Archive of Our Own

Zanka has always had a keen sense of smell.

It wasn't something he was born with or something that made him any better than the next guy, but it was a skill he was well aware of. Hellguard training was always ruthless, and no topic was too niche for them to batter into their students, including honing all five senses beyond normally necessary.

He could hear every pin Rudo pushed into his board from the hall, spot a trash beast lurking a distance away before any cleaners or supporters, taste Riyo's hairspray in his mouth as he walked past her door, even feel the ridges and grime on his Lovely Assistaff when everyone claimed he was just being nitpicky. It was all routine behaviour to him.

Today, however, none of those senses had been keen enough to save him from his terrible fate.

Amo and Rudo’s big, curious eyes stare up at him. They'd cornered him on his way back from a recon mission with Tomme, both stood uselessly outside by the front door talking about whatever until he'd appeared, apparently the answer to all of their troubles.

“Whatever the question is,” he speaks before they can, “The answer’s no.”

They both frown. Well, Rudo tries, but his face just stays in that constipated expression he's constantly wearing. Amo is much more successful, cheeks puffed and arms crossed, her big new sleeves flapping with the movement.

“You don't even know what Amo was going to ask!” she cries.

“Don't need ta,” Zanka counters, “I have paperwork I need t’do for Semiu. She's gonna have my head if I try ditch again.”

She pouts, but holds her tongue. Zanka knows she had a bit of a temper, having experienced it first hand back in Penta. She's far from his most annoying coworker, even if he still isn't all that fond of her, but that doesn't mean he'll risk Semiu’s disappointed glare to join whatever little scheme her and Rudo had concocted to fill their afternoon.

Rudo, the sneaky bastard, seems to catch on to this quicker than she does. Leaning to see around Zanka, he calls towards Tomme, who’s just finished grabbing her pen and notepad from the back of their car.

“Tomme!” He waves as he calls, earning himself a wave back when she stops in her tracks to chat.

“What's up!”

Rudo jabs a finger towards Zanka. “We need his help. Could you ask Semiu if we can borrow him?”

The question makes her laugh, her answer barely audible over Zanka’s hiss of “Don't talk about me like I'm not here, dumbass!”

“I'll fill it all out!” Her smile is blinding as she moves again, “I'm the one with all the notes anyways. Keep him for as long as you need! Semiu can find him later if she needs any extra details.”

Zanka hears Rudo and Amo call out their thanks as she leaves, but he's too busy being torn between the relief of avoiding an afternoon of boredom and the dread of being left at the mercy of the two fifteen year olds.

“It’s nothing bad” Amo reassures him— not that he needs it— head nodding with confidence. Rudo's eyes follow the movement, and Zanka has to bite back a nasty smirk at the way it makes him look like a busted up bobble head.

“Then why doesn't anyone else wanna do it?” He doesn't actually know if they've asked, but it's not like he's usually the first choice for anything around here.

“Anyone we can ask already has.” the comforting lilt of her voice shifts to something much more frustrated, eyebrows furrowing as she explains. “There's no point in repeating.”

Zanka's eyebrows furrow. Is he supposed to know what she's referring to? Something everyone else has done but him, apparently. He hopes the answer isn't ‘beat a raider in a fight’.

“‘Kay…” He might as well just go with it for now, since it doesn't seem like he's getting out of this anytime soon. “What is it?”

This time, it's Rudo who pipes up. “Amo wants to work on her boot smell.” His chunky gloves point towards her vital instrument, still unnamed and laughably large on her. At least her and Rudo are matching in that department.

“Thought you already knew how to make ‘em smell.” He replies, recalling how Enjin’s face had contorted when he'd stolen a shoe and taken a whiff back in their battle in her tower. He hopes they've been washed since then, for both her and everyone else's sake.

“Of course I do!” Amo tutts, before her proud expression eases off into something a little less unsure. “But…I'm not very good at controlling the strength of the scent yet. That's what Amo wants to practice. Uncle Corvus wants Amo to be a healer, but that means Amo’s powers can't manipulate people any more. She has to learn how to make them feel better instead of fighting for her.”

Honestly, he doesn't really care about the story behind it, he doesn't even want to be here in the first place, but the glimmer of pride in Rudo’s gleaming eyes as she talks makes it more difficult to pay attention than it already is. the kid's too obvious, it's painful to watch.

“We tried to find someone who wasn't there last time Amo used her vital instrument,” Rudo tags on, “But they're out on missions or recon. Only Enjin and Riyo are free.”

Oh, so that's what she meant. Might as well get comfy. “I was at Penta too.” He huffs, shoving his stick into the ground and leaning his weight against her sturdy frame.

“But you had a mask on,” Rudo recalls, “Same as Tamsy, but we couldn't find him. We want someone she hasn't used it on yet.”

“Amo won't make you do anything bad!” The girl herself cuts back in, hands clenched by her chest. “I just want to see if I can give you a vision without controlling you. If anything happens, I'll stop immediately!”

…hard pass, Zanka thinks with a frown.

It wasn't even all that long ago, but Zanka still remembers the mission where they’d first met Amo like it was yesterday. He didn't take any enjoyment from fighting against his comrades, unable to stay calm and collected like Tamsy had when he'd used his Tokushin to take them down. 

Back then, they hadn't been entirely sure exactly what visions Amo’s abilities played to her victims, but Riyo's face in particular when the illusion had broken had stuck with him.

That woman's powers are real vicious, he remembers thinking to himself as he looked at Riyo’s crumpled form on the ground. Real vicious.

Which is exactly why he hesitates to answer. 

“...You said Enjin was free, right?” He tries. “Delmon knocked him on his ass before he could smell ya, why not use him?”

Apparently, that was the wrong choice. Amo’s joyful expression immediately falls, suddenly replaced by something Zanka could only describe as pure disgust. It's pretty unsettling, if he's being honest.

“Amo doesn't like him.” She states, and Zanka has to hold back a shiver at the malice in her tone.

“...Of course,” he shakes his head with a cautious smile. Should've remembered that, idiot.

Which was apparently also the wrong thing to say. Damn it, his stupid mouth was really failing him today.

“So you'll do it!?” Amo seems to take his apology as acceptance, her hands clapping together as her usual smile slides back onto her face.

He wants to say no, he'd rather take the stupid paperwork than a huff of her love stink, but a new voice intervenes before he can.

“Yes he will!” Enjin's voice booms from across the courtyard. Three heads swivel at the unexpected intrusion, turning to face the two newcomers as they enter from the building’s front doors.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Zanka's thoughts supply a phrase he'd heard from Gris once. The wide grin on Enjin's face certainly looks devilish enough.

Riyo at least has the decency to greet them. “Tomme told us you were out here. We wanted to see what was happening,” she explains. Rudo is the only one who waves back, Amo too busy shooting death glares at Enjin to care.

“It'll be a good training experience for the two of you,” Enjin tags on. “I know the boss would be pleased if he heard the news.”

Those yellow eyes shoot a piercing glance towards Zanka. I know you don't want to do this, they seem to say, but too bad. 

If it was anyone else, he wouldn't give a shit and stand his ground, but the last thing he wants to do is look like a whining child throwing a tantrum in front of his team leader. Especially with a sudden audience. 

He looks between the hopeful spark in Amo's eyes and the taunting glint in Enjin's. Riyo and Rudo aren't looking, talking between themselves about something Zanka can't make out. At least they can relax, knowing they're not about to get a lung full of crazy lady gas.

“...Fine.” He grumbles after his moment of debate, much to the delight of the aforementioned duo. Amo claps her hands in triumph while Enjin grins, reaching a grabby hand to ruffle the neatly styled hair on Zanka's head.

Okay, maybe this was worth it.

“But only once!” He clarifies, his voice stern enough to portray that this term of condition is not up for debate, only slightly betrayed by the dusting of red on his cheeks. “I do actually need ta go see Semiu at some point.”

“One round's a deal” Enjin agrees with a clap on the back. “There should be others back from their missions to help out once you're done. Best to try a few different targets to see if the difficulty changes between them, right?”

He looks towards Amo, but the blank expression on her face tells everyone the advice has been flat out rejected.

Without a word, she starts to walk a distance away, so Zanka takes the initiative and begrudgingly follows. It's safe to assume she's making sure the others are out of range from her vital instrument, but a bitter part of him wishes they were suffering through this with him.

Unfortunately, it seems Riyo thought to bring a bundle of masks with her, handing them to the other two while Zanka grumbles.

Since this is Amo he's dealing with, he takes the wild guess that she'll be using her abilities to make him hallucinate a loved one. He isn't exactly sure how that's supposed to help anyone, certainly not any more than Eishia’s Type: Heal, but it's not like it's unusual for Corvus to have a strange idea or two. The better question is probably who exactly he'll be seeing.

For Delmon, it had been his dead wife, but he's a bit too young to have one of those. He thinks Rudo mentioned something about seeing a girl he knew back when he lived on the sphere, but the only important girl in Zanka's past is one he certainly doesn't hold any affection for.

He does currently have Riyo, Tomme and Eishia, but he wouldn't describe any feelings he holds for them as anything like love. Eishia and Tomme are closer to appreciation for all the ways they helped him out, and while he and Riyo are close, the idea of love just doesn't really cut it.

Now that he thinks about it, Zanka realises he's never really been interested in romance. Back in his early days of academic life, he had every girl in the class falling over their feet for a sliver of his attention, but all that had done was feed his ugly ego. He'd never even considered taking up any of the offers he'd received, too busy studying from dusk until dawn to have time to mess around like the others.

If familial connections count as love to Amo, maybe it will be Riyo. After everything they've been through, he knows it won't be his actual sister. 

There is always the slim chance his brain doesn't know who to pick. What would happen then? There's no way it just won't work, despite how much Zanka wishes so, but he hasn't seen enough of Amo's powers to make an accurate guess.

All he can hope for is that he doesn't end up embarrassing himself.

“Okay!” Amo's voice intercepts Zanka's musings, snapping him back to reality. “Amo hasn't tried this scent yet, so it might take her a minute to get it right.”

That peaks Zanka's interest, his focus shifting from her instrument to her words. “Ya tryin’ something new?”

Amo's lips purse as she ponders, before her hand rises to tip side to side in a so so motion.

“I’ll still be focusing on your memories of love,” She confirms, “But I don’t want to make you sad by reminding you of someone who's gone. I want you to see the person who gives you strength— Who drives you to be the best version of yourself.”

Her lamb like eyes slide over to the edge of the building, where Rudo is sitting on the ground next to Enjin and Riyo. She smiles. “It's a scent Amo learned back when you all visited her in her tower.”

Oh, she's even more obvious than Rudo. Gross, Zanka holds back a gag. Kinda cute, but mostly gross. 

He hopes being the kid's mentor doesn't mean he has to give him romantic advice at some point down the road. He'll leave that to someone else more suited for the gig.

“Sounds reasonable,” he nods, even though the explanation only serves to throw him off even more. Would that make Enjin count? That definitely isn't love either, but those words he’d spoken to Zanka while holed up in that well were what he always went back to when he needed encouragement— that he could be an average joe still better than the gifted few.

Once they reach a comfortable distance, Amo stops, Zanka almost walking into the back of her before he notices. She motions for him to back up a bit, just to leave enough room between them for Zanka to escape her vital instrument’s reaches should anything go awry.

“I'm going to try now!” She yells, waiting until Zanka shoots her a thumbs up to activate her abilities. Her face scrunches slightly, eyes focused on the boots for a few, quiet moments. 

It gives Zanka enough pause to quietly mourn an afternoon that could've been spent being grilled about trash beasts and civilian casualties by their lovely receptionist, rather than being used as a glorified guinea pig.

Eventually, that familiar smoke starts to rise into the air. The cloud isn't as dense as back in the tower, he takes note, giving him hope that maybe Amo won't immediately turn him into a mindless puppet. “Deep breaths!” Her voice sounds over the impending doom. Zanka rolls his eyes.

He’d never asked the others what it smelled like. Admittedly, he hadn't even thought about it during their first encounter, or anytime after. Amo had said she believes memories came from smells back then, and Zanka always knew that wasn't too far fetched. Associating certain memories with certain smells was simply human nature— an aid in recall, sort of like an instinctual bookmark.

If he's about to get a whiff of the good stuff, he hopes it's at least pleasant. Like whatever the sphere puts in those laundry pods for washing machines, or the cleaner HQ’s stash of sweets. Something that burns your nostrils with its intensity, but only makes you want more.

The hellguard training academy library had a book for every topic ever published, ground or sphere. Zanka had enjoyed flicking through random ones he found laying around the place between intense study sessions, each about things he'd never get the chance to learn about otherwise. Just before Hyo had joined, he'd read one about flowers.

Stores on the ground were always fully stocked with fake ones, just like the bouquet Rudo had bought him that still sat on his windowsill, but Zanka had learned they didn't compare to the original. Each one had different conditions they grew under, different seasons they blossomed in, different smells that people on the sphere turned into rich people things like perfume or scented candles. Flower language meant each had its own special meaning like I love you or get well soon, and it was traditional to give a romantic partner a bundle of them to form a message. A bouquet. 

That's what love should smell like.

Not like blood.

That's what hits him first. 

It's bitter, familiar yet unwelcome, and Zanka's so caught off guard by the taste that his first thought is it must be coming from me. He reaches to touch his cupid's bow in case Amo's powers have caused a nosebleed, but his finger comes back dry.

Oh.

A hint of steel follows next, its scent so sharp it tricks his mind into believing it'll cut if he breathes too deeply. There's a certain tang to it that makes Zanka gag, too sour for his pallette, but he can't tell if it's polish or poison—

Oh no.

The poison. It burns, badly, perfectly reminiscent of the first time he'd experienced what it felt like to be at its mercy. His neck muscle twitches, the echo of a piercing sting to just an inch by his spine bringing a gasp of pain to his lips. A pathetic mistake that only makes him ingest even more, nausea quickly stirring in his stomach.

The smell of Jabber fills his lungs faster than he can register. Jabber Wonger, who Zanka hates more than anyone else in this god forsaken wasteland. The one dream he wakes up to every morning, whose infuriating existence motivates him to get up and push through his morning training. Jabber, who made Janka realise how truly inferior he is amongst his peers.

Jabber, who drives Zanka to be the best possible version of himself so he can beat his masochistic ass into the dirt.

He thinks he's going to puke.

His reaction must be quite a sight. He hears a concerned voice cry out through the haze, farther away than he'd remembered someone standing. “Did it work!?”

That voice.

His head shoots up.

Amo is nowhere to be seen.

Jabber stands in her place, those too familiar  purple eyes glinting in the afternoon sun. He's hunched, watching him with an unnatural focus, lowered like a predator eyeing its prey. Mankira isn't activated yet, but his fingers flex by his hips, obviously itching to do something other than hang uselessly. Zanka can't drag his eyes away.

“What…” he swallows, struggling to speak over the lump lodged in his throat. “What’re ya doing’ here?”

There's a whisper somewhere off to the side, “Who is he seeing?” spoken in a hushed tone. He wants to look, but Jabber's hypnotic stare keeps him locked in place.

“You look scared.” The raider's voice croons, dragging against the back of his throat and sending shivers down Zanka's spine. “Is everything okay?”

If he weren't bewitched, he'd have enough wits about him to realise it's Amo still across from him, trying to check on his wellbeing. Her eyebrows furrow with worry, but replicated on Jabber's gaunt face, it seems much more taunting. Like he knows exactly what his presence is doing to Zanka.

Thankfully, his body responds without his brain's input. Lovely Assistaff is yanked from the ground, Zanka's legs shifting back and arms raising her into a defensive stance. “Fuck you,” he spits, “Ya know damn well what's wrong right now, shithead.”

Where Amo gasps, Jabber laughs. “I guess that's a no.” His foul mouth grins, stretching unnaturally, just as it did when Zanka delivered a particularly rough blow during battle.

“What’re ya doin’ here?” He growls out again, his grip on his partner tightening. He watches Jabber's eyes follow the movement.

“Ugh,” the man whines unnaturally, “This isn't working!”

With how quickly Zanka's blood pressure seems to rocket, he'll argue against it.

“Just turn it off!” That third voice interrupts. It sounds horrible, warped beyond any recognition but still twinged with a disappointment that makes Zanka's head spin.

He finally finds the strength to break away from Jabber’s magnetic pull and search for the source, but anything outside of Jabber's range is beyond recognition. He thinks they're somewhere similar to the insides of the trash beast, but when he squints it kind of looks like the building where they first met. His brain feels like mush on the verge of spilling out his ears.

“Okay!” Jabber replies. 

Without warning, the scent wanes, and with it goes Zanka's vision. The raider starts to fade into an almost incorporeal blur, flickering between solid and intangible, like trash beast dust on the wind. Zanka's head swivels.

“Wait!” Zanka yells, too swept up in the illusion to question what exactly is happening to the other. A fear unlike anything else courses through him, triggering his body to jumpstart into a mad sprint. “We ain't done here yet!”

He raises his staff above him. If I can just reach him, he thinks desperately, if I can just reach him, I finally win.

But the movement must waft the smoke away faster than the watchman series can dissipate it. Just as he's about to take one final swing at Jabber, weapon held high above his head, the hallucination comes to an end. The unexpected appearance of Amo's terrified form stops him in his tracks, almost making Zanka trip over his own feet.

“Amo stopped it!” She yelps, hands raised to protect her face. Rudo is already halfway to their location and missing his mask, the glow from his gloves indicating they've shifted into weapon form despite a lack of any trash in sight. Enjin and Riyo watch from the sidelines.

An uncomfortable silence settles across the courtyard. All eyes are on him.

Zanka comes to a bitter realisation—  of course, he'd ended up embarrassing himself.

Now that the mirage has cleared, the real panic sets in. “I thought ya said the memories were about love!” He turns back to scream at Amo, who'd taken the pause to step out of his range.

“They are!” She counters, sporting a nasty scowl now that her methods are being questioned. “Amo made you think of a loved one! It's not my fault you went berserk about it!”

He almost misses the crunch of boots against dusty asphalt approaching them, too distracted by the mess of emotions running rampant in his mind. “Alright,” Enjin's voice stops their squabble in its tracks, his hands raised palm up to face each of them, “Quit the screaming.”

His eyes dart to Zanka, a smidge of concern leaking through his stern exterior. “You good?”

Zanka stares.

“...’m fine.” He mutters anyways, head lowering to avoid Enjin's gaze. “We done?”

He hears him sigh. “We're done,” he agrees, “we'll find someone else for Amo to practice on. Go see Semiu.”

He can already tell he's going to get a visit from Enjin later. Maybe Riyo too, with the way she peers over his shoulder, a curious glint in her eye.

“Who did you see?” She asks, the corner of her lips downturned.

Her face from the tower flashes back to his mind. “Who did you?” Zanka snaps back.

“Go!” Enjin interrupts again, shooing Zanka away as he moves to block Riyo from his line of sight. Zanka huffs.

He storms back to HQ. He hears Enjin and Amo having a back and forth about an apology, but Zanka doesn't care. Actually, he thinks he's going to faint.

He doesn't stop at Semiu's desk. He keeps going through the main hall, marching up the stairs until he finds the corridor where his bedroom is located.

Tomme’s papers fall with the force of the door’s slam.

Enjin never visited. Zanka counts it as a blessing. 

He doubts he forgot, the more likely reason being that he'd believed it better to leave Zanka to his own devices for the night. He appreciates it. It was a small relief to know that the others hadn't figured out what had happened, and he doesn't think he could bring himself to tell if asked. The memory is his dirty little secret now.

It's nearing four in the morning and he still can't sleep. He'd fallen out of the habit of late nights after leaving the academy, no longer bound to nights of studying, but right now he'd take the torture of classes over the stare of those rich, mauve eyes he sees every time he closes his own. Maybe some particles of Amo's dust went too far and got lodged in his brain.

The vision is as crisp as a photograph; Jabber, a sight for sore eyes, right there in front of him. It has been strange to see him outside the heat of battle, no blood trickling from battered lips or bruises littering his marred skin. Zanka found it hard to believe a version of Jabber like that existed.

He still can't wrap his head around any of it. Love and Jabber should never belong to the same sentence unless pain is slotted in somewhere between. They certainly don't belong in the depths of Zanka's thoughts, brought to life by Amo's vital instrument.

Her words play on a loop in his mind. Amo made him think of a loved one. Amo made him think of Jabber Wonger.

He's fought Jabber twice. He hardly counts their first as anything beyond their first though, having spent most of it warring against the effects of Mankira’s numbing agent. He'd gotten a good few hits in thanks to Gris’ amulet, and those had been satisfying, but it was still closer to a meeting than a match.

The only real notable thing about it was how Jabber had looked at him right before his second dose. He'd been yammering on about the poisons lifespan, how it only worked on himself for ten minutes but for Zanka it was closer to thirty. 

But for you, he'd said, reverence dripping from the last word like it was something worth being impressed by. His eyes were as soft as his tone, half lidded and scarily sure. He'd smiled too, without teeth for once. If it were anyone else, Zanka would feel compelled to describe it as sweet.

And it had been aimed at him.

He tries not to revisit the moment often, but wrapped in the darkness and comfort of his own room, sometimes he just can't help it. If he's being begrudgingly honest, it happens almost every night.

That one from their meeting is certainly a repeating offender, but there's a few of those. The terrifying joy on Jabber's face right before he’d realised he could go all out, the sound of you're just like me on his tongue, the taste of Jabber's claws in his mouth. He doesn't think he'll ever replicate the rush he felt when he punched Jabber's broken rib.

He'd been called a sadist for it. By Jabber's standards, that makes them a perfect match. That's a favourite.

It had been short lived, but that fight against Jabber in the trash beast was the closest Zanka had felt to anything real in a long time. The girls in his class never made his heart race the way Jabber's weapon getting a little too close loved to do.

When the sun rises, he'll deny it, of course. Hell, if he's still up an hour from now he'll pretend this moment of weakness was a sleep deprived dream. A hallucination, because he hasn't had enough of those today.

He's so tired, though.

He rubs his eyes. Maybe he'll get up and make himself something to eat, since Tomme always says it's easier to sleep with a full stomach. He can't really face the trek to the kitchen though.

He just wishes he had something to silence his thoughts. How do you shut your own mind up? Maybe he should take up meditation again. Lying in his bed doing nothing certainly won't help.

Just as Zanka's about to sit up, content with the idea of a sandwich to tide him until morning, there's a knock on his door.

He sighs. Enjin must have changed his mind.

It's unusual for him to be awake this late, but Zanka doesn't think too hard about it. It could be Riyo, sent to check up on him in Enjin's place. She has the worst sleep schedule of anyone he'd ever known, and according to Rudo had been using it to bug him in the middle of the night. Maybe she noticed his curtains haven't been pulled closed.

He moves to sit. He doesn't want to see her right now, but he'll take it over Enjin. Unlike him, she won't care if he's keeping a secret. She knows a thing or two about that herself, and knows it's not her place to judge.

He tries to hype himself up. Maybe it will be Riyo, and she'll sit on the side of his bed, and they'll talk about everything under the sun until it comes up. She has a good sense of humour, similar to his, she always knows how to make him laugh. 

He pulls the blanket back. If it's Enjin, he'll just pretend he was asleep. He's annoying, but he has a good head on his shoulders, he won't stay if he thinks he's keeping Zanka from a good night of rest. If it works, hopefully that will be the end of this.

He stands up. The knackered floor creaks beneath his weight, its wooden slats rough against the bare soles of his feet as he walks. He won't be able to eat now. The realisation makes him frown. Hopefully the effort of conversation will put him to sleep, but he doubts it.

He opens the door.

“Wha’d’ya wan’?” He slurs, too lethargic to care about clarifying his accent. Whoever it could be, they'll have heard worse before.

“Oh, y’know,” a voice says. “Just visiting.”

He breathes. The stench of blood fills his lungs.

It's not Riyo.

A rough palm covers his mouth, forcing him back into the room before he can make a noise. Instinctually, he tries to reach for the handle again, but the hand he lifts is quickly caught by the wrist by his assailant. They use it to their leverage, grabbing the other with long, talented fingers and twisting both against his back. They kick the door shut behind them.

In the blink of an eye, he's shoved up against it head first, his temple hitting a ridge at a particularly bad angle. He feels dizzy, barely noticing the warm trickle of blood starting down the side of his face. He hears a giggle behind him.

“Zanka, my friend,” Jabber's voice echoes through the still darkness, breathing hot, wet air down the back of Zanka's spine that makes him shiver. “Been a while, hasn't it?”

It's the real deal, Zanka knows. Not the one from this afternoon, passive with an air of too sweet concern, a pathetic figment of Zanka's imagination. 

This Jabber is dangerous.

Mankira sits against his knuckles, eagerly awaiting it's time to shine and penetrate his very soul with those now familiar toxins. It's not activated yet, but Zanka knows Jabber. Sometimes, he thinks, better than he knows anyone else. The metal feels like ice against his heated skin.

Zanka's heart skips a beat.

“Fuck off.” He spits the muffled words like venom. It's all he can come up with on such short notice. Jabber's definitely real, but here in the privacy of his midnight room, it feels too taboo to be anything but a poorly conjured nightmare. He'd pinch himself to check, but the pain in the side of his head provides its own reality check.

Jabber just laughs. “Ah,” he can hear the smile on his face as he sighs in ecstasy, his nose leaning in to nuzzle against the space between Zanka's shoulder blades. “I've missed this.”

“Yer the only one.” He tries, but all he gets is the tightening of Jabber's grip around his wrists. He grunts. It worsens. “What're doin’ here?”

He'd asked Amo's illusion the same question, his brain supplies only after he's said it. The taste of déjà vu is awfully metallic on his tongue.

“This? Felt like a detour.” Jabber's tone is so playful, his hand moving from Zanka's mouth to press a finger to his bottom lip. “The boss wanted me to check on those boots your little sphereite stole from his trash beast; Make sure you still have ‘em.”

He leans up, just enough to whisper his words directly into Zanka's ear. “Don’t worry,” he purrs, "I didn't wake her up.”

A memory of Amo flashes through his mind. Her quivering eyes stare at him from the ground, her face shadowed by the length of his staff.

He barely registers the heel of his foot meeting Jabber's clothed balls.

Jabber's hands vanish. Zanka turns around just in time to muffle the filth that spills from his mouth as he hits the ground, using the momentum to push Jabber's back flat to the floor. Zanka settles himself over his waist, taking a note from Jabber's book and using one hand to restrain his arms above his head, effectively pinning him to the floor.

“What did you do?”

Jabber's face flushes, pupils dilated when they roll back down from his head to meet Zanka's, gaze absolutely hypnotic. Zanka almost misses the wet tongue dragging along his palm.

He pulls away in surprise, pulling another exhilarated laugh from the man beneath him even when he wipes it down his raider’s jacket. “You always treat me so well,” Jabber’s voice grates, octaves deeper than how he'd sounded before the attack. “You’re so good to me, Zanka.”

“Tell me.” Zanka says back, ignoring the knot in his stomach that winds tighter every time Jabber says his name like that. Like he'd spoken back during their first fight in that basement. Like it was worth something.

Jabber grins. “She's fine,” he drawls, like he'd much rather get back to whatever freakish agenda he has planned for the night. “Just looked in through her window. The boss says she can have ‘em ‘til the timing’s right.”

The adrenaline wanes. Zanka breathes a sigh of relief, Amo's memory replaced by the image of her sleeping soundly. “Leave her alone,” he says anyway.

“I did,” Jabber replies. “I had better things to do than watch a weakling sleep.”

He must notice Zanka's guard has lowered because before he can react, he's caught in the sensation of being roughly flipped and pressed between a heated body and frozen floor. It hurts, a bark leaving his lips when the back of his head smacks against a seam. 

Jabber whines, long and low, and reaches down to caress the side of Zanka's face. It comes back bloody. “Keep this between us, ‘kay?” he teases, but Zanka barely hears, lightheaded from the hit and distracted by the sight of a long, pink tongue snaking out to lap it up like a starving man. 

Jabber’s words melt into a moan as it hits his taste buds, “Wouldn't want the boss finding out, but I can't help myself…”

He pushes it into his mouth, and Zanka almost keens. Jabber drools. “I had to see you.”

This is insane.

The last few minutes are a blur, yet crystal clear, and he swears Jabber must just be here to fuck with him. They're only meant to cross paths on the battlefield, the perfect environment for them to express their true emotions and just simply be, not Zanka's bedroom.

What if someone had heard the commotion and come running? They could be on their way right now. Riyo or Enjin or Rudo could walk in and see his blood in Jabber's mouth, his wrists in Jabber's grasp, his life in Jabber's hands. 

The scenario sends a flash of something through him, bitter and nasty and almost as unexpected as the man in question. His teeth grind.

“Do ya ever shut up?” He hisses. “Quit bangin’ me around, you'll get the whole cleaner team on yer stupid ass!”

A flicker of something disrupts Jabber's intense gaze. Zanka knows the words are daft before they even leave his mouth.

He should want the others to find them. He's utterly defenceless, pinned beneath one of their most deadly enemies who could end him with the flick of a finger. The line of thought should scare him, not bring a flush to his cheeks.

The admittance speaks volumes. Jabber is too smart to let it go unheard.

“How kind,” Jabber drawls, eyelids drooping. “But watch it. You’ll make me think you want me all to yourself.”

His hair hangs around them like a curtain. Zanka's legs are wrapped around Jabber's waist, Jabber's hands keeping his arms held in place. He can feel Jabber's chest press against his own every time they breathe. He can hear every ragged gasp, smell the sweat on their skin from the scuffle, imagine the taste of iron on Jabber's lips.

From an outsider's point of view, they might look like lovers. 

Zanka punches him in the face.

A part of him revels in the sickening crack that echoes throughout the room. It isn't loud enough to disturb any members nearby, but enough to guess that he just broke Jabber's nose. Again, he covers Jabber's mouth before his agonised wail can escape, using his own fist as a gag to shut him up.

With Jabber temporarily disabled, Zanka takes the opportunity to use his thighs and lift Jabber's hips and knees off of the ground. The grip on his hands has disappeared, allowing him to wrap his arms around Jabber's mid section, holding him in a full body hug when he rolls over and flips their positions.

He makes sure to get ahold on the back of Jabber's head before it bangs back like his had, controlling his entire body’s movements to make the action as quiet as possible now that he's capable of thinking straight, all too aware of the consequences of being caught.

“Yeah, I do.” He eventually replies, panting with the effort. “Ain't letting nobody beat the shit outta you but me.”

Jabber can't speak, mouth stuffed full of bloodied fist, but the feeling of a tongue running along his knuckles tells Zanka that the gesture is sorely appreciated. Zanka grins.

He thinks back to Jabber's words from inside the trash beast. Show me the brutality hidden inside you, he'd rasped like a beggar at Zanka's feet, You don't have to hide it anymore.

Back then, he'd ran out of tricks. All he'd had against Jabber were his weapon and his determination, and they hadn't lasted him beyond five minutes before Mankira struck.

This isn't a battlefield. They have nothing to wield but their fists and their feelings, and Zanka has managed to take the upper hand. The realisation is exhilarating. 

Jabber looks at him like he hung the moon and stars, an expression that Zanka thinks would be reserved for gazing at a lover were it in the eyes of anyone else. Being a masochist and all, Zanka wonders if maybe this is Jabber's idea of romance. 

He feels a hum against his skin. He pulls his hand from Jabber's mouth, giving the man a moment to cough while he wipes it clean on his thigh.

“...We match.” Jabber forces through a mouthful of their mixed blood, a shaky hand lifting to point at Zanka's head wound. 

It's still dripping, having marked a trail connecting both their shirts to the wood beneath them. There's a particularly nasty splotch almost hidden by Zanka's knee, just where he'd landed the hit against Jabber.

“That's yer concern?” He asks, bewildered by Jabber's priorities. His face is a mess, the injury site already noticeably swelled and making its way up to his eyes, blood smeared down to his chin and dripping into his collarbone. It makes Zanka inexplicably flustered. 

“Well,” he says foolishly, “looks better on you than me.”

Not that Jabber looks good, or anything. It's just nice seeing him beat up for once.

Jabber, of course, doesn't take it this way.

“Like what ya see?” The corner of his mouth ticks up, canines glinting in the shallow moonlight. His eyebrow quirks, the look in his eyes as sleazy as ever.

It's obviously bait. Zanka can smell it from a mile away, his nose scrunching at the implication. “In yer dreams.” he sneers.

“But you just made all my dreams come true.” Jabber sighs dreamily, like a teenage girl in a romance novel. “Wish you’d punch me again, but that kick was pretty great too.” Jabber's eyes droop, the splatter across his face blending with the blush rising over his cheeks. 

“Sorry.” he feigns sympathy, “Maybe next time, when we ain't in the middle of the cleaner's territory.” 

Jabber smirk sharpens. “Oh,” he says prettily, “I get a next time?”

Smartass. The genius types usually are, but Jabber always knows just what to say to get underneath Zanka's skin. It's almost enticing. “Well, since you can't leave me alone.” He shrugs.

“Aw, but why wait?” Jabber tries to frown, but he can't quite smother his amusement enough to make it effective. “Could gimme a beat down right now— S’not like you ain't started already.”

The words drip like honey from his tongue, so sweet and inviting Zanka feels inclined to take him up on the offer. Every word Jabber speaks is laced with such longing it borders on sensuality, making his stomach turn every time. 

He'd first experienced the sensation back when Amo’s powers had triggered earlier, thinking it to be fear and nothing else, but their current predicament has him unwillingly second guessing. 

He needs to focus. “Don't want you finishin’ before I do and waking up the whole damn house.”

“Plenty of ways to shut me up. You've already tried two.”

That canine tooth peaks just over the edge of Jabber's mouth, sinking into his plush lip absentmindedly as his eyes wander down Zanka's face, concentration evidently drifting elsewhere. His eyes glaze over.

“If only they were permanent.” It takes all of Zanka's focus not to stutter over his own words, turning his nerves to hatred as he glares down.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” Jabber breathes, hot against his lips, and Zanka only now notices how closely he'd leaned down since taking charge. He watches in real time as Jabber's pupils blow, rolling slightly up into the back of his head. “Gettin’ me close.”

There's no love in this room tonight, he tells himself, not in the traditional sense. Hunger rolls off of Jabber in waves, strong enough the scent fills Zanka's nose and drowns out the usual blood, steel and poison that lingers in the raider's wake.

Rudo had rewritten Amo's memory of love, and with it her interpretation of its scent. Zanka had struggled with the concept when she'd first introduced it, but now, he thinks he can finally understand. The smell of Jabber isn't sickly sweet or perfumed. If he held a real flower, it would probably wilt in his putrid aroma.

It should be disgusting. He'd thought so today, only hours earlier. But right here, right now, he can't get enough.

“Shut the fuck up.” He growls, teeth bared, hands sliding from Jabber's arms to his neck. His grip wavers.

Maybe all that nonsense he's spouted during the trash storm held some weight. When he's with Jabber, he's free.

What he'd said moments ago does too. There's plenty of better ways to shut him up.

Hauling Jabber up with trembling hands, Zanka smashes their lips together.

It's a little too unsure, rough and uncoordinated, and Zanka cringes as he feels Jabber's bottom lip burst against his own. The wetness coating his teeth isn't saliva anymore, but he hardly notices. Jabber just moans into the pain.

Despite the heightened emotions running between them, their first kiss is surprisingly chaste. Zanka's fingers focus more on supporting Jabber's head than choking him, curling into the base of the dreads at the back of his skull while Jabber just lies there motionless. His lips are warm and wet, too much so, and the taste of iron slips between Zanka's own when he tries to adjust the angle. It's eerily similar to the scent Amo’s boots had conjured, only now, the stirring in his stomach isn't fear.

After what feels like hours but was probably less than five seconds, Jabber comes back to himself. Zanka shivers when he feels two wide, thick hands settle on his waist, the cold metal of his rings just brushing against the sliver of skin peaking out from the hem of his night shirt, mouth opening to gasp automatically.

Jabber huffs amusedly, hot breath mingling with Zanka's for a moment before using his new leverage to pull the other back in. Now, Jabber wastes no time, licking along the seam of Zanka's closed, bloodied lips and grinning like a fool when Zanka lets him in.

It's overwhelming. He's never kissed anyone before, not even a peck on the cheek, so he isn't exactly sure how to deal with his rival's tongue down his throat. Jabber kisses like he fights, unhinged and manic, barely giving Zanka a moment to reciprocate. 

Jabber wants to devour him. Zanka kind of wants to let it happen.

They're breathing hard, Jabber even more so, a sad wheeze sounding from his shattered nostrils every few seconds. It must be agonizing, if the lump brushing against Zanka's abdomen is anything to go by.

“Disgustin’” He lies against Jabber's lips when they pull back, “Yer disgustin’”

He feels Jabber's skin vibrate beneath him as a heady groan crawls out from his throat. “You love it.”

He does. Zanka glares. “I hate you.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Jabber says anyway. His left hand slides up Zanka's body, tracing a light, winding path. Against the cool of the night air, it's incredibly soothing. It ends up in his hair, twirling a few black strands around similarly coloured nails. “It’s me, Zanka, my friend, we're free.”

The gentle hold turns greedy, possessive in the way Jabber's fingers span the entirety of Zanka's scalp when he pulls him back down into the fray. “Show me how much you hate me.”

Zanka's burning up. He has a better idea of what to do this time, beating Jabber to the punch and melting their mouths together just before the man can complete his sentence, but the added heat just makes him dizzy. He's sweltering from head to toe, pressing his bare knees against the floor in a poor attempt to sap the last of the cold from its ridges.

They're so sloppy with it, drool and sweat and bodily fluids mixing together in a concoction so vile it would make any normal person snap back to reality and stop kissing the enemy raider pinned beneath them. Unfortunately, Jabber's sick in the head, and Zanka thinks it might be catching on if he's enjoying this half as much as Jabber is.

He's writhing against him, nails digging into Zanka's skin so hard he hopes they leave marks everyone he meets can see tomorrow. His hips jump every now and again, not making contact with anything but air. Zanka swallows down every pathetic mewl, every breath stutter, every gasp.

It's such a difference compared to their other fights, when Zanka had been the one squirming on the ground after getting beaten black and blue. Sitting on top of Jabber, being in control like this, he could get addicted to this change in their dynamic. It's a little easier to understand why Jabber gets so excited during their fights, if this rush flows through his veins too.

He feels a harsh thrumming against the tips of his fingers, and belatedly realises he's still holding Jabber's neck. His grip is loose, only really hanging on by the sticky sweat they've worked up that's starting to get uncomfortable. He swipes his thumb just beneath Jabber's ear, gearing up to move to either his cheeks or locs, but a sudden jitter stops him in his tracks.

He does it again, the other side this time. Jabber shudders again, his ministrations against Zanka pausing momentarily as a new noise vibrates between them.

Zanka pulls back. “So, even you have weak spots?” The cheshire grin spreading over his face makes it obvious that Zanka does not intend to be kind about it, preening with pride at having found something only he can use against Jabber. 

Jabber's eyes pry themselves open, words slurring in his kiss drunk mouth. “Weak spot?” He repeats, looking just as confused as Zanka had felt when he'd first seen his silhouette through Amo’s haze.

Zanka pulls his hands away from Jabber for a moment. The man beneath him frowns, seemingly unaware of what's quickly diverting Zanka's attention.

Lifting only his right pointer finger, Zanka places the edge of his nail just behind Jabber's ear and traces a barely there line all the way down to the hem of his clothes. Immediately, Jabber yowls, eyelids fluttering and hand reaching to grab Zanka's wrist.

“Fuck,” he pants, tongue lolling out the corner of his wide mouth like a dog. His molars shine in the dim light, the blood now clean and swallowed or staining Zanka's own. “Fuck, do that again.”

Zanka obeys, but not without a shit eating smirk. This time, he uses both hands, settling himself back on Jabber's thighs to hold his weight while Jabber writhes on the floor in newfound pleasure. It's electrifying watching him, and gives Zanka a whole list of ideas. 

Jabber's eyes widen when Zanka takes hold of his chin, roughly turning his head to the right, allowing the intoxicating slope of his neck to stand out against the deep plum of his hoodie. It's beautiful, unmarred aside from the choker seated at the base. He hooks a finger through it.

“Take it off.”

For once, Jabber is quick to do as he's told.

The choker goes flying, landing just next to the leg of Zanka's bed, clattering loud enough to be heard from outside. Zanka doesn't even register the fact, already hovering his aching teeth over the junction between his neck and shoulder to sink into.

He feels Jabber's muscles tense, only realising what's going down once Zanka latches on. He has to cover his own mouth to stop himself from blowing their cover, a muffled yell sounding out that encourages Zanka to bite harder, dig deep until he can memorise the taste of Jabber's flesh.

He keeps at it for a good while, moving to a clean spot every minute or so until Jabber's throat is positively bruised beyond repair. He interchanges it with a long lick or drag of another finger just to keep him on his toes, reviling in the hushed whimpers and whines he pulls from the other near constantly.

His dark skin glistens with Zanka's saliva, some spots a little darker where he's just broken the surface. The sight lights a possessive fire in his gut. When he returns to the raiders base, they'll all see the wounds Zanka gave him littering his neck. He'll see them in the mirror when he brushes his teeth, feel them brush against his knuckles when he washes himself. Every time he breathes, the scabs will pull. All his movements will remind him of this moment.

Zanka's heart beats heavy in his chest.

Jabber must catch the awe struck look on his face as he gazes. “Like what you see?” He asks in a low tone. “Thought you said I was disgusting.”

“...Y’are.” Zanka mutters. It doesn't hold much weight when he pushes a thumb into one of the hickeys, hypnotised by the way Jabber jumps out of his skin at the sensation.

It makes him choke on his next words. “Look at you,” Jabber says with nothing short of absolute marvel. “Teaching me new things about myself every time we meet, ain't ya?”

Jabber taught him that he really was weak— an average joe failing to keep up with the crowd. What moment of wisdom could he have possibly imposed on a genius?

Despite himself, Zanka blushes, looking away off to the side like a self conscious virgin. “S’not like I'm trying.” he mumbles.

But that only seems to endear Jabber more, the hand on the back of Zanka's head sliding down to cup his roasting cheek. “And that,” he says with emphasis, “is why you're so perfect for me.”

The part of Zanka that yearns for praise flutters hard in his chest. The more rational part of him wants to downplay it and pass it off as nothing more than a mad man's inane ramblings, but there's a quiet sincerity in Jabber's stare that refuses to let that part win. Zanka wants to kiss him again.

He almost does, letting himself get swept up into the ebb and flow of Jabber's being, until a harsh ringing slices through the tender moment.

Jabber's choker vibrates harshly against the floor once, twice, three times, before the static muffled voice of what Zanka thinks is a woman starts to speak.

“Jabber?” Her tone is calm, but betrays her underlying irritation. “You were supposed to return ten minutes ago. What's keeping you?”

Jabber's line of sight falters. His mauve eyes peel away from Zanka's face leisurely, a ringed hand following to grab at the thick leather strap. Zanka isn't sure what to do, head swimming with the hormonal buzz of his first real kiss— and more.

“Couldn't find the boots.” Jabber doesn't even try to hide how wrecked his voice sounds, serving as a reminder to Zanka that he did that. It takes all his effort to repress the shiver that threatens to rock his system.

The woman sighs. “Whatever,” she grunts, “I'm closing manhole in 5 minutes. The boss says not to come back empty handed.”

Jabber's fingers tighten where they hold him at her words, making Zanka's stomach flip. He hears the signature buzz that tells them she's hung up, leaving an air of heated hesitance in her wake.

They stare at each other. A pout grows over Jabber's lips, bitten raw by their violent clash, and whatever is wrong with him must definitely be contagious if Zanka actually finds himself thinking that it's cute.

“...Guess I gotta bounce.” He huffs, obviously displeased by the idea. Zanka can't blame him.

“Shouldn't have been here in the first place, dumbass.” He can't show his own disappointment, hiding it with a gentle flick to Jabber's forehead. It brings a giggle to his lips, at least, and Zanka counts it as the small win it is.

Jabber shrugs, “I wanted to see you. Been a while since we last fought.”

“Did this scratch the itch?” Zanka's eyebrow raises.

Jabber's eyes look towards his forehead, face scrunching in mock concentration. “Eh,” he dismisses, “scratched somethin’. I definitely feel better than before.”

The hand on Zanka's cheek makes a swipe towards his eyebrow, bringing Zanka's attention back to his head wound. The stream of blood had faded to a trickle at some point, kept just slightly open by their rough treatment of each other during the heat of the moment. Jabber's thumb comes back wet.

“Got an idea,” he hums, a smile far too trustworthy for him plastered onto his handsome face. “D’ya mind?”

You, Zanka sighs to himself, are far too charming for your own good.

He nods. “Go ahead.”

He can tell where this is going when Jabber lifts his own choker into the space between them. The bloodied thumb drags itself across the silver middle, staining Zanka's own DNA into its hardware. It's a ritual he's witnessed tens of times amongst himself and his teammates, but now, the action carries a special weight to it.

Without a word, he copies it for himself. Jabber's face is still damp from the battering Zanka gave him, that damned flutter in his stomach returning when he realises that the sight of a crooked nose will stay with Jabber for the rest of his life, and dips a ring finger into the crimson puddle pooling in his cupid's bow.

Jabber's eyes flicker as the vision is repeated on Zanka's own device, a simultaneous click resounding when the connection is established.

It's achingly intimate.

Jabber clasps his own choker back around himself, slightly obscuring a couple of the marks Zanka had gifted him. The way he takes a moment to feel them for himself doesn't go unnoticed, his touch tender enough to make Zanka yearn for it back on his waist.

Albeit unwillingly, he slides himself off of the older boy, letting Jabber stand. He doesn't expect a hand to be offered to help himself up, but he takes it with a smile nonetheless, letting Jabber guide them the six steps to his bedroom door.

“Call me,” Jabber whispers into the night, the clinking of rings against his doorknob triggering a sinking feeling deep in Zanka's chest. “I want a real fight next time. No raiders, no cleaners, no trash beasts. Just you and me.”

Zanka's a fighter. He's never known what it feels like to stand defenceless as you send a loved one off to the far out battlefields, but he figures this is pretty close. Seeing Jabber off from his room, speaking soft nothings between them like this, it's so painfully domestic. He doesn't know what to make of it.

Jabber pulls the handle. An influx of cool air rushes past Jabber, pushing his luscious scent into Zanka's lungs just like this afternoon. 

He smells mostly the same. Those three particular notes of blood, iron and poison hang thick in the air around them, but now there's a certain twang to it that Zanka feels lodge in the back of his throat. He can't conjure the words to describe it. It's the second time today his keen senses fail him.

“Yeah,” he nods weakly, “I will.”

They stand in silence for a moment, unsure how to continue such an unexpectedly sweet departure, until Zanka adds on “Don't go givin’ out to anyone who ain't me ‘til then.”

It brings a smile to Jabber's face. “As if. There's nobody else worth my time.”

“Good.” Zanka nods. “and no more breaking into our base just cause you fancy getting clattered.”

“Zankaaa,” Jabber whines, pushing a teasing hand against his shoulder that makes him whisper a chuckle, “I told ya I had a job ta do!”

“Excuses, excuses.” He tuts. Jabber rolls his eyes. “Ya only got a few minutes until that portal closes. Get—”

He can't finish, Jabber's palms on his cheeks and lips on his lips. It's just as chaste as their first, with only a minor hint of urgency behind it on Jabber's end. Zanka almost feels like he's kicking a lost puppy back out into the street, not sending a dangerous criminal to rejoin his terrorist gang on time.

It hits him as Jabber's blood leaks onto his lips that this time, this isn't something he'll be able to deny himself come morning. The smears across his floor will remain once Jabber leaves, the bruises on his skin won't fade with the shadows in the sun's light. This is the turning point of everything he's come to understand about his relationship with Jabber.

The man envelops him completely, overwhelming his every sense quicker than any of his toxins could hope to achieve. His affections are poison on his tongue.

It's alright. Now, he’ll no longer spend his sleepless nights lying alone in bed replaying their fights in that basement or trash beast’s belly on loop, wondering if Jabber knew how sweetly he said his name. All he’ll have to do is give him a call.

Amo’s vision had been right all along.

Zanka will be loath to ever admit it.