Archive of Our Own

Zanka’s not a very secretive guy. 

He’s not very open, either, but everyone that matters to him knows about his pitiful past with The Hell Guards and his resulting inferiority complex, and that’s pretty much all there is to him. He doesn’t have any huge secrets like Enjin or Riyo or most of the Cleaners, really. He’s honest about his reasoning for being here. The moment he met Corvus, in fact, he bluntly declared his goal to get stronger and told the man that he no longer had anywhere else to go, that he would work for room and board and ask for nothing but a space in the training room and on the team. 

The only thing he’s ever actively hidden is, well— 

Not important.

Perhaps because Riyo has so many secrets herself, she thinks she can spot them in others, even when they’re not there. She’s projecting, Zanka tells himself when she prods him in the dining hall over breakfast. 

“Hey, you’re totally dating someone, right?” 

It’s way too early for this, and coming from Zanka, the guy that gets up at five every morning to train for an hour before anyone else is even awake, that’s saying something. 

He delicately sets his cup of tea down with a too loud clack and asks, as politely as he can manage at six thirty, still sticky with sweat from his training session and starving, “What.” 

Rudo, who is just ever so slightly worse at hiding his emotions than Zanka, lifts his head from where he’d been dozing off in his toast and shouts, “WHAT!?” 

“Jeez, Rudo, be quiet!” Riyo scolds, still way too loud in the relative calm of the room. Not a single person bats an eye or turns to look, and Zanka fears that says more about the three of them than the others. 

“No, no, I ‘gree with ‘em. That kinda question deserves a response like that.” Please, scream even louder and distract Riyo from this conversation, Zanka thinks. “What the hell are ya talkin’ ‘bout?” 

Riyo picks a bread crumb out of Rudo’s hair and ignores the boy’s flustered squeaking to reply, “Oh, you know.” 

Which really isn’t much of a reply at all. 

“No? I don’t? At all?” His deep voice pitches up with every word and he thinks he probably sounds stupid. And suspicious, possibly. 

“That a question?” 

Zanka groans and takes an angry bite of his toast. He swallows before he continues because he has some semblance of manners, unlike the woman he is unfortunately conversing with. “Sure. Please, enlighten me. How could ya possibly come up with the idea that I’m ‘totally datin’ someone’?” 

She tilts her head like a curious dog and really looks at him for a moment. It’s a little scary, like she’s seeing straight into his dirty, lying-out-of-his-ass soul. 

“Don’t worry about it!” She cheerily exclaims, and then goes right back to eating her breakfast and picking on Rudo. Zanka gets the incredible urge to kill her. Or maybe himself. 

He settles for sliding his tray out of the way and banging his head on the table. Again, no one tries to investigate. 

———————————

Later that day, when Jabber excitedly informs him he’s being more aggressive than usual, he remembers that conversation with Riyo and gets distracted with the mortification of it for half a second. Half a second is all his opponent ever needs, though, so he immediately loses the fight and has a disappointed Jabber to deal with for the rest of the night. 

Lying on a ratty old hotel mattress and idly running a hand over the scars on a sleeping Jabber’s bare back, he thinks he made up for it. Probably. 

——————————————————————

A few weeks later, during a short break in a rigorous training session, Rudo seems to suddenly remember that strange discussion he was only half paying attention to and, of course, has to bring it up. Maybe Zanka knocked his head so hard it jolted the conversation to the forefront of his mind. 

“Hey, why did Riyo say you were dating someone? It’s not like there’s time for you to do all that relationship stuff with work and all, so it’d have to be another Cleaner, right? So wouldn’t we know if you were?” 

She does know somehow, damnit! Zanka holds his tongue and lets the brat continue rattling, not eager to answer if he doesn’t have to. 

Rudo is clearly getting more nervous the longer he talks about relationships, which has him saying more, which makes him even more nervous. It’s a vicious cycle. It’d be hilarious if anyone else was the unfortunate subject. 

“Why’d she even think that in the first place? You don’t act like you’re in love at all! Aren’t you supposed to be all… gross and smushy when you’re in love? Like, running around telling everyone about your ‘pookie bear’? You’re just gross, period, nothing smushy about you. Except maybe the shit on your face.” 

“Hey! What the hell’d ya just say!?” 

That’s how Zanka gets out of answering; starting another fight— friendly sparring session. Though, he’d argue Rudo started it by bringing up the shit incident. 

———————————-

“Dear?” 

Zanka furrows his eyebrows in confusion and glances at Jabber out of the corner of his eye. He slurs out a,“Wha?” too exhausted from the fight to realize that maybe his first response should’ve been ‘why the hell did you call me that?’ and not, say, something that made it seem like he was answering to the endearment.  

The Raider lying on the ground next to him smiles as he wipes away blood from under his nose. “Just trying out pet names. You like that one, babe?” 

“No.” 

“That’s a shame, darling.” Jabber laments. He doesn’t sound all that put out, though. 

“Stop it.” 

“But why, honey bun?” 

Lifting himself onto his elbows and groaning exasperatedly — and painfully, when the movement tugs on the slash he got from being shoved into a pile of scrap metal — Zanka replies, “Shuddup, man.” 

As soon as he’s on his feet and turning to leave, Jabber wraps a hand around his ankle, loose enough to not be a threat and persistent enough to keep Zanka in place, and decides to speak up again. 

“Hmmm… what about… pookie bear?”

He feels a terrible sense of dread sink into his stomach at the familiar nickname. 

“I will kill you.” Zanka shakes his ankle free and kicks the man in the ribs just to emphasize his point.

Jabber yelps and clutches at his side, grins wide and ecstatic as he catches his breath, giggles manically and freely and Zanka can’t help but be a little charmed by it all, by the ridiculous extent of this man’s masochism. 

“Guess I’ll have to keep using it, huh?” Zanka's face morphs back into a scowl from the smile he had just barely let slip onto his lips. Jabber notices. 

“Oh, my poor pookie bear! He knows he did this to himself, right? I can’t be blamed for teasing him when he looks like he’ll rip my throat out if I continue!” 

Zanka spends the next five minutes doing exactly that. Blaming him, that is. He doesn’t have enough time to get to the other part today. 

When he rejoins the small group sent to run errands in town and they panickedly demand to know what happened, Zanka has no qualms with telling them a… minorly edited version. Jabber lured him far enough away that Zanka wouldn't be sent backup, they fought each other into a stalemate , and — the truth ends here, regrettably — Jabber retreated before Zanka could restrain him. 

As he’s stripped of his shirt and given first aid by a Supporter he doesn’t remember the name of, Tomme looks at him strangely, and he knows she doesn’t believe him. 

——————————————————————

“Heeeeey~ You free tonight?” 

Zanka startles at the sudden noise coming from his choker, registers who it is, and quickly sinks into the nearest dark corner to hide. He then raises his choker to his lips and angrily whispers into it, “What’re ya doin’!? I’m in public, asshole! Yer lucky no one’s here! D’ya have any idea—”

Jabber’s whinny voice interrupts him, “C’mon! It’s been so long since you’ve played with me, how was I supposed to wait until night to call?” 

“It’s been two weeks!” 

“Exactly! That’s forever! So, you free? Nine thirty? The usual spot? Great! See you there, pookie bear! Hehe, that rhymed!” 

Zanka growls both at the horrid pet-name and Jabber’s presumption that he’ll have the time to fight him tonight. He opens his mouth to tell the man that he has two jobs today and no, he will not “see him there,” when he is abruptly hung up on. The last thing he hears is Jabber cackling at his own joke. He contemplates bashing his head into the wall while he considers his schedule. 

Heaving a sigh and emerging from his dark corner, he starts off towards his room. He’s so preoccupied that he almost walks straight into Remlin. The kid is crouching on the floor and painting a casual masterpiece on the wall, like they always are when they come to HQ. Zanka should really know to watch out for them by now.  

“Hey, Remlin. Whatcha drawin’?” He starts the conversation only because he feels bad for the almost-disaster. 

“I’m painting, not drawing. Look.” Zanka would feel indignant about the attitude they gave him if this were any other person, but that’s just kind of how Remlin is. They don’t mean any harm — probably — and when Zanka looks as ordered, he feels they might have earned the right to be a little annoying about their talent.

Regardless of if it’s a drawing or painting, it’s a beautiful piece, a landscape of Penta in gorgeous reds and blues, Amo’s humongous tower right in the middle, so realistic you could convince Zanka it was a photograph if he wasn’t watching Remlin add the finishing touches in real time. 

He breathes out a, “Wow,” instead of an actual, articulate compliment, and feels a little stupid for it. 

“Not my best work, but Amo took me out there recently and I wanted to remember it, so.” 

Zanka vaguely wonders why Cleaners are being sent on field trips instead of jobs, but is interrupted by Remlin rising from their crouch and loudly slapping imaginary dirt off their knees. They start off to a new, clean patch of wall not far away and beckon Zanka over with a mildly rude wave of their hand when he doesn't immediately follow. 

When he makes it there and starts to ask what they want him for, Remlin just points at a nearby bench and tells him to sit. Tells, not asks, and Zanka once again wonders at the audacity of this kid. He does as he’s told, though, because he still feels bad about almost running them over and ruining their painting. And because he’s a little curious, maybe. 

Remlin stares intensely at him for a little too long, like he’s a particularly interesting scientific specimen, and he tries not to curl into himself in embarrassment. They turn back to the wall eventually, get a firm grip on their vital instrument, and start drawing — painting, whatever — a… blue heart? 

Zanka watches in horror as the image starts to take shape, feeling a little sick all of a sudden. It’s an anatomically correct heart save for the color, sure, but that doesn’t do much to detract from the romantic implications. 

If this is a confession and he has to reject this kid, he might crawl into another well and actually let himself rot this time. 

“What— uh—” He tries to stop them, but his mouth is as bone dry as that damn well was. He’s never liked letting anyone down, even when he didn’t care about them as people. It was always an annoying chore getting in the way of his studying, and now that it’s someone he cares about, it’s just sad. 

“Shhhh!” Remlin doesn’t even turn back to look at him, just keeps painting, changing the blue out for a familiar purple color with just a thought. Their instrument really is amazing, but— 

Why is that purple so familiar? 

As Remlin effortlessly outlines the edges and does the smaller detailing, Zanka realizes it’s the exact same hue as the Raiders’ signature color. 

Jabber’s signature color. And now that he looks closer, he notices the blue of the heart is the same as the blue of his earrings. 

It could be a coincidence, if one wanted to try really, really hard to convince themselves. 

Had Remlin heard their conversation? He thought he was far enough away from anyone, but he hadn’t known Remlin was there, and maybe he wasn’t quiet enough. Maybe they just have really good hearing. Maybe, hopefully, it really is a coincidence. A terrible, horrible, no good, gut churning coincidence.

He doesn’t care to find out, abruptly stands and speed walks down the hall as Remlin drives a silver blade — a claw, it looks exactly like a claw — through the middle of the heart. They let him go without protest, which only makes him feel more dread about the whole thing because it’s not right, a Remlin that doesn’t argue like hell to get what they want, a Remlin that feels remorse for dragging someone’s feelings out of them kicking and screaming and making beautiful art out of their misery. 

The kid must actually feel bad because they find him right before he’s about to leave for his first job of the day to cast one of their miracle life-saving spells on him. When Zanka asks if Corvus ordered it they tell him he did, but Zanka hears their voice crack and feels their steady hand wobble slightly on his back and knows they’re lying. Zanka cracks a small smile despite himself. 

He makes a detour on his way out to see the finished piece. Just in case he’s asked about it, he tells himself, he should know what it looks like, how obviously it’s based on him. 

Zanka leaves HQ in a better mood than he was in before the whole ordeal, for some reason. As he hops into the back seat of the truck, he finds himself thinking he should get today’s jobs done quickly, so he has time to play with Jabber tonight. 

——————————————————————

When he first started this… whatever it is, he hadn’t considered his colleagues’ abilities. Specifically: Semiu’s glasses. 

Which he thinks is fair, given the circumstances. How was he supposed to carefully evaluate the logistics of hiding this from a woman that can see everything when he finally had Jabber beaten and pinned against a wall and panting and taunting him to just do something already about the unbearable tension between them? Anyone in his situation would’ve disregarded the nagging worries and the what ifs and sunk their teeth into the Raider’s delicious nape just as he did. 

When he got back that night the woman was thankfully already off-duty and the night shift receptionist didn’t spare him a second glance, even with how disheveled and beaten up he was. Really, they should fire that receptionist. She’s not very good at her job. 

Usually, Zanka comes back late and just misses Semiu. Truly unfortunate.

Today is not one of those days. He had stayed in the nearest town the night before, close enough to walk and close enough to excuse his absence as just a short break away from HQ to blow off steam — because he’s an adult now and he’s allowed to go irresponsibly pick up women at bars the same way Enjin is, damnit! — and trudges back through the doors at five sharp, the same time he’d get up any other day. 

He will not let this thing with Jabber take away from his training time, and even though he’s exhausted and really just wants to flop onto his bed and be dead to the world for a few days, he starts off towards the training room with a small, barely conscious nod of greeting to the woman behind the desk. 

He doesn’t even register the fact that her shift officially begins at seven and she makes it a point to never start work early until he hears, “—ka. Zanka. Come here for a sec.” 

The pleasant sleepy haze is gone in an instant, replaced with the cold sinking anxiety of a man that’s been caught red-handed. 

Okay, calm down. Zanka doesn’t know exactly how her powers work, but how likely is it she can see he just got home from a good ol’ night of rolling in the sheets with the enemy? Not very, he tells himself as he lightly pads over to the desk with perfect posture, suddenly very awake and on his best behavior. It definitely makes him look more suspicious, but he’s too nervous to care. 

“Yeah? Whatcha want?” He injects as much casualness into his words as possible, and it ends up coming out ruder than intended as a result. 

She doesn’t seem to think anything of it, is used to his shitty personality by now, certainly, and just stares at him in lieu of an answer, hands framing her glasses the way she does when she’s really looking at you. 

After the most uncomfortable minute of Zanka’s life, Semiu drops her hands and relaxes back into her seat, her instrument’s power dissipating in favor of returning to a regular pair of glasses, and he relaxes a bit when she doesn’t immediately call Corvus to have him kicked out of the Cleaners. 

The silence is disconcerting but doesn’t last long, just long enough to make him sweat a bit, and Zanka bets she does it on purpose. 

“Aw, our little Zanka’s all grown up, I see.” 

Zanka blinks in confusion. “What?” 

Her lips purse like she’s holding back a devious smirk. “You should invest in some concealer.” She gestures to his neck with a perfectly manicured hand as she continues, giving up her poor attempt to appear stoic and smiling knowingly. “I know a good place, if you want me to show you sometime. Decent products, great prices. Would save you a lot of teasing.” 

His eyes widen as he slaps a hand to his neck and probes at it with his fingertips, presses into a bruise he hadn’t remembered was there and feels it ache. 

The marks Jabber leaves him aren’t usually a problem. His uniform covers everything except his fingers — he mentally thanks August for the modest design choices near-daily — except now he’s wearing casual clothes that just so happen to show off his neck because he really did go into town with no intention to fight. And they didn’t, but he really should have planned better because he still looks like he got mauled and his superior, a woman he greatly respects and wants to prove himself to, knows the exact reason, is teasing him about it, and even though she says it’s just to save him from the others’ teasing later, it still makes him yearn for death. 

He recalls the way he got this specific mark, the way he cupped the back of Jabber’s head and pulled him in to his neck, the way he encouraged the man to sink his teeth deeper with a breathy moan. 

Zanka turns and starts off down the hall, hand still hiding his marred neck from Semiu’s prying eyes, managing to keep his pace steady and measured only because of how dazed he feels. 

He trains and works and keeps his mind busy all day and when he finally falls into bed that night, Semiu’s mocking laughter and burning, all-seeing gaze follow him into his nightmares, just as they had followed him down the hallway. 

——————————————————————

Fu has been… odd, lately. Well, odder than usual. Zanka somehow gets the impression that the boy’s never been entirely normal, but neither have any of the Cleaners, so he doesn’t mind, per say, his anxiousness or his need to be bossed around. In fact, he appreciates the guy’s straightforwardness, how incredibly easy he is to control. 

That makes Zanka sound really bad. But the point is that Fu is honest to a fault about his actions and his motives, and he’ll do anything you tell him. (Which still sounds bad, but how is he supposed to make something like this sound good?) He never does anything out of line for fear of being kicked out of the Cleaners and losing his “host,” and almost all of his actions are driven by an order he was given. 

Which is why Zanka’s terribly confused. 

Has someone ordered Fu to spy on him? It’s not very discreet spying, sure, but he’s certain the boy has been paying a little too much attention to him these past few weeks. 

Zanka has caught him staring intently multiple times now from across the dining hall where Fu hides at the one table that’s nestled into a corner and shoves his food in his face so he can leave as quickly as possible, and he’s started to stay for just a little longer, recently. Not so he can savor his meal or enjoy his time with the rest of them, no, but so he can bore holes into the back of Zanka’s head with his curious gaze. 

Whereas Fu normally keeps his head down and does his best to be as unobtrusive as possible because he still doesn’t feel like a real part of the group, he’s been hanging around them more often when they’re off-duty and lounging in the common room. Zanka would assume he’s just gotten more comfortable around them if that weren’t such a ridiculous thought, if Fu did anything other than sit as far away as possible to twiddle his thumbs and stare. Stare only at Zanka with the most puzzled expression on his face, like he’s trying to decipher an ancient script no one but Hii is old enough to understand. 

It gets to the point where it feels like the only time he’s in Zanka’s presence and not staring like a creep is when Enjin’s addressing him directly and he’s too enamored to do anything but stare at him and squeak unintelligibly — which, fair — and he decides, for both their sakes, that he has to put a stop to it. 

Or at least figure out why. Zanka’s leading theory is that the boy has a crush on him. He really can’t fathom any other reason to go so far out of your comfort zone to just watch someone. It’ll be like pulling teeth to get a confession unless he orders it, and then he’ll have to let him down so gently, but it's necessary. That, or someone actually ordered Fu to spy on him. He’d prefer the crush, honesty. 

A perk of constantly being monitored; it’s incredibly easy to get the watcher alone with you. He just stays in the common room after everyone else leaves for the night, and then Fu’s awkwardly blinking at him from the corner he sits on the floor in, knees pulled up to his chest protectively and hands twisting in his pant legs aggressively enough to permanently stretch them out. 

“Fuck, it’s stressful ta even look at ya. Calm down, man, I’m not gonna bite.” He hopes the casual words will soothe Fu’s nerves. Instead, the boy curls further into himself and stutters a reply. 

“I— I’m sorry! I can leave, if you want? Yeah, I’ll just—“ He scrambles to his feet and turns for the door, mumbling apologies the whole way. 

“Wait!” 

Fu stops in his tracks and shakes a little where he stands, back turned to Zanka.

“Come ‘ere.” He instinctively orders, but he wants to leave Fu some sort of escape route in this situation, so he corrects, “Er, will ya turn around, at least? I wanna talk.” 

Fu slowly turns to face him, seems to war with himself for a moment on whether he should follow the order or the suggestion, and settles on shuffling over until he’s standing a few feet in front of where Zanka’s sitting on the couch. 

“What. Uh. What did you want to talk about?” He asks, but his eyes dart around the room and he wrings his hands together like he knows. 

“You’ve been starin’. All the time.” 

The boy’s eyes start to water and he takes a few frantic steps back. Zanka thinks he looks a little like a kicked puppy. 

“I’m so sorry, Sir! I didn’t— uh, well, I did mean to, but I didn’t think you’d notice! I’m sorry! I won’t do it anymore, I promise! Don’t— ah, please don’t tell anyone! Please don’t tell Enjin! He’ll think I'm crazy, and then he’ll never order me around! I didn’t mean any harm! I was just— uh.” 

It’s hard not to laugh. He manages to simply sigh in exasperation and say, “It’s fine. Well, I’d like it if ya stopped, but I ain’t gonna tell nobody. I just wanna know why.” 

“Oh! We— I was trying to figure out why you… smell like him.” 

His eyebrows furrow in confusion. Fu interprets his expression as anger and takes another step away. 

“Smell like who?” He cautiously asks. He almost doesn’t want to know. 

“Uh. You know. Him.” 

Zanka most likely does know, unfortunately, but he needs clarification. “Who?” 

Fu bounces on the balls of his feet and clasps his hands behind his back as he responds. “Ja— Jabber. You just— smell like you’ve been around him a lot lately. I think. Maybe.” 

His loud groan startles Fu, makes him squeak and jump a foot into the air, but he’s too busy sinking his head into his palms and wallowing to feel bad. Why couldn’t it have been a crush? 

Once Fu collects himself enough to move he’s shuffling over, awkwardly patting Zanka on the back and murmuring, “There, there,” in an attempt to make him feel better. It’s just effective enough to make Zanka raise his head to look at him. 

Fu panics a bit at the sight; his miserable gaze must feel more like a glare at the moment. “It’s not a bad smell, you know? Like blood, chemicals, and metal. It’s comforting, I think.” 

He wants to yell about how those absolutely are bad smells and demand to know how they could be in any way comforting, but he realizes, with no small degree of horror, that he kind of agrees. 

They sit in surprisingly companionable silence for a while, Fu finally sitting on the couch to continue rubbing Zanka’s back, and Zanka suddenly remembers to ask, “Hey, how the hell can ya smell people on other people? From across the room? Ya got a superhuman sense of smell ta go along with the super strength?” 

“Aha, not me, not really. It was kind of driving Hii crazy, though. He’s very nosy.” 

Zanka just hums in response, tired both from the conversation and the late hour, and rises to leave. He bids Fu and Hii goodnight and only realizes he didn’t order them not to tell anyone when he’s tucked into bed, right on the cusp of blissful unconsciousness. 

He has a flashback to how easily Fu volunteered information on the Raiders, and he gets very little sleep that night. 

It’ll… probably be fine, he tells himself. 

——————————————————————

“So, heard ya finally got laid, kid! Congrats!” 

Zanka inhales his drink. Enjin hurries over from the doorway he had just entered to slap his back and mutter, “My bad,” but it does little to console him. 

It does clear his airway enough to allow him to choke out, “What!?” in between violent coughs. He vaguely registers that this is the second time in as many days that someone has confronted him about an alleged relationship and ended up patting his back instead of getting an answer. Because he is not going to give Enjin an answer. It wasn’t even a question, really, just a blunt, entirely confident declaration of Zanka’s newly lost virginity for all the bar to hear, apropos of absolutely fucking nothing. People are staring. The bartender is staring. Other Cleaners are staring. 

Frequently, Zanka wishes he and his mentor had more alone time together. Never has he wished harder that they were alone than this very moment. 

He really misses that well right now. 

Delmon ambles over with Tamsy in toe and bellows, “Huh!? You entered a relationship and didn’t tell me!? Unforgivable! I could’ve given you advice! Unforgivable!” 

“Shut up.” Tamsy scolds out of habit without any real heat and Zanka can feel his sharp gaze studying him from where Zanka’s turned away, hunched over the counter and gasping for air. 

He manages to collect himself after about a minute of the most humiliating display of his life, glares up at Enjin with embarrassingly watery eyes as soon as he’s able, and the man actually looks a little apologetic. 

“You good, man?” 

“No.” 

“Ah. Well. Tell me about it anyway?”

He takes it back; Enjin isn’t sorry in the slightest. Zanka growls, hears Tamsy huff a small laugh at his expense. 

“No.” 

Rather than being disappointed at the hard denial, he slides into the empty stool next to Zanka with a satisfied smirk on his face, looking like the cat that got the cream, and says, “Aha! So that means something did happen!” 

Zanka sputters, “No, nothing happened! What are ya talkin’ about!?

He doesn’t want to know the answer, really. Enjin gives it anyway, “Semiu’s a very talkative drunk, y’know?” 

“Oh my god.” You couldn’t understate the dread in Zanka’s voice, the absolute despair he feels as he brings his hands up to rub at his temples. Ironically, the motion reminds him of Semiu. That bitch, he thinks, and is too tipsy and spiteful not to say it. 

“That bitch.”

Enjin hasn’t removed his hand from his back, slides it up to Zanka’s shoulder and squeezes a little too tight to be an entirely friendly gesture, jokingly warns, “Hey now, I’m obligated to tell her when people are bad-mouthing her. She’ll treat me to even more of your secrets if you keep going.” 

Tamsy adds to his misery with, “It’s true. I’ve seen it happen many a time,” then settles into the chair on Zanka’s other side, like an asshole. Delmon lowers himself onto the stool next to Tamsy and Zanka hears it creak under his weight. 

“Sooo,” Enjin drawls as Zanka weighs the merits of standing and leaving and making them deal with his bill, “details?” 

Zanka deflects the only way he can think of, because clearly the word ‘no’ means nothing to this idiot. “Yer as bad of’a gossip as Semiu.” 

“Never said I wasn’t! Who was it?” 

See, the thing is, who it is is the problem. He wouldn’t be so averse to this conversation if it were some random hookup, an acquaintance, hell, even another Cleaner, and sure, he might get some strange looks and light teasing about the whole “fucking another man” thing, but he wouldn’t lose his job, friends, or home over it. Who it is is going to get him in such deep shit that he physically cannot open his mouth, feels sick at just the thought. 

Enjin — merciful, sweet Enjin —  must notice his growing horror and decides to spare him. “Ah, yeah, figured that wouldn’t get an answer. Hmm.” The man rubs at his chin while he ponders his next line of questioning, seems to wait until Zanka cautiously brings his glass to his lips before he continues. 

“You’re using protection, right?” 

Zanka is marginally more prepared for the wildly inappropriate question this time and it’s the only reason he doesn’t choke again. He slams his drink down, feels the counter vibrate from the force of it, grits out, “Yes. I’m not stupid.”

You know, like a liar. 

Delmon, who had been so uncharacteristically quiet Zanka had forgotten he was there, believes him enthusiastically enough for all three of them. 

“Perfect, perfect! It’s very important that you do! You’re still so young, you wouldn’t want any accidents! You’ve got to make sure you’re both very committed before you decide to have kids, and—”

Tamsy — merciful, sweet Tamsy — interrupts the older man with a gentle hand on his huge forearm and a deceptively saccharine, “I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, Delmon. Why don’t we let Enjin carry the conversation? He’s had more… dalliances than either of us.”

Somehow, Zanka doubts that last statement, at least on Tamsy’s part.

“Hey, I am not a whore!” 

“I didn’t say that.” Tamsy’s sarcastic tone and overly polite smile have Enjin groaning exasperatedly and quickly moving on, not willing to argue about the topic. Probably because Tamsy’s correct, and he’s well aware. 

“Are you two dating?” A dramatic gasp, a metaphorical lightbulb going off above his head, and then, “Wait, is it just two of you? More? Oh, I knew ya had it in ya, you sly dog!” 

The attempt to lighten the mood and make him more comfortable works, just a bit. He thinks he can handle questions that are more vague than name, profession, and “Is he Jabber Wonger of the Raiders, one of our most dangerous foes?”

“No, no, and don’t call me a ‘sly dog.’” 

“Too late, that’s your new name; Sly Dog Zan-Zan.” Enjin spreads his hands out in a grand gesture in front of him, like he just came up with a cutting edge idea the likes of which neither the Ground nor the Sphere have ever seen before. It’s a little endearing, brings to mind the time not so long ago when Jabber did essentially the exact same thing; came up with a stupid nickname for Zanka and seemed incredibly proud of how much Zanka hated it, vowed to never stop calling him it. 

Zanka flags the bartender down and orders another drink, decides he is going to make Enjin pay, just for that rude reminder. 

Enjin watches him down the whole thing in a few gulps, sees the disgusted expression Zanka makes, and asks, “Damn. That bad, huh?” 

It’s unclear if he’s asking about the drink, the relationship, or the conversation. 

“Yes.” 

The man winces sympathetically. “Well, lucky you, I’m outta questions.”

Tamsy, it seems, is not.

“This won’t interfere with work, I presume?” 

Meeting his eyes for the first time tonight, Zanka holds back his own wince at the question, at the meaningful look Tamsy levels him with, and motions for the bartender to refill his glass. He knows. He definitely knows. 

He hears Enjin tell him to slow down and be careful but it’s nothing but background noise as he takes another sip to steady himself and assures the group — begs Tamsy to keep the secret, really. “Obviously not. You guys’re the ones makin’ a big deal outta it.”

He cringes at his defensive tone, the way he sounds like a frightened, cornered animal and not a good man telling the honest truth. He blames it on the alcohol. 

“Great point. Can we talk about something else now? I was told to give you The Talk, but I don’t really want to. That was close enough, right?” 

No, not at all, Zanka mentally chastises, and is beaten to the punch by Delmon, not that he was going to say anything to prolong this conversation anyway. 

“No! It was not close enough! Not at all! You didn’t even mention consent, didn’t let me talk to him about unwanted pregnancies or STDs, didn’t let him know that it’s a perfectly normal aspect of life and nothing to be ashamed of, didn’t—”

The next fifteen or so minutes are spent reluctantly listening to Delmon’s decent but incredibly basic sex advice that Zanka won’t even be able to apply half of, given that it all assumes Zanka’s seeing a woman, and the other half assumes it’s at least someone that he cares about the wellbeing of, someone that he’s seeing and not just fighting and fucking, respectively. It appears the man was not listening when Zanka said they weren’t dating, or is just too pure-hearted to believe it. After Delmon runs out of divine wisdom to impart, the conversation topic quickly changes to work, the new trash beats they’ve encountered recently, Rudo’s insanely fast progress with his instrument, and more work. It’s in times like these that Zanka wonders how much of a life any of them actually have outside of the Cleaners, if all they have to discuss over drinks is their jobs. 

Talk about work inevitably turns into talk about the Raiders, though, and that’s about when Zanka feels a wave of nausea so strong he has to run to the bathroom and hunch over the toilet in preparation. The correlation is entirely lost on his alcohol-addled mind, right up until Tamsy cracks open the stall door to check on him and Zanka unwillingly recalls that knowing gaze from earlier, remembers that he knows, he knows, he knows, he knows—

Tamsy spends the next who knows how long rubbing Zanka’s back consolingly and brushing his bangs out of his face as Zanka empties his stomach of all the alcohol he had just consumed. The man even thinks to remove Zanka’s earrings to keep the tassels out of the way and Zanka passively thinks it’d be quite nice to have Tamsy care for him like this, if he wasn’t one of the reasons for his sickness. 

Eventually he’s confident enough that he’s done puking that he wanders out of the bathroom with Tamsy’s arm hooked around his back to support him. A group of Cleaners has formed around Enjin and Delmon, though, all chatting and drinking together without a care in the world, and Zanka cocks an eyebrow at the blurry Gris-shaped-silhouette occupying his stool that has an arm resting on the Enjin-shaped-silhouette’s shoulders. 

Tamsy notices his confusion. “Ah, did we not tell you they were coming? Sorry, figured you knew.” He doesn’t sound all that sorry, honestly. 

He ends up sitting in a corner booth with Tamsy until the others are ready to leave the bar, nursing a glass of water and a killer headache and watching the Gris-silhouette and the Enjin-silhouette interact, studying them as intensely as he can when he’s this wasted, because if everyone and their mothers can question him about his relationship status, he can quietly speculate on how comfortable Enjin seems when he leans into Gris’ side and lays his head on his shoulder as the Supporter laughs with Follo. 

All things considered, it doesn’t go nearly as poorly as it could’ve, minus the whole “drinking so much he got sick” part, which was probably going to happen at some point in the night anyway, and the interrogation just accelerated it. Gris is the one who pays for Zanka’s drinks, on top of his own and Enjin’s, even though Zanka hasn’t said a word to him tonight. Enjin must have told him about the conversation, how it was his fault that Zanka felt the need to drink so much, and made Gris feel guilty enough to crack open his wallet for them. The man is way too kind, seriously. 

On the bright side, Zanka’s got new blackmail material. It was his first time drinking with both of them in the same room at the same time, and who knew all it took to get information on his mentor’s love life was getting a little bit of alcohol in him? Of course, he won’t directly do anything with it and he doesn’t really care — though he might’ve, once — but he has a bet with Riyo on who could catch them kissing first, and Zanka just won a good amount of money. 

——————————

“…what’s this?” 

Zanka extends his arm further and pushes his closed fist into Jabber’s open palms, turns his head away so he doesn’t have to see his reaction as he drops the necklace into his hands. 

“What does it look like, jackass?” He hopes his attitude helps make up for the blush he can feel rising to his cheeks. 

A few moments of silence that has Zanka tense and irritable, and then, “It’s pretty.” 

He’s so taken aback by the simple praise he whips his head back around, eyes widening at what he sees; the softest smile he’s ever seen on Jabber’s face — or maybe anyone’s ever — along with a mushy, sentimental look in his gorgeous magenta eyes. 

It scares him worse than their fights ever have, and he feels the need to defend himself, to explain why this is a perfectly platonic gift. 

“Yeah, well, found it for cheap on a mission in some far off town.” It wasn’t cheap at all, actually; he spent all the money he got from the bet with Riyo, about a month’s worth of the girl’s pay. He didn’t feel bad about taking it, but if anyone found out what he used it for, he might have to throw his and Jabber’s next fight and accept a painful death-by-poison. 

“And you bought it for me.” Jabber states, smile quirking up into a smug, satisfied smirk. 

Zanka swallows harshly and resolutely keeps his gaze focused on the little vial attached to the silver chain dangling from Jabber’s hand. “Shuddup, man. Was jus’ curious about what was in there. Shopkeeper didn’ know, figured you would.” 

Jabber raises his hand above his head, studies the vial of clear liquid that falls to eye level, and his smirk turns mischievous. “Wanna find out?” 

No, he really doesn’t. He has no interest in what’s actually in the vial, he just grasped at the first convenient excuse he could think of because he didn’t come up with an explanation beforehand. 

Jabber’s already uncorking the vial, though, and Zanka knows there’s nothing he can say to stop the idiot at this point. The Raider pulls a syringe from god knows where and injects an unwise amount into himself. There’s still some left and Jabber offers it to him, and Zanka is mildly surprised when he says no and Jabber actually listens, just shrugs and mutters, “Your loss, man,” like he really believes it. 

Dragging a very pliant and clearly unwell man into a hotel room probably isn’t great optically, but he’s not left with much of a choice and no one stops him, so. Whatever. 

Watching Jabber shiver and moan and whine all night to make sure he doesn’t croak before Zanka can kill him is a good distraction from that whole discomfiting interaction, right up until he remembers the reason he’s stuck caring for him in the first place and has to drag his gaze from the man’s scrunched face down to his heaving chest to gather himself again. 

At some point Jabber rolls over to grasp at Zanka’s leg and his hoodie slides down his shoulder, exposes his collar just enough to get a glimpse of the silver chain that’s apparently been tucked under his clothing. Zanka didn’t notice him put it on, had figured he tossed it to the ground once he’d gotten his prize out of it, and he’d had the vague idea to bring it back to Rudo and see what the boy could turn the piece of trash into. 

He thinks the necklace looks better against Jabber’s skin than it would have as a weapon, anyway. 

——————————————————————

Amo has mostly calmed down by the time Zanka finds her sulking in the biggest, softest chair in the common room. She raises her head when she hears him plop down on the adjacent couch and he notices the dried tear tracks glimmering on her cheeks in the warm side-table lamplight, feels his heart squeeze a little in sympathy at the pathetic sight. 

Everything in him is screaming to say something, to ask if she’s alright like the polite gentleman he was raised to be, but he knows it would be a stupid question that would only garner her wrath. No, obviously she’s not alright, and he knows there’s nothing he can do about it, so he sits with her in silence until she’s ready to start the conversation. 

“Amo thinks… Zanka smells familiar.” Her voice cracks, she clears her throat and sniffles. “Kind of like love, maybe. Not for Amo, though. A little, I guess, but it’s a different kind. I’m glad.” 

Zanka’s eyes widen in surprise and he suddenly, desperately wishes to leave.

Amo is… difficult to speak to. She doesn’t seem to like him very much, probably due to his infatuation with Enjin, her worst enemy, so he tends to avoid her whenever possible. He’s never been worried about her attacking him, not since she officially joined the Cleaners, and she’s not openly hostile towards him. They’ve just come to some sort of unspoken mutual agreement that Zanka won’t start a conversation unless necessary and she won’t bite his head off for his “crush” on Enjin. 

That’s what she had teasingly called it, once, and Zanka was too mortified to fight her on it. He had just risen from his seat and taken his tray of food to a different table, far away from both her and his mentor, and she had never mentioned it again. 

If that’s what she’s talking about, he can probably handle this situation decently well, but he somehow gets the terrible feeling that she’s not. When she had said he had a crush, she hadn’t even mentioned the word “love,” for which Zanka was incredibly grateful. But it leaves him worried about why she said it now. 

Now, when he’s been in a strange, violent, fucked-up relat— situationship with a deranged sadomasochistic asshole for the past seven or so months. Now, when he’s been finding himself unconsciously staying longer after they’re finished to watch said asshole sleep next to him peacefully like he trusts Zanka not to hurt him in any way he wouldn’t enjoy. Zanka’s struck with the realization that he wouldn’t, not to preserve his own steadily deteriorating moral compass, but for Jabber himself. 

“Oh, no, Amo didn’t mean to scare you, she’s sorry! She just— needed something to talk about. Sorry.” 

It’s only then that he realizes he was breathing a little too fast, that his hands were shaking where they’re balled into fists in his lap. He huffs, mutters, “It’s fine. You can say whatever ya want. Don’t make it true.” 

The girl giggles, not happily, and pulls her cape over herself further, sinks into the comfort of the armchair. “Maybe not,” she agrees, “Amo— Amo’s learned that she can get it wrong, sometimes.” Her voice is terribly pensive, resigned, and it makes Zanka’s chest hurt a bit worse. “What does Zanka think the smell is?” 

He bites his cheek until he tastes copper. Blood, he thinks. Jabber smells like blood. 

He doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t push. She asks about Team Akuta’s most recent mission, what items Rudo turned into weapons to defend his friends, and he tells her about it, that Rudo took out three of the five beasts all on his own and jumped in to save a Supporter when they needed him. Amo smiles softly and Zanka watches some of the grief gradually leave her eyes as they continue talking about anything and everything except love. 

Rudo knocks on the door, eventually, and comes in balancing two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on a small wooden tray. Apparently he didn’t account for Zanka already being there, and he appears to war with himself for a minute before he reluctantly hands one mug to Zanka and one to Amo, tragically leaving himself empty handed. 

He sips on his drink — way too sweet — while he watches Amo offer half of hers to Rudo, who immediately flushes bright red and points out that they don’t have another empty cup, that they’d have to drink out of the same mug. There’s some good-natured arguing, and then Rudo ends up perched on the arm of the chair and passing the drink back and forth between himself and Amo. 

That’s what love is supposed to smell like, he thinks, not whatever him and Jabber have. 

The reassurance is equal parts comforting and disappointing, for reasons he refuses to delve into while he’s third-wheeling a pair of volatile children in the common room.

Or ever, because he can’t even bear considering it later, when he’s in the safety of his own locked bedroom. He tries meditating to clear his mind and it’s effective in putting him to sleep, but he still dreams of claws and poison and soft appreciative smiles and kisses that taste of blood and chocolate. 

——————————————————————

It’s a rare evening where most of them are off duty and at HQ instead of fucking off and drinking in the city, and he’s sitting around the coffee table in the common room with all of Team Child and Team Akuta plus Fu, playing cards. 

It’d be a nice way to relax and bond with his friends, if he didn’t just lose a game of poker to a ten year old. 

Zanka throws his cards down on the table and groans as Dear smugly collects his winnings; what was going to be tonight’s dessert, a chocolate chip cookie from every loser present. He didn’t really want his, was just going to give it to Rudo anyway, but it’s the principle of it. That bastard child pops out his pacifier with a gross slick noise that makes Zanka cringe and replaces it with a massive cookie, then tucks the remaining six into the many pockets of his overalls, raw, no way to prevent them from getting crumbs stuck in the crevices of fabric. It makes him feel bad for Bro, knowing the man will have to dig the crumbs out later. He deserves a raise, just for having to deal with the kid, nevermind the fact that he’s his kid. 

Guita hops out of her seat and loudly declares the end of the game. Not the round, but the game as a whole. She’s also peeved about losing to a ten year old, it seems. 

“What do we do, then? Seems like all you guys do is play cards.” Rudo pipes up from where he was pressed into the arm of the couch and glowering at Dear. 

Riyo nudges him with her elbow. “That’s not true, Rudo. We do plenty of things. Like, uh. Talk!” 

“About what? All we do is go on jobs, and we don’t need to talk about that if we were all there.” 

Enjin makes a face like he’s seriously considering the validity of the boy’s claim. It’s not too far off from the truth, really, but Rudo has never complained about the lack of free time before. 

Zanka has gotten over his loss enough to ask, “Thought ya liked going on missions, ya violent little freak. What changed?” 

“Nothing. I do like going on missions. I was just stating a fact.” Rudo explains, looking at Zanka like he’s stupid. Right, Zanka should have remembered that this kid is incredibly straightforward, and there’s hardly ever any hidden meaning behind his words. 

“And I am not a violent little freak! Fuck y—”

“Oooookaaaay! None of that now, kids. Don’t ruin family bonding time with your shitty mouths.” 

“But you just swore!” 

Enjin makes a small ‘ah’ of realization and purses his lips as if he would swear again were he to open them. Zanka bites his lip to stifle a laugh at his mentor’s expense. 

Guita groans explosively and flops herself over Dear and Bro’s laps, probably crushing those hard-won cookies in the boy’s pockets and making an even bigger mess for Bro to clean up later. Dear growls and shoves her off, causes her to bump the edge of the coffee table and roll onto the floor, and starts frantically pulling open his pockets to check. The girl just stays where she lands and kicks her feet in the air, bored. 

Bro finally speaks up, seeing as it’s his responsibility to keep these kids in check. 

“Hmm… How about we talk about the future? Where do you see yourself in ten years?” 

Dangerous question to ask when most of their answers are probably “dead and buried,” Zanka thinks. Guita hums in consideration, apparently not seeing it that way. Zanka misses that childlike whimsy, just a little. 

“Uh. Still working here, I guess?” 

Or not. Where’d that whimsy go, kid? 

“Oh, come on, dream bigger! You don’t even want, like, a husband or something? You want to end up lonely and miserable?” Enjin whines, teasing her in that well-meaning but annoying manner a parent might. Not that Zanka’s ever experienced it himself. 

He can hear the eye roll in Guita’s voice when she responds, and he privately thinks that Enjin might’ve deserved the attitude for that one, though he’d never say it. “You’re single, though. Are you saying you’re lonely, miserable, and in need of a husband?” 

Fu barks out a harsh laugh and slaps his hand over his mouth, squeaking out an apology when Enjin side-eyes him for it, although Zanka has a feeling Enjin was more upset over him stifling his laughter than the laughter itself. 

Zanka knows Enjin isn’t actually single, of course, but the members of Team Child obviously weren’t in the room when he had that confirmed, so he says nothing. 

The man crosses his arms and puffs up his chest, playfully indignant. “And what if I was, huh? What if I needed a big, strong man to come along and fix all my issues. What if I needed an emotional support husband? Would you be at the wedding? Would you be the flower girl?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about, man?” Rudo sounds so confused, like he’s still not fully used to Enjin saying anything for the sake of the bit, or like he doesn’t know—

“Men can’t get married to other men.” 

The boy’s surety slowly creeps away as everyone at the table ceases their quiet side conversations and stares at him, and he suddenly looks every bit the young, sheltered Spherite that he is. “…can they?” 

Oh man, Zanka thinks, and is echoed when Enjin sighs and runs a hand through his hair, says, “Oh man, kid.” 

“What!? You can’t blame me for not knowing, no one told me! Why did no one tell me!?” 

“It’s not like there’ve been any gay weddings we’ve had to attend! Why would the topic ever come up!? And stop fucking yelling, it’s giving me a headache!” 

Riyo butts in then, just to stir the pot. “You’re yelling, Enjin. And cursing. You have to set an example, or the kids won’t know what you want.” 

Enjin groans and digs in his pockets for a cigarette, decidedly not setting a good example for the children in the room. He has the sense not to light it, at least, just gnaws on the filter irradiatedly and waves a dismissive hand at Riyo, signaling for her to stop teasing and take over the conversation in his stead. 

She just blinks, also at a loss, and Zanka watches the gears turn in her head until she perks up and smiles, turns to Rudo and starts, “See, when two people love each other very much—”

“I don’t need an explanation, I just didn’t know that was legal down here! Shut up!” Rudo’s cheeks are flushed pink and he’s frantically waving his hands in front himself, mortified by the turn in the conversation. 

Zanka understands why; he is also trying desperately to not look anyone in the eye, afraid that they’ll just somehow know, as soon as they see him. He swears he can feel Riyo’s eyes on him, hear Hii sniffing the air for fresh blood, smell Enjin’s cigarette smoke even though he hasn’t lit it yet, and suddenly it’s curling into his lungs and suffocating him with it’s acrid tang and he needs to leave. 

The topic has changed, people are chatting about something else, something Zanka can’t process, but he still interrupts the buzz of noise to excuse himself, tells everyone at the table — probably everyone in the room, judging by the way he can hear himself speak over the din in his head — that he’s going back to his room to sleep so he can wake up early for training, and they let him go, wish him sweet dreams like they always do for everyone, but he feels eyes boring into his back when he leaves and it makes his chest constrict, makes him grit his teeth until his jaw aches. 

He heads to the training room instead of his bedroom, needing to distract himself from his own thoughts, from wondering what the others are thinking about his sudden departure. It was suspicious timing, he knows, and he just hopes he waited long enough after the topic changed that no one noticed what set him off. He doubts that they didn’t, for all of them except Rudo, and it drives him to swing Assistaff harder into some poor Supporter that happened to be training at the wrong time and was stupid enough to ask to spar with him. 

He breaks their ribs, but there’s no satisfaction in it when his victim isn’t Jabber. The scolding he gets from Enjin doesn’t feel good, either, but they never do. 

——————————————————————

It’s not often that someone is called into Corvus’ office, and Zanka is terrified as he stands stock-still in front of the heavy, imposing doors on Semiu’s orders. Either he did something really really good and is getting a promotion, or he is being kicked out of his home. He can’t recall any spectacular feats on any recent missions, so he’s probably screwed. 

Still, he’s going to go in there and face his termination like a man, no matter how ill the prospect makes him feel. He’ll just… find a nice dry well to crawl into afterwards, hope no one comes to give him a life-saving pep talk this time. 

Taking a final deep breath to steady himself, he brings his hand up, knocks, and gets a muffled, “Come in,” in response. He pulls the door open and determinedly marches into the office, putting on a flimsy confident facade that isn’t fooling anybody, and especially not himself. 

“You called?” He immediately cringes at how demanding it comes out, but Corvus replies before he can correct himself. 

“I did.” 

Right, that is… totally not scary at all. He definitely doesn’t stutter out his next question, certainly not. “Uh. Ca— Can I ask what for?” 

Corvus eyes him meaningfully, except Zanka can’t actually discern the meaning and just feels a shiver run through him in instinctual fear. 

“You’re welcome to sit, Zanka. This might take a while.” 

Oh, he is so screwed. He sits only because his legs might give out on him otherwise. 

The boss steeples his hands on the desk in front of himself, starts, “I’ve received an eyewitness report of one of my Cleaners entering a hotel with a Raider.” 

His heart swoops to the bottom of his stomach and he’s sure he makes a face, but Corvus doesn’t stop. “They didn’t know who the Cleaner was, but they said the Raider was one of the most infamous; Jabber Wonger.” 

Shit. The worst part is that he doesn’t even know which encounter this is about; there have been many times he’s entered a hotel with Jabber, and none of them would make him look like a saint to an outsider. 

Corvus’ eyes are so wide and piercing, almost like an owl’s, and Zanka holds back another shiver as the man continues. “Said he was “real out of it.” Said the cleaner had a “big stick” strapped to his back.” 

Fuck.

“Now, you’re not in trouble. It was most likely a misunderstanding, I’m certain.” 

That’s the problem, though; it most likely wasn’t. If he is being fired for sleeping with the enemy, he has no defense. If he is being fired for something worse, he might be able to save himself. “What— what are ya accusing me of, exactly?” 

A wry smile graces the man’s face at that, and his next words come unexpectedly soft. “Nothing, Zanka. I’m asking you to explain, that’s all.” 

Ah, that’s the other problem; he doesn’t know. He can’t explain what he’s doing with Jabber because he has no fucking clue. Well— he knows what they’re doing physically, and even though Corvus looks like he already knows, he’s got to clarify for the sake of his reputation, and also for the sake of not ending up in a Hell Guard's prison cell. 

“I- we—” How the hell is he meant to say this delicately? When someone says they’re in a relationship, it’s heavily implied that they’re sleeping together, and no one takes issue with it because they didn’t say that. But when all you’re doing is beating each other to hell and back and occasionally — nearly every time — fucking afterwards, what’s the correct term to use? One appropriate to use in front of his boss? 

He gives up after about a minute of desperate searching, buries his head in his hands with a groan, and lets out a defeated, “Fuck.” 

“I kind of assumed, yes.” When Zanka cautiously peaks through his fingers to look at him, there’s a small glint of humor in his eyes at his own joke, a calm resignation in the way he almost deflates when he sinks back into his chair, and it’s supremely confusing. 

“…What?” 

Corvus lets out a small sigh tinged with that same mixture of acceptance and amusement. “I’ve suspected for a while now, but I couldn’t just ignore that report if you really were the heinous criminal it made you out to be, now could I? I have to discipline my people, and if it sometimes involves cleansing the Cleaners of the filth in its ranks, then so be it.” 

He pauses just long enough for Zanka to open his mouth to defend himself, then benevolently interrupts like Zanka’s own personal savior. “But I don’t think that’ll be necessary, in this case. Am I wrong?” 

“No, Sir, you’re not. That report ain’t true. Or, well— it is, but not— like… that. He was jus’ being an idiot, and I got stuck carin’ for ‘im. We didn’t.” 

“Then.” 

Zanka winces, confirms with a nod and a, “Then.” 

The boss gives an acknowledging hum and those piercing eyes briefly flicker to the side as if he’s embarrassed. Zanka can’t blame him, though. He’s about five seconds from cracking his head open on the edge of the desk, himself. 

“There’s no rule against fraternizing with enemies, you know? I’m not eager to create one, either.” Zanka can’t tell if it’s a threat or if Corvus is holding out a proverbial olive branch, but he’s not left to wonder long. 

“Mostly because we’ve never had this happen — and if it has, they were smart enough to hide it from me,” he stops there to give Zanka a teasing smirk, “but also because I'm not going to dictate who my people can sleep with. You’re an adult capable of making your own decisions, and if I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be in my ranks.” 

Just as he’s about to breathe a sigh of relief, Corvus starts again, of course. 

“It’s because I trust you and because you’re an invaluable member of my Cleaners that I want you to be safe. So I’m putting a few rules in place.” 

Oh, god. He’s about to get a curfew from his boss like he’s a misbehaving teenager. He supposes he is. 

“You’ll alert Semiu of your location whenever you come into contact with him. I’m sure you’re still fighting with him, too, so you’ll call for reinforcements whenever you need them, even if you’re in bed with him and you’ll be embarrassed for months afterwards. And you’ll go to Eishia periodically to be tested—” Zanka whines low in his throat at that, horrified, but Corvus barrels right over it, “and to be treated whenever he injures you. Deal?” 

His agreement comes stilted and squeaky and he feels his blush spread down his neck at the sound of his own voice. “D- Deal, Sir.” 

Zanka desperately wants to ask to leave, but he has way too much respect for his boss to do anything other than sit there and gnaw on his bottom lip until Corvus takes pity and dismisses him. Which he does, eventually, after a prolonged period of tense silence that makes Zanka want to curl into himself and cry. 

Valiantly, he’s able to hold back tears until he gets to his bedroom. He immediately locks his door and flops into bed with Assistaff clutched tightly in his hands, curls around her, kisses her gently when he leans his forehead against her prongs, and it feels like she’s his only anchor as he finally lets the first few tears fall. Probably because she is. He’s completely alone otherwise, but he’s never minded solitude so long as he has Lovely Assistaff by his side, so it doesn’t bother him.

Too badly. As much as he loves her, there’s only so much an inanimate object can do in the way of comfort. He can feel her thrumming with affection and life, but she can’t verbalize her love for him, can’t hold him in the way he needs right now. He wishes— 

“Heeeeey~ Whatcha doing? I’m bored outta my mind.” 

Zanka jolts at the sudden voice from his choker and it makes his staff knock into his forehead. He groans, more in annoyance than pain, and the sound has Jabber giddy. 

“Oh! You having fun over there, pookie bear? Hey, another rhyme! Anyway, you thinking about me? Want me to talk you through it? I’m sure I can think of something real sexy to say, hold on.” 

“Holy shit, shut the fuck up!” 

Jabber giggles and Zanka growls, fed up and absolutely not in the mood for his bullshit. 

“Ooooo~ feisty! My bad, my bad! So, what’re you actually doing? You’d have hung up if you were busy with anything important, so I’d wager you’re… what? Moping in bed?” 

His silence speaks for itself.

“Awww, ain’t that just soooo pathetic? Hey, why don’t you think of something to cheer you up! Like, say… beating the shit out of me. Ah, but then I’d really have to think’a something sexy to say, huh? Nevermind! Unless—”

“Dude.” He’s not even mad anymore, just impressed by how long Jabber can yap about nothing, and the word comes out tired and defeated. 

Jabber is surprisingly quiet for a second, so quiet Zanka almost wonders if he got bored and hung up. The thought makes his stomach turn, for some reason, and he can feel hot tears starting to prick the corners of his eyes again. 

“What’s wrong?” For once in his life, Jabber manages to sound genuinely concerned, and it throws Zanka for a loop. 

“Huh?” He breathes, intelligently. 

The Raider huffs, sounds almost annoyed. “Don’t “huh” me. You know me, Zanka,” it’s such a rare occurrence for Jabber to say his actual name outside of sex that Zanka inhales sharply in shock, or maybe something of a Pavlovian response, “I want you at your best, or I won’t have any fun fighting you. So either you tell me what’s wrong, or I hang up and go find a new toy. Up to you, babe.” 

It stings somewhere deep in his chest, the idea of Jabber playing with anyone else, and the “babe” tacked onto the end of his threat only makes it worse. He’s not left with any option but to tell the truth, so he does, reluctantly. “Someone saw me dragging ya inta that shitty hotel last week, thought it looked so bad they had to tell the boss.” 

There’s another, longer pause as Jabber processes, and then he breaks out into loud cackles, positively tickled by Zanka’s misery, apparently. 

“Oh my god! Hah! Oh, fuck! Zanka, baby, you serious!? That’s hilarious, shit!” 

“It is not! He thought I was— I thought I was being fired! Because of you!” Zanka shouts, probably loud enough for all his neighbors to hear, if they’re in their rooms at this time of day, and all it does is send Jabber into another fit of giggles. 

“That’s what’s so funny, dude! Can you imagine if you got kicked outta your little hero group cause of me? Your “prestigious” family would be so ashamed! Oh, and then! And then you’d have to come to the dark side with me!” 

Zanka attempts to interrupt him there, lets out another warning growl and once again tells him to shut up, but his protests just make Jabber more excited. 

“Ohhh~ just think about it; you’d always be with me, we’d be inseparable, and you’d get to beat my ass whenever you pleased! No boss means no consequences! Well, we’d have a boss, but he’s not an uptight prick, so you’d be able to do whatever you want! To me!” 

“As nice as beating the shit outta ya sounds right now, I’d rather cut off my own hands than work fer that shit-eating bastard ya call boss. Yer gonna hav’ta settle fer the occasional ass-whooping, baby.” He spits the endearment out like a curse, going for disdain and ending up somewhere closer to seductive.

There’s not much of a difference when it comes to Jabber, though, and the Raider gives him the charmed giggle of a flustered schoolgirl being asked out by her crush for the first time. It’s sickening, and that’s why his stomach flutters at the sound, he tells himself. 

“Yeah? I’m your baby? You finally on board with the nicknames?” Despite his teasing words, the Raider sounds delighted, and that is also vomit-inducing. 

“I was making fun of you, dumbass!” 

“Good! You know I like it better that way.” 

It’s so genuine it startles a laugh out of Zanka, who immediately insults the man again, though with less bite this time, unfortunately. “Yer— yer a freak, hah! G— god, I hate you.” He just can’t manage the same attitude when he’s stuttering through his own laughter.  

He’s sure Jabber notices the tone shift — he’s too sharp not to — but he plays along anyway, thankfully. “Ohhhhhh~” he moans exaggeratedly, “Keep talking, pookie bear, I’m close!” 

The horrendous nickname combined with the performative lust has Zanka laughing louder, full bellied and uncontrollable, and Jabber joins in with his own unsettling cackling that has become so familiar Zanka doesn’t even mind the sound anymore. 

After a few minutes they calm down enough that the only sounds coming from either side of the call is their soft breathing and that humming Jabber does when there’s a lapse in the conversation and he’s bored. Zanka has yet to figure out what song it is, and it strikes him that maybe all he’d have to do is ask. He’s about to, before Jabber abruptly stops his humming and speaks up.

“I hate you too.”  

Zanka blinks, swallows down the instinctive urge to tell him to go fuck himself, lets himself soak in the words instead of losing his temper immediately, the quiet, almost reverent way Jabber said them.

It wasn’t quite a compliment, certainly not a love confession, but Zanka feels a passionate fire catch and light in his chest, burning bright and unbearable right along with the angry indignation at the insult, at the audacity of this man, and he realizes that he doesn’t mind as much as he should.

Any of it. Not the fighting, not the sex, not the mortification of his boss knowing — okay, maybe he minds that part a little — not the whatever this is. The revelation hurts worse than the actual insult, stabs somewhere deep in his guts and injects a sense of shame that spreads through his system fast and viscous, makes his fingers tingle with numbness where they’re suddenly white-knuckling Assistaff, and it feels too close to being defeated by Mankira for his comfort. 

He doesn’t hang up, though, doesn’t want to end the conversation despite everything about it being terrible and bad and wrong, so he just heaves a heavy, tired sigh and nuzzles his cheek into Assistaff’s prongs, lets Jabber change the subject and start yapping about a new venom he’s gotten for Mankira recently.

The time passes quickly and before he knows it the sun is setting though his bedroom window and he realizes he’s accidentally skipped dinner. No one came looking for him, so he simply didn’t notice he’d spent so long talking to Jabber. He’s about to interrupt Jabber’s rambling about… Zodyl — he should really be paying more attention to all the intel he could probably be getting from this idiot — when he hears a woman’s voice from Jabber’s side of the call. It’s got to be Cthoni, with the way she calmly and menacingly orders Jabber to stop giving the enemy information on the boss. 

“How long has she been there?” Zanka demands, empty stomach sinking when Jabber says, “The whole time, obviously.” 

Zanka slaps a hand to his wrist and ends the call there, Jabber’s awful giggling ringing in his ears as he stands to leave his room. Not to go get cold leftovers for a late, lonely dinner, but to head to the courtyard to wail on some training dummies. 

If he gets some satisfaction out of pretending the dummies are Jabber, then no one’s around to see.