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The choker had been sitting against Jabber’s throat long enough to feel warmer than skin.
Metal only caught heat like that when someone kept touching it, a continuous habit of his thumb hooking beneath the inner curve of the comm until the edge practically grew roots into his palm. He sat crosslegged on the floor in a tank top with one knee bouncing in a restless, uneven rhythm, mocking himself internally for the useless use of his hands when they’d already done plenty of heavy lifting tonight.
The scrape along his shoulder had dried directly into the fabric, peeling a bright, sticky line of friction through the skin underneath every time he shifted. His ribs held that bruised, hollow ache common after a direct hit, the kind of deep impact that made breathing feel like an active negotiation with each side of his chest. He sucked on his split lower lip, tracking the copper taste as it went dull, then sharp, then dull again, his mouth heavy with old blood and the bitter film Mankira’s toxins always left behind on his teeth. By standard measurements, it was a fine day. A great day, if he only listened to the volatile parts of his brain that thrived on the hazard.
The rest of his mind had bottomed out into a flat silence afterward, and that quiet never knew how to behave. It crept out into the corners of the room, under the mattress, and along the wall seam where the paint had cracked into jagged lines. The window above the bed remained stuck half open, letting the damp, outside chill move the hanging cords by the wall in a slow, tedious sway. Jabber tracked the motion with a fixed, heavy stare simply because they were moving, the room offering nothing else to absorb his attention until the constant rhythm started to feel personally smug.
His comm clicked faintly when his thumb shifted under the clasp, a repetitive loop of pulling his hand away only for his fingers to wander back seconds later, testing the edge like a kid playing with something wild that might bite if he didn't keep checking its teeth.
Earlier, Cthoni had mentioned going by Cleaner headquarters. She had delivered the line with her coat trailing half off one shoulder and blood drying along the side of her neck, her voice completely flat under the noise of the others dragging themselves back into the compound. She wanted to see someone, putting the phrase out into the air as a direct, transactional necessity without a single soft inflection to make a meal out of it.
Jabber had laughed because that was the response the sentiment deserved, leaning back against the busted frame of a supply shelf with one hand clamped over his cracked ribs to tell her she sounded real cute saying stuff that pathetic while looking like she could peel someone open for stepping too loud. Cthoni had merely looked through him for the length of a single blink before returning to the tape on her wrist, leaving the words to drop heavily between them without handing him any reaction to catch on.
Wanted to see someone. It was a dumbass phrase, barely even words. People wanted to see blood, money, or the exact face an opponent made when a plan shattered under their boots. Cthoni had legs and zero shame about using them to walk straight through Cleaner territory like the whole grid had moved under her feet just to save her time.
Jabber pressed his tongue against the split in his lip until the sting sharpened, the room returning nothing but the sound of his own heavy breathing. He shifted on the floor, his nails pressing little half moons into his knee to anchor himself against the sudden drop in the room's energy. An ugly, loud laugh would have helped clear the air, but his throat only produced a dry, scraped sound that didn't get close to the surface.
The comm's inner hinge pressed into the soft part below his jaw line, a curved red piece of standard equipment built to open communication without needing to dig around for a device when the world got loud. It was useful for jobs, commands, or tracking Zodyl’s voice cutting through static with an order that made half the room move before anyone finished hating him for it. It was also useful for calling people late enough that they answered mad.
His nails dragged over the edge of the clasp, but he kept his eyes on the wall instead. The plaster looked like shit, a perfect match for the night. The damp air coming through the window brought the sourness of wet stone and old refuse under his skin too fast, making the edges of the room go thin for one disorienting second.
The memory hit with the sudden weight of rubber pressing over his mouth, the hot, wet recoil of his own breath inside a mask too large for his face. Someone’s grip had bunched the fabric of his shirt tight between his shoulders back when the world was bigger and the blue-gray air outside the filter chewed through noise until coughing sounded miles away.
Wait here. Cthoni’s voice had sounded lower through the blood in his ears, flattened and leaving no room for him to turn it into a joke before she disappeared into the thick of it. He remembered the floor of that place more than the layout, hard, sticky in patches, his palms resting open on his knees because curling his fingers hurt too much while something outside kept dripping at an ugly pace. When she finally came back, her hands were dirty, and his mother’s rings were sitting in them.
Jabber’s fingers tightened against his knee until the pressure cut deep, shaking the memory off as the cracked wall and the bare strip of his throat came back into focus. It wasn't a tragedy, just him sitting on the cold floor with a dull sentence scratching around his skull because Cthoni’s business had somehow become his problem.
A sudden wetness slid from the corner of his eye, cooling fast against his cheek. He stared at the tiny drop where it fell across his knuckle, his mouth pulling crookedly before any actual amusement could follow it.
“Man,” he whispered, the sound scraped thin as his chest caught around the next breath. The tears came without permission, hot and running paths through the grime on his face while his nose started running too, his body displaying an absolute lack of class or pacing. It was perfect, a leaking face and a busted mouth, sitting there like a kid told to wait. He forced his fingers under the clasp, the mechanical lock resisting for half a second before releasing with a soft click.
The total absence of the weight hit harder than the choker itself. Air touched the bare strip of his throat, and the sudden lightness made everything feel significantly worse. He held the device in both hands, turning the pale center toward the room's weak light. Calling Cthoni would make it her problem, but she’d likely take one breath, know too much, and say almost nothing, which was entirely unfair given how long she’d been collecting his tells. Calling Zodyl crying was a funny bit, but it would only earn him a calculated order or the look given to a cracked vial someone hadn't decided whether to throw or keep. Bundus would make it loud. Momoa would make it worse.
Zanka would answer.
That was the stupid part. That was the thing Jabber’s hand knew before the rest of him caught up.
Zanka, with his rigid instructions and ugly temper, who answered like every ring personally offended him but still picked up no matter how late the line buzzed.
Jabber dragged his thumb across the interface, the device pulsing against his fingers as the first ring signaled through. He smeared the wetness across his cheek with the heel of his hand, sniffing hard against his nose's opinions as he curled forward until the red casing sat between his knees. Zanka could ignore it, but the line clicked open on the second ring, the distinct rustle of a mattress taking weight reaching Jabber before any words did. He let his shoulders drop by an involuntary measure, listening to the sleep-rough breath on the other end as Zanka clearly evaluated the identity of the caller.
“Why do you always call so late at night?” The voice came through flat with exhaustion, already scaling up with familiar irritation.
Jabber’s fingers closed tightly around the metal casing, his posture loosening at the raw, tired friction of the delivery. “’Cause you always pick up.”
The line stayed quiet, but it wasn't empty; the heavy sound of Zanka shifting the blankets closer carried through the speaker, likely sitting up more than he cared to admit.
“What do you want?” Zanka asked, the question clipped and defensive.
Jabber looked down at the red curve blurring in his hands, a tear landing near the center with a soft tick. “So cold. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
A sharp exhale came through the line, close enough that Jabber could picture the exact layout of his smashed pillow and the single hateful eye open in the dark. “You’re so weird.”
Jabber’s smile came crooked, stinging the split in his lip but settling the room back into a recognizable orbit. Zanka used the label like a shield to avoid touching the problem, but he remained on the line anyway, his voice low and dragged out at the edges. Jabber lifted the comm closer, his thumb rubbing the casing until his nail stung. “Can I come see you?”
The question came out softer than intended, a rare lapse in momentum that made Jabber’s smile thin as the silence stretched between them, thick with the rustle of cloth and whatever Zanka was holding back behind his teeth. He braced for the inevitable sarcastic cut, ready to turn it into something funny if it landed.
Instead, a heavier shift of blankets came through the speaker. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”
Jabber wiped his face with the back of his wrist, his breathing finally snagging on something solid. “You sayin’ that like you ain’t gonna be mad when I show up.”
“I’m already mad,” Zanka shot back, the words biting and rapid. “You woke me up.”
“But you picked up.”
“You keep repeating that like it’s supposed to make me regret it.”
Jabber pressed the cool metal against his bare throat where the skin still jumped at the contact. “Does it?”
The pause this time was filled with the faint sound of Zanka’s feet hitting the floor, dragging into his slippers as he prepared to handle an inconvenience he refused to drop. “Get here or don’t. I’m not staying awake all night listening to you breathe into the line.”
Jabber watched the hanging cords sway in the window’s draft, his face aching from the sudden release of tension as he held the opened choker in both hands. “You’re listenin’ now, though.”
“Jabber.” The name came through rough and heavy, landing with the physical weight of a hand bunching his shirt to stop him from running his mouth.
Jabber’s smile slipped for a fraction of a second before he caught it, bending forward until his hair brushed the floorboards. His voice held too much water to maintain the light tone he wanted, so he let it come out unpolished, dropping the pace entirely. “Yeah, yeah. I’m comin’.”
The call ended with a soft click that left the room sounding hollow. Jabber stayed folded over for a second longer, his hair hanging around his face before he finally tossed the device onto the mattress and pushed himself upright. His knee cracked loudly under his weight, the dried scrape on his shoulder peeling away from his tank top with a sharp sting that made him grunt. The room tilted slightly before settling back into its familiar, irritating angles, the cracked plaster, the stuck window, and the hanging cords swaying lazily in the draft. He yanked his jacket off the end of the bed, hissing as his injured shoulder caught against the sleeve, and shoved his arms through the fabric with zero patience for the buttons.
He stepped into the corridor before his hands could find another excuse to touch his face. The hallway carried a dull, overlapping din, pipes ticking behind the drywall, rough laughter echoing from a door two turns down, and steady boot steps moving overhead. Jabber kept his head tipped down, using his hair as a curtain against the harsh overhead lights while he navigated the passage. He passed a Raider slumped against the baseboard with a fresh bandage taped across his forehead and a bottle clamped between his knees. The man’s gaze snagged on the wet tracks smeared across Jabber’s cheeks, his mouth parting slightly until Jabber flashed a wide, sharp smile with his split lip. The fighter instantly looked back down at his label, choosing the survival instinct over curiosity.
Cthoni’s door was open halfway near the outer exit, the short scrape of her boot heel and the metallic clink of her gear signaling her preparation. Jabber leaned his uninjured shoulder against the wooden frame, rapping his knuckles once to announce himself before stepping into the room. “You still goin’?”
Cthoni stood near the small mirror with a coat already on, as she dragged a fastening strap tight across her wrist. Her eyes shifted toward him in the glass, tracking the dampness across his cheekbones and the front of his unbuttoned jacket with her usual unhurried, critical focus. “Your face is still wet.”
Jabber clicked his tongue, stepping fully into the light. “See, that’s why nobody likes talkin’ to you. A man asks a simple travel question, and you start inspectin’ fluids like you got a clipboard hidden in your coat.”
“You came to my door with the evidence,” she replied, her voice remaining perfectly flat as the strap clicked shut against the bone. She turned around, her expression settling into that unreadable, still quality that offered him absolutely nothing to push against. “You want a ride to headquarters.”
The word hung heavily between them. Cleaner territory. Zanka somewhere inside those pale walls, probably pacing the halls in a miserable mood because of the late call. Jabber rolled his shoulders, his rings catching the thin light of the room as he forced a careless grin. “I got business in the area. Don't flatter yourself.”
“You called him,” she stated simply. “You get quiet when you call him.”
The observation landed without any dramatic flourish, a plain fact placed on the table next to her gear. Jabber’s fingers flexed against his knee, a brief flash of an old hallway and dirty hands passing behind his eyes before he forced a loud, theatrical laugh to cover the hitch in his chest. “That’s ugly talk. I’m plenty loud.”
“You get loud after,” Cthoni said, crossing the room until she stood directly in front of him. Her hand rose, her finger hooking beneath the front curve of his choker to pull the red casing straight where the clasp had settled crookedly against his throat. The sudden pressure made him swallow against the bare strip of his skin. “There. Now you look bad on purpose.”
Jabber huffed a breath through his nose, his grin returning with sharper seams. “That almost sounded nice. You feelin' sick or somethin'?”
“I can leave you here,” she said, dropping her hand and turning toward the outer passage, the air in the small room tightening instantly as she shifted her focus toward the exit.
“You can try, but then you’d miss me makin’ the trip worse,” Jabber countered, following her out into the wide, half cleared staging area. The overhead lights flickered in uneven bands across broken crates and rolled tarps, illuminating three sleeping bodies arranged near the heater. Cthoni shrugged one shoulder, shifting the heavy, circular bulk of the manhole cover secured against her back. She pulled the massive iron piece free, letting it hit the concrete floor with a dense, ringing clang that made one of the sleepers twitch.
Jabber looked over his shoulder at the huddle. “Shh. Grown-ups are travelin’.”
Cthoni planted her boot against the iron edge and shoved, sliding the metal circle into the dark space between two dead bulbs. The air above the iron instantly contracted, color swirling downward into a thick, twisting vortex of purple and green depth that had no business fitting inside a flat frame. A sharp, dry mineral chill spilled through the gap, carrying the distinct electric bite of Cleaner wards built to keep the Ground out.
Jabber’s stomach turned at the sensory shift, but he smiled directly into the hole anyway, refusing to break character in front of the portal. “You gonna tell me who you’re seein’, or do I gotta start guessin’ loud enough to ruin your night?”
Cthoni stepped onto the shifting surface, the colored light crawling up the hem of her dark coat. “You’re going to behave for the length of one drop.”
“That’s a lot to ask from a passenger,” Jabber muttered, stepping directly into the swirl behind her.
The vortex pulled at his boots first, then his knees, the cold pressure slamming his choker hard against his throat as the hallway smeared into a bright line above his head. The physical layout of the base folded tight, Cthoni’s coat, the scuffed rings on his fingers, and the heavy weight of the drop combining into a single, breathless second before the atmospheric pressure snapped outward. Clean, sharp night air struck his wet face hard enough to sting the tear tracks. His boots hit solid concrete with a heavy thud, the manhole humming low in the shadows behind them as the residual color sank back into the iron. Cleaner headquarters rose immediately ahead, its pale walls and guarded angles cutting cleanly into the dark, built on too many rules. Jabber shoved both hands deep into his jacket pockets, lifted his chin, and took his first step into the cold.
Cthoni nudged Manhole with the toe of her boot, lifted the cover by its rim, and slid it back into the bag against her shoulder with a dense scrape of metal against reinforced cloth.
Jabber let his eyes track the nearest entrance.
Locked, probably. Guarded, definitely. Full of Cleaners with their clean little boots and clean little rules and clean little reasons to make his night longer. He could call again. That would be funny. Make Zanka come down while sounding like he wanted Jabber dead in a shallow hole. Ask him if the building needed a password, a sacrifice, or one of those sad little visitor badges people wore when they wanted everyone to know they belonged nowhere.
His thumb brushed the choker.
Cthoni moved at his side, coat shifting as she looked toward the far end of the compound. She had her own direction already picked out, because of course she did. No hesitation in her feet, no extra noise in her breathing, none of the little stupid things people did when they were about to see someone and wanted to pretend their body hadn’t noticed. Cthoni made wanting look like a task. Annoying. Aspirational, maybe, if a man was sick in the head and taking notes from terrible sources.
Jabber drew enough breath to say something foul about it.
The words caught before they reached his tongue.
There was a figure near the outer walkway.
At first the blanket made more shape than the person inside it. A dark drape pulled around narrow shoulders, one edge tucked under a hand at the chest, the fabric hanging crooked where sleep and cold had both gotten a vote. Then the guard light swept near enough to catch pale hair, loose around a face that looked dragged out of bed and punished for it. Zanka stood just beyond the entrance path with his bare ankles showing above stupid house shoes, his choker fastened at his wrist, his mouth set in a flat line while he looked straight at Jabber across the cold.
Jabber stopped walking.
The joke he had been building fell apart somewhere behind his teeth and left all the pieces there.
Zanka was outside.
The building sat behind him with its locked doors and its stupid height and all those sleeping windows, and Zanka was already on the wrong side of it for someone who supposedly did not care. He had come down. He had wrapped himself in whatever blanket had been closest. He had stepped out into the cold before Jabber reached the gate, before a second call, before any performance could be made out of being stuck.
Jabber’s fingers curled inside his pockets.
The rings pressed into his skin.
His breath snagged so hard the choker shifted against his throat, and the sting in his eyes came back hot enough to blur Zanka’s face into pale hair, dark blanket, narrow mouth, all of it sharpening again when he blinked too late. The concrete under his boots seemed to sit farther away than it had a second ago. Cthoni’s presence stayed at his left, quiet and solid, but the compound narrowed around the space between them and the walkway where Zanka waited like an inconvenience made flesh.
Zanka’s gaze moved over him.
Jabber felt the path of it without needing to look down at himself. Zanka’s hand tightened once where it held the blanket closed. His other arm shifted under the fabric, emerging enough for the sleeve to catch the light as he adjusted his stance against the cold.
Jabber’s mouth opened.
Nothing useful came out.
Excellent time for his body to forget its whole job. He could talk through poison, cracked ribs, bad odds, and half a dozen people trying to make him shut up with force, but apparently one sleep wrecked Cleaner standing outside in a blanket was where the machinery gave up and started smoking.
Zanka’s eyebrows pulled together.
That small movement did something ugly to the back of Jabber’s throat.
He stepped forward because standing still had become impossible, boots scraping over concrete, hands dragging halfway out of his pockets and hanging there with nowhere decent to go. His vision caught on the blanket again, on Zanka’s fist curled into it, on the bit of wrist showing pale where the sleeve had slipped. The cold air carried the faint smell of headquarters stone, night damp, and whatever detergent Cleaners used to make even sleep clothes smell disciplined.
“You waited for me outside?” The question came out too loud in the open air, cracked around the middle and wet at the edges like an accusation that had dropped its weapon on the way out.
Zanka looked at him for one unhurried beat, then another, his eyes narrowed from sleep but cutting clean through the dark. He drew the blanket tighter across his chest, tilting his chin by a fraction as if he had to aim his response past whatever face Jabber was currently making. “Well yeah, dumbass. Voice rough and low from being awake at an hour he had clearly not approved. “You can’t get into the building.”
The words hit with absolutely no softness to catch them, leaving Jabber's lungs completely empty on the next breath. The locked doors behind Zanka stayed shut, the guard light kept dragging its lazy beam along the stone, and the world stubbornly refused to offer an explanation for the blanket, or the fact that Zanka was already standing between him and the cold stone.
Jabber’s hands came out of his pockets before his brain could stop them, his fingers curling into the edge of the blanket right beneath Zanka’s fist, gripping the heavy wool simply because the proof had texture and a sudden shock of gathered warmth underneath it. Zanka’s eyes dropped to the contact, his knuckles tightening in response, but he didn't pull away.
When Jabber stepped closer, folding the remaining distance between them, Zanka’s free hand came up and landed squarely on his uninjured shoulder. The pressure was immediate and bracing, a firm palm anchoring him through the fabric of his jacket. Jabber’s body answered the touch with an involuntary shudder, his vision instantly flooding as a fresh wave of tears slipped hot over his cheeks, entirely impossible to shove back into his face now that they were close enough to touch.
Zanka’s mouth tightened into a hard, flat line of familiar irritation, a defensive mask hiding whatever heavier calculation was running through his head. Jabber stared at it, his own mouth pulling open as he desperately tried to summon his usual armor, trying to force his voice into a loud, mocking theater routine to prove he was just playing around.
“That’s so nice,” Jabber started, intending to make the words sound large and ridiculous, but the performance completely bottomed out into a wobbly, ruined fragment, the sarcasm cracking in half as a heavy sob pushed up through his throat. The joke failed completely. His grip bunched the wool under Zanka’s hand, and his forehead dropped forward without any further permission from his brain, knocking gently into Zanka’s wrapped shoulder as the first real, unedited sound broke loose against the fabric.
The sound hit the blanket first and came back damp against his own mouth. Jabber’s forehead stayed pressed into Zanka’s shoulder, his left hand still twisted in the wool beneath Zanka’s fist, his fingers sunk deep enough to feel the immediate heat trapped underneath. Jabber tried to pull the next breath through his nose and got a ruined, fluid drag of air instead, thick with the absolute death of whatever dignity had survived long enough to make it onto Cleaner property.
Zanka’s hand on his shoulder tightened. The pressure should have helped him straighten, but it did the exact opposite; his spine folded another inch, and his right hand came up without permission from his brain, catching around Zanka’s back where the blanket gave way to the harder, guarded line of his shoulder. The motion turned the lean into an awkward, full body admission made out of wet breath and failing balance, causing Zanka to go completely rigid under the sudden weight. The air between them contracted instantly. Zanka’s fingers flexed against his jacket, his fist loosening from the front of the wool as his hand began to shift away.
Jabber’s chest hitched before the panic could turn into words, his fingers clamping violently around the fabric while his rings dug into the meat of his palm. The choker pressed hard against his throat as he swallowed a broken sound that muffled straight into Zanka's neck. Before he could slide off, Zanka’s arm moved around him, dragged awkwardly from under the layers with a rough scrape of fabric before settling across the upper part of Jabber’s back with more force than grace. His other hand slid lower to brace against his ribs, his palm spread wide to catch the falling weight like he was thoroughly irritated by the physics involved. The blanket slipped open at Zanka’s chest where Jabber had pulled it crooked, letting a sharp strip of cold air cut between their skin, but Zanka refused to step back to fix the gap.
Jabber’s knees almost forgot their job entirely as the next sob bent through his ribs, catching on the bruised hollows until he sounded ridiculous in three directions at once. A complete personal disaster with witnesses. Cthoni’s boots shifted somewhere behind him, a quiet scrape on the concrete that instantly stopped. She had better be looking at a wall or finding religion in the architecture, because he didn't have the space to care about an audience while Zanka’s hand pressed harder, holding him securely in place. Every breath found another fluid panic under it. Jabber’s fingers slipped from the blanket to the side of Zanka’s coat, grabbing a fistful of fabric near his ribs until his rings knocked softly against whatever discipline Zanka wore under the wool.
“Quit squeezin’ the blanket,” Zanka said, his voice close above him and rough enough to scrape through the top of Jabber’s skull. “You’re gonna stretch it out.”
Jabber made a wet sound into his shoulder that tried for a laugh and failed completely, bunching the fabric tighter on principle.
Zanka’s fingers twitched hard against his back. “I mean it, willya.”
“You came outside in it,” Jabber said, the words mashed into the wool, barely shaped enough to leave his mouth. “Blanket got involved on its own.”
“It did not get involved. Ya grabbed it.”
“You brought it.”
“I brought it cause it’s cold,” Zanka snapped, the words rapid and clipped.
Jabber’s breath broke again, sharper this time, his forehead dragging a fraction against Zanka’s shoulder as the tears kept coming without permission. Zanka’s arm stayed exactly where it was, his feet planted and his shoulder held steady, treating the collapse like a practical chore he refused to drop.
Jabber sniffed, the sound enormous and wet in the open air.
Zanka’s head shifted above him, his jaw tightening. “Hey. Don’t wipe yer snot on me.”
Jabber turned his face a little deeper into the fabric because being told what to do had never fixed a single thing in his life. Zanka’s shoulder jerked under his cheek, his palm pressing once into Jabber's back to register a formal protest since his mouth had already filed the complaint.
“Don’t be mean to me,” Jabber said, his voice clogged and uneven as he leaned into the exaggerated, dramatic defense. He tightened his grip on Zanka's clothes before the rest of the sentence fell out smaller. “I’m sad.”
Zanka’s chest moved under the layers with one hard, heavy exhale. The silence after it stayed full of fabric pulled crooked and cold drafts. Jabber kept his face hidden, refusing to let the cold night touch the skin Zanka had just seen, while Zanka's hovering hand finally settled back down firmly, and resting right over the place where the scrape under Jabber’s jacket burned.
“Then stop gettin’ snot on me while ya sad,” Zanka muttered, the irritation dragging rough at the edges.
Jabber’s mouth pulled against the damp wool, wet and crooked and entirely useless. “Can’t promise that,” he whispered, and held on harder.
Zanka made them move after the third wet breath hit the blanket.
He didn’t announce it like mercy. Clicking his tongue, he shifted his grip across Jabber’s back and turned them both away from the entrance path with the stiff, irritated efficiency of someone relocating a spill before it ruined the floor. Jabber’s boots dragged for the first step because his knees were still considering retirement, catching up only when the firm palm aimed him toward the low wall beside the walkway.
“Move your feet,” Zanka muttered, keeping his voice beneath the sweep of the nearest guard light. “I’m not standin’ out here all night while you leak on me.”
Jabber sniffed hard, letting himself be steered because resisting required an organization of limbs that had clearly formed a union without him. The stolen corner of the drape remained tangled in his fist, pulling crookedly across his chest until Zanka’s narrowed gaze dropped to the theft, addressing the betrayal with a sharp look that promised a private reckoning later.
Cthoni moved a short distance behind them, the heavy metal disk settled back into the carrier against her shoulder. Jabber caught her through his peripherals as he was nudged toward the stone, as she angled toward a darker side route along the compound, completely ignoring his breakdown. Bless her horrible heart. Whether she had suddenly found manners or simply found a cleaner target for her attention, she gave the concrete one last quiet scrape of her heel and disappeared into the shadows.
Jabber lifted his chin to track her departure, the movement pulling his damp cheek away from the fabric as the prickling night air rushed into the wet space he’d left behind. That dull spike of dread pressing against the inside of his skull with a different edge now that Zanka was actively pushing him down.
“Sit.”
Jabber landed with a soft grunt, one knee pulling up on instinct while the stone held the night’s chill straight through his trousers. Zanka settled beside him with a controlled little drop, the shared wool dragged partly over Jabber’s shoulder because of his refusal to release his grip.
A sharp tug rattled the fabric between them. Jabber’s hand only tightened in response.
Zanka glared down at the fist locked in the wool, then up at his face. “You planning to give that back?”
Jabber rubbed the heel of his hand under his nose, smearing the problem sideways instead of solving it. “You brought enough for company.”
“I brought enough for me.”
“Then why’m I under it?”
“Forget it.”
Jabber’s mouth twitched, his sore lip catching on the movement as a weak laugh tried to follow, fracturing instantly near the bruised hollow of his ribs. Zanka watched the sound fall apart without a word, his jaw set high as the space between them shrunk into trapped heat, cold stone, and a damp patch on Zanka’s shoulder that Jabber absolutely intended to ignore until death.
Zanka’s fingers appeared briefly near the edge of the layer, then vanished back underneath as if deciding that touching the evidence would only make the calculation worse. “Why’d ya wanna see me?”
Jabber fixed his stare on the line of the walkway ahead. The guard light moved across the far wall, slid over a sealed side door, and vanished past the corner of the brickwork. His face had stopped leaking, but the skin under his eyes felt tight and raw, his nose carrying that thick, post crying scrape. Gross gross gross.
“Gotta have a reason?” he asked.
The blanket shifted against Zanka’s shoulder as he turned his head, his movement unhurried. “No. Doesn’t matter to me.”
Jabber looked at him then, catching the blatant lie with an amused, heavy stare. Zanka sat with his hair still completely wrecked from bed, his expression flat, his eyes awake enough now to make the irritation look entirely deliberate. His knuckles showed pale where he held the layers closed against the draft.
“You’re askin’ like it does,” Jabber said.
Zanka’s jaw tightened once. “You were sobbin’ on me five minutes ago over nothin’.”
“Feelin’ a little down.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Zanka said. “I’ve got workin’ eyes.”
The silence held a distinct sting, but it wasn't a malicious one. It was just Zanka's usual rough surface, clean and entirely devoid of any underhanded blows. Jabber could sit next to that. He could breathe around that while the rings caught against each other with a quiet click under the blanket.
Zanka’s gaze dropped to the small sound, then came back up without asking for an explanation. Jabber swallowed against the cool edge of the choker tracking his throat, his next breath coming through his nose with significantly less wreckage in it.
“I told ya,” he said, his voice dropping into the narrow space between their shoulders. “Didn’t wanna hear anybody else.”
As he said it, his hand shifted loose over Zanka’s knee, fingers brushing near his forearm without quite catching there.
Zanka stopped moving entirely. The hand on his chest stayed fixed, his breathing flattening out for the length of one cold sweep of the guard light across the plaster. The confession sat between them without enough of a defensive shape for Zanka to strike, and Jabber almost wanted to take it back just to give him an easier target. His mouth stayed shut.
The line of Zanka’s mouth went flat as he broke the contact, his focus cutting sharply back toward the compound gate to avoid the weight of it. The usual bite didn't come, no insult, no physical shove, no serious complaint about the stolen fabric. The air under the wool simply warmed by degrees where their shoulders nearly touched, Jabber keeping his gaze low because watching Zanka think around a feeling was somehow worse than watching him fight.
A heavy breath passed before Zanka cleared his throat, the sound sharp and practical as he stepped right over the loose board in the conversation.
“How’d ya get here so quick?” he asked.
Jabber let his head tilt back and his grip on the fabric loosened by a single finger. “Cthoni got me here. She said she wanted to see someone.”
She had said she wanted to see someone. She had opened the ground and dropped him here, wet face and all, close enough for Zanka to be waiting before Jabber had time to turn the vulnerability into another stupid joke.