knnwrites

You thumbed through a book from your personal collection, an encyclopedia on the medicinal properties of flora native to the Ground. The lantern that usually hung from your hip cast the pages in a soft, violet hue. Word had spread across the Raiders’ base that the Front Line failed to recruit the Spherite cast to the Ground and secure a way back to the Sphere, so you figured it was a good idea not to immerse yourself in your work, knowing you would inevitably need to treat your wounded comrades upon their return.

The whoosh of Cthoni’s manhole-portal tears your attention away from your book. You uncross your legs and peer over the rectangular reading glasses perched on your nose as a familiar head of azure-blue hair emerges from the opening. The petite but muscular woman leaps through, landing a few feet in front of you. Slung over her shoulder is the limp body of a taller young man, his long brown locs spilling over her smaller frame.

“I did you a favor bringing him to you. Don’t get used to it,” Cthoni says flatly.

You sigh, closing your book. “What’s the damage this time?”

Cthoni eyes the young man with a scrutinizing gaze as she speaks, “Gunshot wounds and a broken rib. Seems the Cleaner shot Jabber to incapacitate him to collect their ally.” You hum dismissively in response, setting up your examination table with the necessary antiseptics, medical devices, and most importantly, your Vital Instrument.

Before joining the Raiders, you worked as a back-alley physician to make ends meet, researching herbal medicine between patients. You’ve always had an innate, almost instinctive interest in toxicology; however, being from a remote village bordering a polluted zone, you often witnessed neighbors, friends, and even family succumb to illness because of the Sphere’s waste, which made you all the more passionate (perhaps obsessed) with the science. Your Vital Instrument, a brass-rimmed magnifying glass with a decorative wooden handle, aided in your understanding of herbal medicine.

You found the lens one day among the heaps and mounds of garbage surrounding your village. You’ve never had an affinity for dumpster diving, only doing so out of necessity. However, when you spotted the lone magnifying glass amid the pile of waste, you couldn’t help but notice the fine scratches in the brass, the scuffs in its ornate, wooden handle, and the clouded lens. Despite its appearance, the eyeglass looked valuable. You confirmed your assumptions when you picked up the lens and felt its weight in your palm.

Definitely belonged to a Spherite, you concluded. You wondered to yourself what the original owner was like—their appearance, profession, family life, even their aspirations. However, most of all, you wondered why someone would throw away something so beautiful. Though you figured sentimentality wasn’t a priority for Spherites—wasteful bastards. You decided not to spare any more of your thoughts on the matter, slipping the magnifying glass into your pocket. From then on, it’s been you and your eyeglass and eventually your Vital Instrument.

“I patched him up enough so he doesn’t bleed out,” Cthoni says tersely, laying Jabber’s flaccid body across the table. Then, wordlessly, she strides toward the manhole cover on the opposite side of the room and slips into the colorful, swirling entrance, leaving you and the barely conscious Jabber in an uncomfortable silence.

Having been on your own since you were fifteen, you became adept at concocting remedies for treating pollution-related ailments, often testing your newest medicines on yourself. After all, you didn’t have much to lose—save your dignity, perhaps. Whatever you created would either treat bodily pollution or end your suffering and reunite you with the loved ones you had already lost. You often ruminated on what the Sphere had taken from you—who it had taken—and the thought made your stomach churn. So when the Raiders’ new leader, Zodyl Typhon, appeared at your doorstep with a proposition—to join him and his troupe of bandits to destroy the Sphere—the opportunity felt too great to ignore.

At first glance, you notice the cloth—usually tied in a loose knot around Jabber’s waist—is wrapped tightly around his abdomen, his belt cinched over it to secure the makeshift compress. Blood seeps through in large spots, staining the fabric. Shit. Superhuman durability aside, Jabber is definitely going to bleed out if you don’t move quickly. You scan his body, counting the bullet wounds: one in the thigh just above the knee, one in the left shoulder, one in each arm, and several more spread across his midsection.

Then, it dawns on you: All of his wounds are non-lethal. The Cleaner was either a terrible shot or purposefully missed his vital areas. The latter was more likely, the placement of the wounds being too precise to have been inflicted by an amateur. But why? you wonder. Even after being severely injured, Jabber would charge headfirst toward certain death just to chase the high. It would’ve been far more logical to shoot him through the heart or between the eyes to ensure he was no longer a threat.

Perhaps the Cleaners were more merciful than you thought, especially since the one who fought Jabber was presumably in worse shape than the man lying before you. You’ve only seen the effects of his Mankira’s neurotoxin on himself (and that is terrifying as is). Still, you’d hate to witness the aftermath of someone unfortunate enough to be stabbed by the neurotoxin in its right claws or whatever deadly mix of poisons Jabber had concocted in the left ones.

Regardless, you needn’t dwell on the reasons why the trigger-happy Cleaner chose to spare Jabber—the boss would have your ass if you let him die. Even though he may have a few (or a lot of) screws loose, you would be remiss not to admit that he was unequivocally one of your most powerful allies, crucial to the Raiders' goals.

You squeeze Jabber’s uninjured shoulder, testing for a response. He remained unresponsive after the first couple of gentle nudges, an anxious warmth pooling in your gut. Is he fucking with you, or is he genuinely unconscious? Exasperated, you squeeze his shoulder a third time, digging your nails into his skin with deliberate force. Then, Jabber’s eyes flutter open, dazed and unfocused. However, when his deep, magenta eyes meet yours, a lazy smile curves across his lips.

“Hey, Doc. Wassup?” he croaks out, wearily. You don’t respond to Jabber’s greeting, opting to prepare for a deeper examination of his injuries.

Years of living on your own had sharpened your discernment, a skill honed from desperation and the primal instinct to survive. Reading people became second nature—you quickly deduced what drives them, what makes them tick—which is why you accepted Zodyl’s invitation to the Raiders without much hesitation. You didn’t miss how his nearly lifeless eyes darkened upon mentioning his goal of destroying the Sphere. And yet, you remain confounded by the peculiar case that is Jabber Wonger.

At first, you thought you had found a kindred spirit in him, given your closeness in age and shared interest in toxicology. However, his hedonistic and reckless abandon disrupted your work far more often than you would have liked. Jabber was frequently in your care, nursing injuries from missions, “reward” beatings from the boss, or an experiment gone awry involving his toxins. He didn’t seem to mind, though—quite the opposite.

He relished the sharp, stinging pain when you cleaned a deep gash in his flesh, or the dull, throbbing ache if you handled a broken limb too roughly, moaning shamelessly at the mingled pain and pleasure. Your face would briefly twist in disgust at his lewdness, a reaction that never went unnoticed. A maniacal grin would contort his features the moment he realized he’d successfully pissed you off. “Damn, don’t look at me like that…” he’d drawl. “S’gonna make me hard.”

Jabber shifts on the examination table with a low groan. His toothy, blood-stained grin holds for a beat longer before tapering at the edges into something distinctly flatter. Boredom, you realize. You’ve learned well enough by now that a bored Jabber is oftentimes more dangerous than a merely talkative one.

“C’mon, girl, don’t be like that,” he drawls. “You really oughta start bein’ nicer t’me. Y’know…bein’ the patient and all.”

“Just stay still so I can fix you up,” you reply coldly.

“No promises,” he slurs.

You grab your Vital Instrument from the exam table, a golden-yellow aura emanating from both its handle and your palm as you activate your Jinki. Your eyes glow a similar hue as you observe Jabber with a clinical gaze while holding the magnifying glass to his frame. Your Vital Instrument allows you to see the biological makeup or physical health of any living organism visible through its lens. You scan over each gunshot wound across Jabber’s body, searching for any remaining bullet fragments.

You arch a brow. “Whoever did this is an expert,” you say evenly. “Each one went through cleanly.”

A quiet chuckle slips from him, nostalgic, “Miss Bang Bang Braid.” His lopsided smirk stretches into something unhinged. At the nickname for Jabber’s newest plaything, you returned to the day he’d christened you with your own.

—

As the newest recruit, Zodyl personally introduced you to the Front Line, as you would be working closely with them, given the frequency of their missions. Everyone seemed decent enough so far, but you couldn’t help but notice the slim, long-haired man sizing you up. His stare lingered, unreadable, and your stomach sank with unease. When the young man finally addressed you, he cornered you with his presence, physically encroaching on your personal space.

“So you a doctor or somethin’?” He observed you incredulously as he asked the question, gauging your reaction. You drew your lips into a tight line, refusing to be intimidated.

“Jabber,” a petite, blue-haired woman warned. “Leave her alone.”

“Huh?” the man, Jabber, drawled. “You’re no fun, Cthoni,” he retorted, before returning his attention to you. “Are you shy? You wanna get to know me better? That it?” he taunted. “The name’s Jabber. Jabber Wonger.”

“I know,” you replied, deadpan. “Cthoni just used your name.” Satisfaction tugged at your lips as Jabber’s brows furrowed in response to your smart remark. He sucked his teeth, seeming mildly annoyed.

“Better watch that mouth, dollface.” His eyes, a deep purplish-pink, darkened ominously, a smug grin playing at his lips. “Don't know why the boss brought you on. You don't look all that strong t’me,” he scoffed, flicking the collar of your lab coat.

His eyes dragged over you—through you, more like—unimpressed. Indifferent. Like he had already solved you and found nothing worthwhile.

“Doubt that Vital Instrument of yours can do anything worth a damn, either.”

You felt your fingertips dig into your palms. What was this guy’s deal? The way amusement warped Jabber’s features when he patronized you made something ugly coil in your chest. You wanted that damn smirk gone. Next thing you knew, your clenched fist met the side of Jabber’s nose—a bone-chilling crack splitting the air between you. The force of your punch snapped his head to the side, a reddish bloom spreading across the bridge of his nose. Bright crimson spilled from his nostrils, thick beads of blood smearing across his upper lip.

Jabber’s eyes widened, the surprise at being hit plain and unguarded. For the first time since he had cornered you, he looked awake. Alive. Then, his tongue slid over his bloodied lip, deliberate as he tasted it, his unwavering gaze fixed on you. You recoiled, repulsed by his debauched display. He barked out a guffaw that devolved into a full-on maniacal cackle.

“Well, look at you!” Jabber laughed, swiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. “You really had the balls to hit me, huh? Guess there’s some bite to that bark after all.”

You averted your gaze, still reeling from your own impulse. You’ve devoted your life to mending wounds, not inflicting them, and on your very first day, you’d broken an ally’s nose. No matter how insufferable he was, you knew better than to lose your cool. The epiphany made your cheeks warm with shame, “Look, I’m sorry. I just—shit.” Not once had you found yourself at a loss for words. Yet here you were, unable to assemble a half-decent apology for the man you’d punched on a whim.

“C’mon. Hit me.”

You blinked, disbelief written plainly across your face, “What?”

“Do it again—hit me like you mean it!”

He couldn’t possibly be serious. The man’s bizarre request had thrown you completely off balance. How was he more offended by your mouth than by the fist that fractured his nose? It didn’t make sense.

“Aw, c’mon, Doc,” Jabber pouted, lower lip jutting out in exaggerated offense. “Don’t go growin’ a conscience on me now. I bet you enjoyed puttin’ me in my place. Don’t try and front with me.”

Jabber didn't seem angry at your hesitation. Not really. Disappointed, perhaps? The broken nose, at least, hadn’t appeared to bother him at all. If anything, it had provoked something deeper, something lurking just beneath the surface of his flippant demeanor. Even though you were reluctant to admit it, there was an inkling of truth to Jabber’s accusation. When your fist had connected with his face, an odd, yet electric satisfaction coursed through you—gone almost as quickly as it had come. The punch had been wild and exhilarating, a surge of unfiltered impulse. Your sass, on the other hand, had been calculated and restrained. Yet somehow, that shift seemed to matter.

Wait—if words got under his skin, then…

“You’re disgusting,” you hissed, unable to keep the revulsion from your voice. You held Jabber’s gaze, watching for the slightest change in his bravado. Rather than the reaction you’d anticipated, Jabber’s steady leer twisted into something else entirely.

“Yeah?” he crooned. “Keep talkin’ like that…”

The arousal in Jabber’s voice was raw, unfettered. How could that be? You tried to chart his behavior like you would a symptom: stimulus, response, deviation from the baseline. The insult should have provoked retaliation, even if only for a moment. What’s more, scorn should sting far less than bone snapping beneath knuckles. That was the natural order of things. But Jabber didn’t follow any natural order. The variables refused to align. Had you misinterpreted the flicker in his expression? The moment replayed in your mind like a broken record, yet you found nothing concrete to anchor onto—no reliable tell or discernible pattern. And for someone who relied on emotional leverage, that troubled you far more than blood and injury ever could.

“So, Doc?” Jabber coaxed, his irises flaring with a fiery fuchsia glow. “What’re you gon’ do now?” The playful lilt in his voice, paired with his predatory gaze and the unmistakable glint in his eyes, pointed to a single conclusion: Jabber was about to summon his Vital Instrument. You watched with wide-eyed dread as a brilliant magenta aura licked along the set of ten silver rings encircling Jabber’s fingers. The metal stretched and warped, elongating into menacing blade-like claws. Upon transformation, the blades scraped against one another, a grating shink ringing in your ears.

Jabber raised his right hand, the claws of his Jinki glinting ominously as they hovered dangerously close to your face and neck. You felt the cold steel threatening to slice through your skin at the slightest movement. Was he actually attempting to fight you in earnest? Sure, you’d gained enough combat experience over the years to handle the occasional thug or hooligan. But against a full-fledged Giver, the outcome was hardly in question.

Jabber sneered gleefully at the trepidation betrayed by your otherwise rigid expression. “S’only fair that we both get a taste, yeah?” he taunted, creeping his index claw closer to your throat. His touch hovered just enough to kindle a tremor of anticipation that nearly made you shudder. A bead of cold sweat traced down your forehead, across your cheek, and along the line of your neck. The cracks in your steely demeanor only seemed to amuse Jabber—encouraging him to keep prodding, testing what would finally break your composure.

However, before the exchange could escalate further, the woman from earlier, Cthoni, appeared behind Jabber, her expression exasperated yet entirely unfazed. “Jabber, that’s enough,” she said curtly. At the sound of her voice, Jabber’s expression soured, the fuchsia gleam fading from his eyes as his claws retracted to their suppressed form. His shoulders slumped dramatically as he redirected his focus from you to glower at Cthoni—though she didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by him despite her smaller stature.

“You really know how to spoil a guy’s fun,” Jabber huffed indignantly. “I was jus’ gonna play with the fresh meat for a bit.” You grimaced as he turned toward you, a facetious grin already etched into his features. If you hadn’t known better, you’d think Cthoni just scolded a petulant child for poking at something he had been told not to touch, given the juvenile frivolity of it all. You’ve only known Groundlings, yourself included, to fight out of necessity, as a means to an end. Those were the cards your people had been dealt; such was the reality of being born in a desolate, largely lawless wasteland. However, a combatant like Jabber seemed to defy that logic.

Cthoni suddenly seized Jabber’s forearm with considerable force, threatening to break the bones beneath her grip if he refused to obey. “No, not now. The boss needs to see us,” she said tersely, squeezing Jabber’s arm tighter. A brief wince colored his expression, enough to show the twitch in his muscles as the unyielding pressure bit into his forearm.

“Guess that’s it then,” Jabber bemoaned, his twisted grin still lingering. “Damn, now m’all turned on.” At his admission, Cthoni released his arm. Jabber sauntered off, presumably to see Zodyl, with Cthoni trailing close behind. Then his shoulders quirked, as if he’d suddenly remembered something he had forgotten. “That reminds me,” Jabber said, turning back to you with a curious tilt of his head. “Never caught ya name, Doc.”

Rather than reply sarcastically, you curtly gave him your name. Jabber repeated your name a couple of times, as if savoring its sound on his lips. “Okay,” he hummed, stretching the word’s syllables. “Look forward to workin’ with ya!” Jabber grinned cheekily and offered a friendly wave before disappearing further into the darkness of the Raiders’ base with Cthoni. “Later, Dr. Right Hook.”

You exhaled deeply, releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The shadows of the base’s tunnels swallowed your new teammates, leaving you alone with the faint drip of water echoing off the damp walls and the steady pounding of your heart in your ears. You silently prayed that Jabber wouldn’t become your patient anytime soon—until you realized: his broken nose was your responsibility.

—

“Starin’ is rude, y’know,” Jabber’s voice suddenly broke your train of thought. Were you staring? Even so, a good healer is meant to observe their patient.

“Well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” you retort.

The smirk on Jabber’s lips deepened, “Aw, you goin’ soft on me, Doc? ‘Cause that was weak—even for you.” You swallow the sigh that threatens to slip past your lips, unwilling to reward him with the reaction he desired.

“Your hair’s going to get in the way,” you say.

Jabber hums, defiant. “Y’see, Doc… liftin’ my arms ain’t exactly comfortable. Y’know—shot eight times, broken rib and all that.” His shoulders shift in a shallow, half-hearted shrug.

You suppress a frustrated groan. “If you can shrug, you can lift them.” When he makes no effort to help you, however, you step closer, leaning over him as you gather his long locs. The thick strands brush against your wrists as you sweep Jabber’s hair up and out of your way. While you attempt to gather it into a loose ponytail so you can return to the more pressing matter, you hear the faint snickering of the man lying underneath you—low, undeniably facetious.

“What?” you ask, somewhere caught between confusion and vexation, unable to find the humor in the situation.

“Oh, nothin’, Doc,” Jabber replies, a faux innocence lacing his tone. “Just enjoyin’ the view.”

Your eyebrows knit together, perplexed. Then, the realization dawns on you like a splash of ice-cold water, sending a chill creeping along the nape of your neck. You are so engrossed in the task at hand that you failed to realize you have put yourself in a rather…compromising position.

Jabber’s eyes are unmistakably fixed on your chest, a knowing smirk grazing his lips once you understand the punchline to the unspoken joke.

You let out an indignant huff. “Grow up.”

“Now, where’s the fun in that, Doc?” Jabber’s stifled chuckles devolve into outright mocking laughter at your expense. “Can’t a guy appreciate a nice pair of ti—”

“Don’t push your luck,” you interrupt.

For once, he lets the sentence die there, much to your relief. Still, the shit-eating grin plastered across his face is an unpleasant reminder that he is enjoying himself far too much to let you have the last word. You tighten your grip around the gathered locs and pull them back with a bit more force than necessary, winding them into a loose ponytail at the crown of Jabber’s head.

Jabber chuckles softly. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to play with my hair, Doc.”

“You wish.” You secure his locs with a final, forceful tug, making a mental note to mind your positioning when treating him going forward.

Jabber hisses softly through his teeth, the sound tapering into a faint whine.

“Mm… there she is,” he sighs contentedly.

You adjust Jabber’s posture without warning, steadying him with a firm grip. His breath hitches sharply, a giggle escaping. “Fuck,” he muses, “I wanna fight her for real, Bang Bang Braid. See if I can go all out again, like I did with Mr. Bad Attitude.”

His voice changes at the mention of “Mr. Bad Attitude.” Its laziness sharpens into something brighter, hungrier. Nostalgia, perhaps. Or appetite. With Jabber, the difference rarely matters.

Your hands still, eyes widening briefly in recognition. Jabber had gone off on a tangent about a staff-wielding Cleaner—someone he’d encountered while tasked with capturing the Spherite. You thought his name was Rudo. Thought. You hadn’t bothered to commit his name to memory. Jabber’s naming convention remains something of a mystery—one of many. Despite your repeated corrections, he always defaults to Doc, or Dr. Right Hook if he’s feeling generous, as if your actual name never quite registered.

You’ve made your peace with it, more or less. Whether Jabber’s refusal means your name was not worth remembering or the substitute is a twisted term of endearment, you’ve never been able to say for certain. With Jabber, it’s rarely one or the other.

“Oh, Zanka,” he murmured, fondly. “He was a hell of a letdown in the end, but there’s nothin’ like goin’ all out. You feel me?” The question was undoubtedly directed toward you. You were his only audience, after all.

So that’s his name, you noted absently. A real name—no pretense nor assessment. Just Zanka. Jabber rarely afforded people that. Except that he did, you corrected yourself. He’d use the names of the other members of the Front Line, namely Cthoni, Bundus, and Momoa. Which meant Zanka wasn’t an exception to the rule so much as membership in a category you hadn’t yet identified. You filed the thought away. You weren’t sure you wanted to know what it implied. Though you had no intention whatsoever of answering him, you—against your better judgement—found yourself wondering what “going all out” meant for him as you began removing the bloody cloth from his abdomen.

The memory of Jabber’s Mankira hovering at your throat lingers despite yourself; a sudden warmth creeps in your chest at the thought of the kiss of cold steel that hadn’t quite met flesh. You found yourself wondering, and not for the first time, what it would feel like if it had. Whether the neurotoxin would burn or go quiet—a deep, thrumming numbness coursing through your veins. You’d seen what it did to those who had information that Zodyl required. The harrowed screams were one thing. Jabber’s gleeful laughter echoing through the base during the interrogation was another matter entirely.

“S’ only fair that we both get a taste.”

You return your attention to unwrapping his wounds. It doesn’t particularly help. Removing the compress completely reveals a glimpse of the damage, blood saturating his black undershirt in dark, spreading splotches. You work away the layers carefully, the fabric reluctant where blood has dried against skin. Beneath it, the wounds are laid bare—eight entry points, each deliberate, everything vital untouched.

You move methodically toward the rib cage, the bruising there deep and irregular, purpling toward black at its center, spreading outward in patterns that betray force rather than its source. The contour of his chest was subtly off, the smoothness interrupted. You press gently along the site of the injury, the fracture announcing itself beneath your fingertips, displaced but otherwise contained.

Jabber draws his bottom lip between his teeth at the contact, a strangled moan escaping him. “Ah—fuck. Right there.”

“I know,” you reply. Your voice comes out more soothing than you’d intended, a borderline coo. Pride aside, your eyes catch on the faded scars from past treatments, healed so completely as if they never existed. You resist the urge to ghost your fingers along his skin. You reassure yourself that it’s because there’s work to be done.

“Never seen you look that hard at anything,” Jabber cuts in, his eyes already fixed on you when you meet his gaze. “See something you like, Doc?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” A heat creeps into your face, but your hands don’t still this time. You retrieve a syringe from beside you, filling it with a dense, opaque liquid from a glass bottle—an antiseptic of your creation. “This is going to sting,” you forewarn him, although unsure why you bothered. You then press the tip to the entry point and depress the plunger—slow, measured—working the solution through the wound channel.

The second entry point yields similar to the first—reluctant, then giving. Jabber inhales sharply—once, involuntarily—before the exhale follows, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring something.

“You always take this long?” he asks. His voice lacks some of its usual lilt, the drawl thinned just enough for you to take notice.

“With eight wounds, yes,” you reply, moving to the next.

Jabber’s breath hitches when you irrigate the third wound. “Feels like you’re dragging it,” he groans.

“I’m being thorough.” The words escape quickly—too quickly—your tone more defensive than its typical detached professionalism.

Jabber watches your face as you work methodically, with the practiced ease of someone long past being disturbed by the bodily horrors caused by life on the Ground. His smile wanes into something dull, unimpressed. Distinctly closer to ennui than pain.

“Mm.” The sound is low, settling. “There you go again. Hidin’ behind all that professional doctor shit.” A beat, unhurried. “It’s boring as hell. Could just admit you’re enjoyin’ yourself, Doc. No judgement.”

You don’t answer—refusing would be more accurate. Doing so would be an admission of guilt to…whatever he was implying. You depress the plunger further in the wound, and Jabber’s jaw goes slack—eyes sliding half-shut, something unwinding in his expression you care not to examine too deeply.

You’re tending to the fifth wound when he speaks again.

“Y’think she’d go easy on me?” Jabber muses, unprompted. Your brows furrow, caught somewhere between annoyance and inquisitive confusion.

“Bang Bang Braid,” he answers, though you never asked. The nickname lands with a familiar fondness—something reverential. “I’d want her to go all out,” he continues. “No point otherwise.” A beat. “She’s precise. Doesn’t pull her punches.” Jabber’s voice carries something somewhat akin to admiration. “That’s rare.”

“Jabber.”

“And those scissors.” A low, delighted sound escapes him, ignoring your admonishment entirely. “Those big ass scissors, Doc. You see ‘em?” He says it like he still can’t quite believe it. “Wonder how deep she could get with ‘em,” Jabber muses, voice dropping into something loose but unhurried. “Bet she’d take her time. Make it count,” a slow exhale. “Get me all fucked up and then just—” he makes a low, pleasured sound, “—do it again.”

“Hold still.”

“M’not movin’.”

“You’re talking.”

“Talkin’ don’t move wounds around, Doc.”

You acquiesced, depressing the plunger on the seventh with slightly less ceremony than the previous six. Jabber inhales sharply, appreciative.

“Be a good fight,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the light above him. “Get all cut up, beat to shit.” A slow, satisfied exhale escapes his busted lip. “And then—” the smile is audible, “—you’d be right there. Puttin’ me back together just to take me apart again. Scolding and slapping me around just for talkin’.” His voice drops. “Gotta say, I really like your sadistic side, Doc. It’s sexy—I mean it.” The silence is heavier than usual. “Fuck. Almost worth gettin’ wrecked just for that.”

You pull on a fresh pair of gloves with a sharp snap, uncharacteristically rendered speechless.

“Mm. Got a gift, Doc.” His eyes slide toward you, dark and contemplative. “Whole thing’s got me achin’ down there.”

Your gloved hand closes around his jaw with firm, deliberate pressure, your nails forming divots into his cheeks, his lips puckering involuntarily at the force of your grip. You turn Jabber’s face towards yours. Not rough enough to hurt—though the thought crosses your mind—but enough that he cannot look away.

“Listen to me very carefully,” you say, low and even. “You have a displaced rib that is one movement from puncturing something vital. So you are going to lie still, you are going to stop talking, and you are going to let me work. Do you understand me, Jabber?”

Jabber stares at you, face cradled in your grip. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curves—barely, just enough.

“Yes, Doc,” he says, low and honeyed, drawing the words as if he’s tasting them. Like compliance is another form of provocation.

You go still, statuesque. Not the stillness of restraint—something quieter. You set down your Vital Instrument, level and deliberate, and hold his unrelenting leer.

“You know,” you begin, your voice dropping to something even, almost conversational. “For someone stripped damn near naked with his injuries laid bare, you have some nerve making me a feature of your debauchery. It’s actually starting to piss me off.”

Something in Jabber’s expression shifted. The tedium disappears completely, burned clean through by the venom in your voice.

You lower yourself to Jabber’s level, your lips barely grazing the shell of his ear. Your voice falls to a soft, menacing whisper. “Maybe I shouldn’t finish treating you. Maybe I’ll leave you to bleed out on this table, or suffocate in your own blood. But you’d probably like that, you sick fuck. You’re at my mercy, Jabber. Completely.”

“Completely,” he repeats, tasting the word. The low quiet pleasure in his voice is unmistakable. His eyes don’t leave yours. “I appreciate you talking dirty to me, Doc. But that threat of yours…” A beat. “You’re full of shit, and you know it.”

The corner of his mouth curves. “Boss finds out you let me die on this table…” Jabber sighs, sympathetic—sympathetic as he could be, “…that’s not a conversation I’d wanna have.” His eyes stay on yours, warm with something that isn’t quite concern. “And I like you, Doc. Be a shame.”

Your jaw tightens. Your bluff has been called and you both know it. On both counts.

“It’s cute how you tried to scare me, though, dollface.”

The slap lands before you decide to throw it. Not hard enough to turn his head, but enough to sting. To mean something. A reddish flush begins to bloom along Jabber’s cheek where your hand had just met. You expect the smirk to drop, like when you first punched him. It doesn’t. It shifts—the performative edge oozing from it, something quieter and more settled taking place. Like he’s been waiting for exactly this.

“That’s not my name,” you say quietly. You intend for the words to land like a demand. They come out closer to something else. Jabber’s eyes match your unyielding gaze, patient in a manner that has little to do with compliance.

“Sure, Doc.”

Your hand lands on his other cheek harder than the first. Jabber’s grin languishes—not from pain or surprise. Something uncategorical flickers behind his eyes, its brevity making it seem as though it had never existed.

“Say it, Jabber.”

Then, low and even, with no performance or exuberance whatsoever:

Your name.

Just that. Offered almost cleanly. Like a gift—a courtesy—he could afford because he’d already taken what he came for from you. The satisfaction—victory—should be yours. You asked something of Jabber, and he gave it to you without any strings attached: No theatrics, obnoxious flirts, or perverse comments. That’s how it should feel.

But it doesn’t.

You wordlessly reach for the jutted rib, doing your best to give away nothing with your expression. But somewhere beneath the clinical surface, something has been permanently displaced—distorted—that you wouldn’t be able to repair. The worst part is, the part that settles cold in the pit of your stomach as your hands find his bruised torso, is the quiet suspicion that he’s aware of it too.

Setting the rib requires both hands and his full cooperation, which Jabber gives without being told. The lack of commentary makes the stillness of the room that much more apparent. He breathes when you tell him to breathe and holds when you tell him to hold, his eyes noticeably fixed somewhere above your head instead of your face, jaw slack.

It’s the most compliant, obedient Jabber has been since Cthoni left him a bloodied, bruised mess on your table and you don’t quite know what to do with it.

“Inhale,” you instruct, your gloved hands bracketing the sides of the fracture. He does. “Hold.” He does. You feel the displaced bone beneath your palms, the subtle wrongness of it, and apply steady, measured pressure until it gives with an odd sensation you’ve long since learned not to acknowledge.

Jabber exhales through his teeth—without grandiose, satisfied relief, however. Simply air leaving a body that’s been through a considerable amount today.

The final bandage sits tight across Jabber’s midsection, neat and unforgiving. You smooth the edge down with your thumb, more out of habit than tenderness.

“Done,” you say, more to yourself than him.

No quip or reply. The silence lasts just long enough to become ominous, dangerous.

Then, the manhole-portal yawns open across the room with a familiar rush of air and colorful distortion. Cthoni emerges without ceremony, her expression just as flat as when she left. She is perched on the rim of its opening, like she couldn’t be bothered to leave the enclosed space. Her gaze lands first on Jabber’s bandaged torso, then the red mark blooming across his cheek, then on your gloved hands. If she notices the tension lingering like the odor of Jabber’s neurotoxins, she is merciful enough—or so jaded by the shenanigans—that she doesn’t care to mention it.

“Are you finished?” she asks.

“Finished enough,” you reply. “Though he shouldn’t fight, run, or do anything idiotic for a month, minimum.”

Jabber’s characteristic grin returns by millimeters. “Why are ya’ll talkin’ ‘bout me like I ain’t here? I’m hurt,” he pouts exaggeratedly.

Cthoni looks at him, unimpressed. “Obviously. Are you able to walk?”

“Depends,” he drawls, shifting carefully onto one elbow, flashing you a knowing smirk. “Is Doc gonna carry me?”

“No,” you and Cthoni say at once.

His grin widens, but Cthoni’s expression remains just as apathetic. “The boss wants to speak with you.”

At that, Jabber’s smile sharpens into something distinctively awake. “Guess I’m walkin’ then.”

Jabber clumsily follows Cthoni’s lead, the occasional wince or grunt contorting his features. Before you could register his absence, you were alone once again—the room exactly as it was before he arrived, save the blood, which shouldn’t feel like anything at all. Despite the chaos, you’d gathered more data and filed it accordingly. However, you were left with far more questions than answers. What you couldn’t compartmentalize was the creeping, dawning certainty that while you spent the better part of an hour observing him, you were being observed, studied, in return—and he found what you were so determined to keep hidden long before you were aware of its existence. And for once, you admitted it terrified you.