneven through achy, bruised ribs. He seems to sleep more, nowadays, brain still hardwired for chaos, but mixed with less sleep deprivation now he hangs around the Cleaners HQ. Out cold and uncharacteristically…peaceful?
Zanka slips out of bed without waking him.
Lovely Assistaff rest where he set her last, leaning carefully against his bedside wall. Zanka grabs a spare few supplies and lays down a spare blanket, straightening it out against the floor neatly before taking her, gently, ever-so-gently, into his hands and lowering down onto crossed legs. Zanka runs a clean cloth over her length, all slow and methodical, polishing away grime that was never there in the first place, he'd never allow it. Still, there's something in the act. Some ritual in cleaning away yesterday's blood.
"Morning, you," he murmurs under his breath, and it almost comes out laugh a laugh, a little breathy exhale of affection for his woman.
Assistaff hums faintly in his hands, as if noting the praise, as if enjoying it. She likes to be cared for, pampered, reminded she's special and not alone. It comes out in easy, purring, micro signs of life. Zanka works in silence, for a while. Tender silence. Buffing gently, checking the grip with calloused hands. Talking as he goes, of course, quiet and casual, like a conversation instead of a prayer. Those two works mix together when he speaks to Assistaff. Like separate liquids poured into one container and shaken vigorously.
"Handled y'self so well on yesterday's mission, you did," Zanka swipes the cloth, long and purifying, across her grip, "good work, beautiful lady."
A glint catches his eye, then, just as he finishes with his lady. Something on the bedside table shining gently through the window lights in a barely there, flickering life sign. Zanka gently places Assistaff to rest and props himself up on his knees for a better look.
Mankira.
Oh.
Rings. All of them. Set neatly on a cloth like something fragile and valuable and important. Jabber didn't fall asleep wearing them, for once, he usually does, and they get tangled in Zanka's hair or caught in Jabber's piercings when he throws his limbs about the bed like a scarecrow.
Zanka stares for a few seconds longer than he strictly needs to.
Then, reaches over. Reaches over and collects the rings into his hands. Very careful, treating her with reverence and worship, holding on so gently, cushioning her in the softest part of his palm. The metal looks strange when it's not on Jabber's fingers.
And Zanka hesitates, for just a moment.
Then, he starts polishing her too.
Soft, gentle strokes and small, easy movements. Zanka finds himself talking without much thought. Murmuring to the Jinki in easy tones.
"G'morning to you too, girl. Did y'rest well?"
Zanka rotates one ring, checking the wear, the weight, the shine.
"Suppose it must be tiring, eh?" Zanka speaks again, still gentle with her, "carryin' him around all day."
Zanka goes through every ring, checking the size, the shape, the grooves, mapping out the wear pattern, the one's that breathe the same way the lad that wears them does. The slight wear on the dominant index ring, the way Jabber worries her in circles in his own strange little stim.
"Yer do a lot of work. And no one ever thanks you for it. We gotta make sure you're shining like new, hm?"
Lovely Assistaff hums gently from her bed on the blanket. Curious or jealous or maybe even both. Zanka lets out a small, breathy laugh at her incredulousness.
"You ain't in a competition, relax, Lovely. I only got eyes for you."
That's true, he doesn't lie to his girl. The feelings Zanka has for Mankira coincide to the ones he has for Jabber. Like a window. Like paying respect to the soul. Jabber and Mankira come as one entity, the person, and the part of the soul. Mankira comes free with Jabber's feral parts: his rhythm, his violence, his humor. Bur also the little bit of his chest, his person, his inner workings, he spares on a precious thing. A rare and dear thing to share. Zanka knows that, knows that all too well.
"Still," Zanka says, thoughtful, "you suit him, don't you? Loud and sharp and impossible to ignore. A real nice match, ain't ya?"
Jabber lets out a weird, cut off snore, twitching in his dreams.
Then, the bed creaks behind Zanka.
He doesn't turn right away. Still giving Mankira all the attention a lady deserves.
Jabber's voice drags itself into the air, all sleepy and rough around the edges. He props his head up on his fist, as if willing his mind to function. "Man…you flirtin' with inanimate objects this early?"
"Mind your business."
Jabber sits up, then, sliding off the bed like an insect and slumping his body down next to Zanka, the blanket, Assistaff, Mankira. Blearily looks at the whole scene, at the objects on display and Zanka's precious routine.
"Hol' up," Jabber blinks, several belated, incredulous bats, "is that-"
He looks at Mankira, leaning closer and seeing his rings cushioned in Zanka's pale, gritty hands. Way too gently for the callouses on his palms.
"Aw, nah, you-you're," Jabber laughs, absolutely incredulous, scrubbing a hand down his face, "you're polishin' my rings, now? My girl? You treatin' my Jinki like a-like a houseguest?"
"You left her out," said almost sympathetically, like Zanka rescued Mankira from a suffering fate. "She looked like she needed it."
For a moment, Jabber just blinks. Not saying anything. Just watching the tenderness, no, respect Zanka finds within himself to spare for Mankira. Zanka's got that look on his face, too. Not the fight one, or the cocky one, or the loud grin he spares for playing Cleaner or sadist or whatever mask fits that hour. This one's quiet, focused. The same one he gets when he's polishing the very stick that lies gently on the blanket in front of them, murmuring like she may murmur back one day.
Only now, it's Mankira.
It's-it's Jabber's. It's Jabber's thing.
It should feel like a joke? Like theft or disrespect. Something to bark and dismiss and flip off and fight over. To spin into flirtation or violence or whatever name fits the heavy thing between them.
It doesn't, though.
Because Zanka's not clowning. He's not teasing or playing pretend. Jabber knows the difference, bone-deep. Zanka doesn't treat a Jinki like that unless he means it. It's one of the very few, sacred truths in this ugly, dying, shit-sty world. Zanka doesn't spare the tenderness he reserves for Assistafff, for their interpersonal little clique, lightly. Not unless he's being sincere or…reverent.
This isn't about showing off. It's about care.
That lands wrong. Jabber swallows several times because he's worried the word will make him bring up bile. It's all crooked, the way Zanka makes him. Too close to home. Because Mankira isn't nothing, she's not a weapon. She's history, she's survival, she's a soul. A part of him that never shuts up, never softens and most definitely never forgets. The piece of his soul that, through everything, through the gap people failed to bridge, got sharpened instead of shaved.
Zanka talks to her like she's precious, like she's worth that shred of gentleness. And it…it feels a little like Zanka is talking to Jabber himself.
Jabber doesn't know how to act.
It makes him feel all exposed. Mushy insides, bared for all to see. Peeled open, like the sharp lid off a can. Like someone smeared their hands through the crack in the door of a locked room he's never admitted existed. Jabber doesn't have the language for it: not love, not gratitude, and most certainly not anything clean. It's just this deeply unsettling realization that somebody might see him clearer than he was ever meant to be seen. No mask. No act. No humor. Just him.
It's like a tricky math problem, and Jabber's brain works itself into knots trying to understand it. What if nobody ever cared before this? No, that he could deal with, it's worse. What if this, this weird, sideways, object-focused devotion, is the closest thing he’s ever had to being cherished?
Jabber doesn't feel loved, per se. What does loved feel like?
He just…knows.
It's a diagnosis Jabber makes in real time. A truth that sits, real ugly, in his chest and refuses to pack up and leave. Zanka’s seen him feral. Bloody. Laughing over ruin. And still treats the physical shard of his soul like it deserves respect.
Jabber doesn't trust affection aimed at him. Too risky. Too many variables. The lack of predictability he loves in a fight becomes a maze when splattered all over the human mind.
But affection aimed at Mankira?
That's harder to deny.
And Zanka's a weird one, a freak about his thing. It's not random. Confirmation that the special part of yourself you thought only mattered to you is important from the guy that spends hours polishing his stick?
It's not shallow, not pretend. It means Zanka cares.
And, oh-
If Zanka cares about Mankira…
Then, by extension-
Jabber swallows the thought before it can finish forming. Too vulnerable. Too embarrassing. Too close to wanting. He just breathes with the revelation for several hefty seconds before the mask slides, neatly, back into place. A grin crawling its way up his face like the central piece to a puzzle, fitting neatly in the grooves it's molded.
"So," Jabber drawls, voice syrupy and mischievous to hide the grief, "Jabber gotta start leavin' himself out on the nightstand too? I gonna get any lovin', or you just sweet on the hardware today?"
Zanka scowls, and the game's back on like a gun in safety.
"This ain't about you, idiot!"
"But it could be," Jabber coos, sing-song, "if Jabber asks real nice. Mankira's looking real pampered while Jabber out here neglected."
"Pfft, y'get plenty of attention," Zanka passes the rings back, still gentle. Standing up and ignoring Jabber's needling. "Too much."
Jabber gasps in mock offense.
And he might say:
When it's you giving it? It hits different.
Feels like something Jabber-I can't laugh off.
I dunno how to deal with that.
Jabber doesn't say anything.
Zanka laughs and leaves to shower, conversation warm and over and leaving little fuzzies throughout the room. It's safer, Jabber thinks, to leave that shit unsaid. Because flirting is easier than admitting his world just tilted on its axis.