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Jabber's body is awake before his mind registers the change. Eyes blinking open in the dark, arms already pushing him upright, untangling himself from Zanka, as if pulled by thread. There isn't any noise, no danger, no siren. The Cleaner's HQ is entirely safe and there's no reason for Jabber to react this way but he can't help it. Can't ignore the low, buzzing itch under his skin that says move.
So, Jabber doesn't.
The floors cold against his bare feet as he pads through the hallways. No kicked up dust or coppery blood smell. Jabber kind of hates it. How strangely safe it feels even when being held at arms length by everyone in the building. It's a strange thing, really.
Water's easy enough to find. Looks drinkable, too. Jabber grabs a thin glass from one of the overhead cupboards and holds it under the stream for a few seconds. Then, pulls away as it slips-
The glass hits the floor with this loud, sharp, echoing noise. Shattering into a thousand tiny fragments as it connects with the kitchen tile. Splashing Jabber's bare ankles in the cold spray.
And Jabber freezes.
He's not scared. Not a prey animal waiting for the inevitable. No, this stillness is entirely an instinctual, momentary freeze. A tired, human brains reaction to the loud noise and the dousing splash.
In Jabber's head, then, something clicks into place. The muscle memory, maybe, that something is going to happen now. This clean, familiar line of cause and effect. Jabber wonders how far the punishment might stretch, here, for something like this.
So, for what's realistically seconds but feels longer, Jabber doesn't move. Doesn't look at the mess. Just stands there with his hand still held in this vague, half-curled motion like it's holding the empty space where the glass once was. Waiting for something he's not sure on.
It comes in the form of a large, solid shape in the doorway.
Jabber's eyes flick up to meet it. To map the broad shoulders. To cut out the silhouette this man's body makes in the dark.
Enjin.
Just standing there. Jacket on, Umbreaker under one arm and an unlit cigarette hanging limply between his lips like he'd been interrupted mid-light. He's backlit faintly from the dull hall lights. Clearly enough that Jabber can see the lack of tension in his shoulders. He's just…there. Poking his head around the doorway at the sharp and sudden smash.
For this weird split second, Jabber's brain fills the gap. Envisions a step forward and a grab and the impact of something solid. It's like this weird spasm under his ribs. Not quite fear, Jabber can't place it but he knows that's not the word. Like adrenaline, twisted up with expectation. A part of Jabber, a hefty part, likes it. Likes the hurt-potential. Knows how to exist in the moment and win it and hold it in his hands. Knows how to take any potential hit and turn it into something sharp and explicitly his.
Jabber makes eye contact with Enjin with this certainty that he knows what happens next. But when their eyes meet, and the thought lands, something, maybe the neutrality, in Enjin's face deflates the thought.
And Jabber thinks…oh.
It's not a moral thing exactly. He doesn't suddenly spurt this compass from the thin air between them. Jabber is not ashamed of his agony-cravings, it's all he's ever known. It's more like this weird, off-kilter awareness. Like stepping outside his body for a moment and taking in the view.
Eighteen.
Standing barefoot in a kitchen.
Waiting for a grown man to hit him over a dropped glass.
Huh.
Ain't that kinda fucked.
Enjin, for all he's good for, seems to sense there's been some kind of one-sided epiphany between them. He doesn't move except to tuck his cig behind his ear.
Then, "you good?"
That's all he gives. No rage or edge or head. Just this dull tiredness. An adult after a long day and an interrupted post-midnight smoke break.
Jabber blinks, his whole script broken into as many fragments as the glass about his feet.
"What?"
Enjin sighs a little. Then ducks so he can fully step into the room, too tall for the door frame. He doesn't look at Jabber but does look at the glass, assessing the damage and calling forth some internal part of himself that's good at dealing with this sort of thing.
"Glass get you?"
Jabber looks down at the shards, at the water and fragments and mess.
"Oh."
A pause. Then he awkwardly laughs.
"Nah."
Umbreaker is leaned gently against the door.
That's…worse.
What?
Enjin grabs a towel from the side and crouches without much fuss. There isn't warmth in his actions. Warmth is the wrong word and so is softness. Just this measured action. Like he's assessing the situation and doing what needs to be done, no coddling or squishy words.
"Don't move," Enjin sighs. "You'll cut your feet."
Jabber doesn't move. Not out of obedience so much as observation. Standing there and watching as Enjin doesn't react the way he's supposed to. No yelling or anger. No anything at all. It leaves this weird gap. Like missing a step on the stairs.
"You mad?" Jabber asks bluntly. Because he'd rather know. Rather be told. He doesn't get mind games, doesn't understand people that way.
Enjin snorts a little under his breath as he collects the bigger shards in his palm. "At a broken glass?"
Jabber shrugs. "People get mad at all sorts of shit."
That makes Enjin pause. Just for a second. Because, yeah. They do. And his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at that moment as something ugly flashes through his head. Blood and damage and Gris' injuries. Thing's that weren't just a glass.
And Jabber.
Standing there. Like none of that exists.
Then Enjin exhales slowly through his nose, and keeps picking up the shards.
"It ain't that serious, kid."
Jabber hums, and rocks a little on his heels but doesn't move just yet. Hands vibrating as he processes.
Then, casual, like he's observing the weather:
"Heh, thought you was gonna hit me."
Enjin blinks.
"Yeah?" calmly.
Jabber nods. "Made sense."
That readiness is uncomfortable. Enjin sees it. Really sees it. The attitude and the mouth are one thing but the wiring underneath? A new thing entirely.
Enjin exhales sharply.
"Ain't how I do things."
That's it. That's what Enjin settles on. Broader sentences exist, sure. He could say that ain't how this works. Something broad and impersonal rather that chosen and deliberate.
Jabber's mouth twitches a little, head tilting as he watches. "Yeah, right."
Something tells Enjin it's not right. It ain't right at all-
"Kinda borin', though."
Exactly that. Jabber says it in this joking tone.
"For you?" Enjin huffs this dry and humorless response. "I bet it is."
He doesn't like this kid. The one who hurts people he cares about. The one who makes messes that don't settle easily. The one who does all that and then laughs about it, like there's anything funny in this at all. That dislike doesn't go away because it's quiet now. Because they're in the dark and a glass has been shattered and a young man's looking at him like he's expecting a backhand. It doesn't go away.
But-
Here they are. Jabber's standing there. Barefoot and half-dazed and waiting for something that sure ain't coming. And Enjin? Enjin's the guy in the room.
So.
He keeps Cleaning.
And Jabber keeps watching in strange silence, before finally realizing he has free will and crouching down to reach for a big shard.
Enjin clicks his tongue. "Don't-"
Jabber grabs it, holds it in his palm and pokes at it several times.
"You always like this?" Enjin grunts.
Jabber brings the shard closer for a better look. "Like what?"
Enjin gestures vaguely.
At all of this.
And Jabber considers it for several seconds before-
"Yeah."
With no shame to be seen. None at all because why would he be ashamed?
Enjin shakes his head, going back to the mess.
“Kid’s got problems,” it's muttered and a little incredulous, but it's not a new thing in the Cleaner's collection of kids-with-problems.
Jabber's mouth twitches.
“Yeah,” he says again, softer this time.
They clean the rest in silence. When it’s done, Enjin stands in one smooth motion, tossing the towel aside and restoring his grip on his umbrella.
“Get some sleep,” he says it like he's punctuating the entire conversation. Already turning away, adulting well and truly done for the day.
But Jabber lingers a second, just looking at the space Enjin's shape filled. At the clean floor and his own painfully empty hands.
Something just feels-
off.
“…hey.”
Enjin pauses in the doorway.
Doesn’t turn around.
“What?”
Jabber hesitates. Just for a beat. For a several second long moment of hesitation. Like he knows he's saying too much.
"You mad?”
It comes out quieter than before entirely by accident.
Enjin closes his eyes for half a second.
Because he wants to say yeah.
A part of him is.
A part of him always will be, probably.
But that’s not this. Not what's being asked between them.
"Not about the glass,” he says.
True.
Jabber stands there turning it over. Trying to place it somewhere it fits. Then decides he doesn’t quite know what to do with that, where to place it, what to think about it at all.
Enjin just walks off.
Leaving Jabber in the quiet. Holding the weight of something he doesn’t quite have a name for yet.