LOVE IS THE PROPHECY

No time to run the numbers- there’s only action, what he can do here and now in this moment to minimize the number of casualties. A wall of ice is the obvious choice, but there’s only a handful of seconds to fortify it. No way it can withstand the full concussive force of the blast, but he can make it thick enough to stop the shrapnel, or at least most of it. Probably. If he starts now.

A curling rime of frost forms from his feet as he reaches deep into his element, grabbing it with metaphorical fingers into soft, powdery metaphorical snow- crunching his fist to compact it into hard chunks. It’s more force than he’s ever used before, ice yanking up from the ground in two foot thick sheets. Already his body is hit with a wave of exhaustion, but there will be time to rest later. He pulls harder, forcing the ice to crawl upwards towards the ceiling. It splinters and shudders at the brutality, cracking vertically in several spots as he draws it up too quick, too frantic. At the last second, he sweeps his hands out and sends the flat chunks hurtling outwards on slippery icy tracks.

There’s several cries of alarm as the walls barrel into the fight, friend and foe alike squashed flat like bugs on a windshield. He just needs to get them away. Push them as far as he can- if the ice doesn’t hold, the distance will save them. He has to do everything he can before the timer reaches zero and-

The bomb detonates.

The world is a whitehot fireball of agony. There is nothing but pain ricocheting up and down his body, everything is upside down and sideways. Something in his head is broken and he can’t tell where he is- if he’s standing or lying down, prone or supine. If he even has a body anymore at all. Red warnings are all over his vision, alarm bells ringing in his mind as his sensors light up with information- torn, broken, shattered, crushed. A small ping as his system kindly notifies him he’s low on oil. A map of his body pops up in front of his eyes. The sensors not flashing red with damage are dead and black, whole swathes of his body gone. Or, at least, too damaged for his system to recognize anymore. There is nothing past the catastrophic warnings. No visual input other than the screens spelling out his destruction. His outside vision is gone. The only sense he had remaining is smell- the acrid stench of smoke and burning oil, gag inducing if he still had the ability to gag.

Too close. He was too close. There’s brief flashes of connection. He can feel his fans struggling to turn. He can feel the space where his arm isn’t. His face is wet. The lead weight of nausea from his insides spilled out onto the floor. His body jerking, shuddering, jittering with misfiring components. There is nothing in this pain that makes him proud, that makes it feel worth it. There is endless suffering. His clock is ruined. He has no idea how long he lies here before his system shudders, flickers, and finally gives. He’s vaguely aware of the shutdown coming but it doesn’t feel like a relief.

A hand cupping his face. He feels it for just a second before it all goes dark- how long he’s been held, he doesn’t know. It’s barely a comfort. Then there is quiet, blessed nothingness.

Shutdown passes slow and syrupy, like drifting through molasses. He’d read a study once, years ago, on the placebo effect. It claimed that people, under the heavy unconsciousness of anesthesia, were more likely to feel better if the act of a surgery was charaded around them. The sound of doctors and nurses penetrating through to some deeper part of their mind that insisted the procedure was actually performed, versus the placebo patients that were just left alone to sleep in silence. If he had to liken a shutdown to anything, this is what he’d default to first. Not aware, but not entirely oblivious. The low murmur of voices and the sounds of soldering telling the deep dregs of his programming that he was okay, now, and he was going to feel better soon. Enough to wake up naturally.

Except a gentle, soft return to reality doesn’t happen this time. In the deep well of his mind, he notes the absence of noise, no indication he was undergoing the intense repairs he so desperately needed. There were small things here and there. Just enough. He doesn’t wake on his own, and is instead jump started like a low battery car. A sudden jolt, the kick-start of his fans already on high, and consciousness shot into him like a bullet between the eyes. Holy dark is ripped from him, and he’s thrust into an unforgiving present.

He is not given even a second to realize he’s awake before the pain comes. Not so sharp and all consuming as it was, but thick and heavy and rolling through him. Any empty space inside him is filled with hurt. The thin gap between his outer shell and the metal framework of his skeleton and wires and other moving parts is suddenly a chasm bursting with aches. He whimpers before he can reign in his reactions, twisting helplessly on something comfortable and plush as he searches for the position that will ease the flashing red lights filling his vision once more. The nausea returns, and this time he actually retches, turning to try and vomit up whatever is causing the sickness in his belly. There’s nothing to purge, so he ends up flopped over the edge of what must be his bed coughing weakly.

Large, warm hands catch him before he slides off the cliff and onto the floor, maneuvering his back onto his pillows with comforting words. An unintelligible murmur that Zane thinks is supposed to be comforting, at least. The low timbre of the voice alerts him to Cole's presence. He feels himself begin to shake suddenly, his body trembling with the urge to cry and he tries to grab at the hands holding him. He doesn’t want the touch to go. Everything hurts, even the contact against his fragile and overworked artificial nerves is grating- but he’s never felt so pathetic and lonely. It’s only him in this dark, harrowing place. He doesn’t want to be alone.

Only one of his arms responds and he uses it to paw at the pressure on his shoulders, grasping at Cole until the other man intertwines their fingers.

“...ybe this wasn… ood idea.” the featureless hum forms into clips and pieces of words.

“A diagno… necessary for the next steps i…” Pixal..? Nya. his head is starting to pound. Other people. Not just Cole. Hold it together, Zane. Don’t cry. Don’t whimper.

“When wil… arriv…” he should be trying harder to listen, to understand what’s going on. Cole's hand is warm.

“...pecial order… days… may tak… eeks…” Pixnya answers. He should be more concerned that his processor can’t differentiate their voices, but there’s no energy left for that worry.

Zane falls asleep.

Sleep is different from a shutdown. Almost always, he dreams. In this space made of something sharp and stinging, his mind is black and cold. There is no rest to be found here.

Waking up this time is like surfacing from the ocean after being knocked over by a rogue wave. Tumbling end over end, a stuttering panic, disoriented and lost and desperate for air. He surges up- tries to, at least. His body protests any movement that engages his lower spine and he slams back down on the sheets before he can fully rise. His fans aren’t turning, failing to activate for several long moments before jack-rabbiting into action. His eyes are open and this time he can finally, really see. Dark wood above him, pale walls, the painting he’d picked out at a flea market with Cole two years ago- his room. Home, but the walls and spinning and distorting above him. Nausea again. Do not throw up.

A calloused hand cradling his face and this is the first time the touch doesn’t hurt. A shape leans over him and it gives Zane something to focus on, his good hand coming up to grip Cole's wrist as his face sharpens into view. The room sways still, but Cole is his anchor. His rock.

“Hey, Hey, you’re okay.” Cole whispers, his thumb stroking over the sculpt of Zane cheekbones soothingly, “It’s alright, Zane, I’m here.”

Zane exhales shakily. He doesn’t usually need to breathe, but it helps to calm him. He was human in that way. He presses his cheek more firmly against Cole's palm and basks in the contact. The room is dim and cool, but Cole's fingers are hot where they rest against him.

“You with me, pinkie?” Cole murmurs.

“Y-”  He coughs hard. His throat hurts, but everything hurts so it’s really not all that special, “...Yes.”

Some of the tension around Cole's eyes relaxes, “Oh man, I missed your voice.” he leans down and ghosts his face over Zanes' own. Not touching, but close enough that Zane can feel the soft puff of breath as Cole lets out a wobbly and relieved chuckle.

Something wet drips onto his face and Zane can't see very well, but he’s certain it’s tears. Cole is crying.

“You scared me.” He whispers and if it was possible for Zane's heart to hurt any more that it already did, the tremble in Cole's voice would have done it.

“I apologize.” He offers weakly, his own shaking hand rubbing Cole's wrist in his best attempt at comfort in his current state.

“Don’t.” Cole says simply, tapping his forehead feather-light against Zane's own, “How do you feel?”

Bad. Awful. Sick. Weak. Wrong. “I am alright.” he reassures him.

“...Okay, um. How do you feel, except no bullshit answer this time?” Cole tries again, pulling back to frown at him.

Zane feels himself cow a little bit under that particular look, “Not… great.” He mutters.

“Yeah.” Cole looks uncomfortable, “Yeah uh, you got… you got really messed up. Pix, Jay, and Nya did what they could but uh, you’ve got a lot of damage to some pretty specific, specialized parts.”

Closing his eyes, Zane breathes deeply for a few moments.

“It’s not gonna be a quick fix. Some of this stuff could take over a week to come in.” Cole delivers all the bad news at once. There’s something to be said about ripping off the bandaid, but unfortunately Zane will be keeping his literal bandages on for a long while yet.

“Ah.”

“Yeah… yeah.” Cole sounds like a parrot at this point, unable to say anything other than that. “We could… Do you want us to put you back into shutdown until we have everything all done? Pixal said it was important you were online for some diagnostics but those should be over for now. We can put you back into a, uh, coma?”

Coma. That was a pretty valid descriptor for prolonged shutdown. The idea is so very tempting- everything aches still. So, so badly. Pain was a useful tool his father had given him, allowing him to recognize when his body was in need of repair or when he was pushing himself too hard. It was something that he, unlike Pixal, could not turn off. He was built to be human, after all. The good and the bad pieces all woven so deep into his core coding that it was baked into his being. Though perhaps his father could have written in an ibuprofen cheat code or something… constructive criticism if he ever meets him again.

“No,” He finally responds. It would be easy, but the idea of it rankled. He’d never been fond of long-term blackouts. The stagnation made him feel… alien. Weird and wrong. It had a profound negative effect on his mental state. While pain would no doubt push him into a bout of depression, waking up with no memory of the past week would certainly cause a spiral. He’s almost a little proud at his self awareness- but really it was the memory of Pixal in his head on Chen's island, desperately trying to convince him he was Zane in that dark cave while he pitched headfirst into fear and confusion induced hallucination. It’s not a memory he was eager to repeat.

“Okay.” Cole says easily, stroking his thumb over Zane's face so, so gently, “Whatever you want.”

He wants the pain to stop, but that’s a foolish, childish desire here and now. He doesn’t voice it. It would only make Cole sad if he said it, he doesn’t like to feel helpless.

He wants to sleep again, but it won’t come. His processor is picking apart the memories quietly in the background of his mind, defragmenting the mess of the past few days. His skin is buzzing uncomfortably. It’s so quiet and it makes the aches louder. His eyes feel wet. Maybe he could ask Cole to read to him. His old favorites, something comforting and familiar- Austen or Fitzgerald or Plath. Maybe poetry. Maybe one of Cole's favorite books. He searches Cole's face as well as he can. His boyfriend is exhausted, worn down to the bone and bent over his bed awkwardly. He lets go of his wrist.

“You should get some rest.” Zane whispers weakly as he lets his own hand flop down on the comforter. He tries to smile reassuringly, but it doesn’t feel right on his face. Nothing feels right. “I will be okay.”

Cole stares at him for a long time and Zane can’t quite make out the complicated emotions swirling there, “...I wish you’d let me help you.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Suddenly, Zane is certain this isn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. He’d woken up before. He’d pushed Cole away then, too. Maybe a dozen times. Trying so hard to be fine.

Finally, slow and unsure, Zane manages to ask, “Will you read me a story?”

Cole smiles shakily and stands up, heading for the bookshelf.

They’d fallen asleep at some point. Cole was laying next to him in bed, head tilted sideways in what would certainly lead to a crick in his neck in the morning. Frankenstein laid flat and forgotten in his lap- the comedy of the choice was not lost on Zane. With the state of his body, he certainly felt like a cobbled together amalgamation of things, too. It wasn’t the desire to hear the next chapter that rouses him from his sleep, but a sudden intensifying bout of pain.

His power source was glowing so bright that white washed out all of the cool blues. There was a slightly burnt smell permeating the air as arcs of electricity charred tiny holes in the blanket covering him. His whole body was stiff and tense, every spring or hydraulic under his metallic skin pulled so tight he was trembling and creaking with the force. Oh, it hurts. It hurts. He was being crushed to death. His own body was crumpling up like an empty soda can stomped flat.

He’s staring up at some indeterminate spot on the wall, just above the bookshelf. It’s smooth and flat and of no interest to anyone at all, but he can't tear his eyes away. He’s never been so scared in his life- it’s irrational fear, he can understand that in an abstract way. There’s nothing to be scared of. His body convulses.

There’s a low pitched whining noise coming from something- is it- oh- it’s him. He’s making that noise. It’s too quiet to wake Cole.

His chest sparks as he convulses again, the burn smell growing a touch stronger. Cole had insisted upon building a pillow wall in between them so he wouldn’t accidentally cuddle up to Zane too roughly in his sleep, and he’d been a little sad about it as Cole had separated them. Now, he was impossibly grateful. He'd shock him if he were closer. He’d hurt him.

The door to his room flings open and Pixal rushes in, looking haggard. Cole jolts awake at the sound of the door bouncing off the wall with a hearty BANG, “Huh? Pixal?” he asks groggily, but she’s too busy tearing the blanket off of Zane to answer him.

His vision is filled with black spots. In his peripherals, she’s holding some tube shaped object- that she promptly jams into his core once all obstacles are removed. The whole room fills with light and the sound of electricity popping before his body relaxes, turning loose and liquid in bed.

“Don’t touch him.” Pixal orders tersely before Cole can reach out to comfort him, “I knew I should have-” She swears lowly before pivoting to explain what happened, “His system got stuck in a feedback loop. He’s overloaded right now. He could seriously shock you, so just wait for the drain to finish.” that must be the tube currently protruding from his chest. An energy drain?

He’s so exhausted he can’t really keep up with the whole situation. His body is buzzing again, the oversensitive pain from before returning full force. Even the soft blanket laying against his arms feels like sand paper. He wants to cry again, but he can't muster the energy- ironic, in a way. All this power and he’s still so empty.

“I’m going to install a temporary regulator once you’re stable, Zane.” She informs him as the container in his chest fills to the brim with blue energy, “It’ll be a tube connected to your core. It will make it so this doesn’t happen again.”

“How’d you know he was…” Cole’s brows furrow as he tries to recall the word she used. “Overloading…?”

“I have his diagnostics wirelessly set up to a computer in the garage downstairs.” She explains as she gently disconnects the current energy siphon and attaches another, “Like a nurses station at a hospital. I should have connected myself to the program so I could monitor his vitals better. I got distracted.” Her mouth twists down in a sour frown. “I’m sorry, Zane.”

He makes a low, distressed noise at her apology.

“I know,” She fiddles with a few wires on his chest and glances at her smartwatch, clearly checking his energy levels again, “You do not want me to apologize or to worry. Well, that is too bad. You have no say in the matter.”

Cole nods sagely, “She’s right, frosty. You can’t stop us from caring about ya.”

He closes his eyes. It’s not like he could argue with them anyway.

“I’ll go get my tools. He’s stable, and you should be fine to touch him again.” She lingers until Cole gently pets Zane's hair, just to make sure there were any shocking surprises waiting for him. Zane doesn’t know how long she’s gone, floating in a hazy space of pain and forced dissociation. The only thing keeping him from completely losing himself is Cole's fingers brushing soothing circles over his temple.

Pixal comes back with plenty of tools, carefully removing the second tube. “These things aren’t good long term,” She says as she places it next to the other one, “They aren’t regulated. They pull until they’re full- good for emergencies, but not feasible for excessive use.”

She says more stuff- something about retention valves and regurgitation and backflow. The cord she installs now will siphon off excess and a little extra, a failsafe in case of another rapid overload, dripping energy into a battery they’ll need to routinely change until his systems can regulate their own energy production again.

“This’ll help him feel better?” Cole asks.

There’s a pause before Pixal carefully answers, “It will take care of the overload problem.” At Cole's pointed frown she grimaces, “It should be better in the long run. Excess energy is agonizing if not taken care of properly… but there is no way to add a foreign circulatory system that doesn’t hurt. Zane doesn’t go numb like a human would.” She explains, wilting in helplessness.

It does hurt. He feels like he did that time the mechanic wrapped his hand around his heart and tried to rip it out. A weight that pulls endlessly on the soft and tender cords of his power core- but it is infinitely more bearable than that world consuming pain he’d just laid with.

“Thank you.” he whispers.

Pixal takes his hand and squeezes, trying for a smile that reaches her eyes and failing miserably.

“-and check this out!” Jay, with as much flair and pizzazz possible- which is, perhaps, entirely too much for the situation at hand- slaps a button on the handle of the wheelchair. With an underwhelming click something pops out of the side of the custom-made mobility aid, right above the wheel, “this thing has freaking cup holderrrrrrs!!”

He produces a bottle of soda from his bag and drops it into the slot perfectly. “I’ll hold for applause.” He says graciously, grinning and puffed up in pride.

“Ah, that is very thoughtful, Jay.” Zane murmurs. Jay doesn’t seem put off by his lackluster response- probably because this is the first time since the incident where he’s heard Zane say a full, uninterrupted sentence.

Usually, Zane would point out how he doesn’t actually need to drink as a nindroid but… well, currently, he most certainly does. In perfect health an android stores enough power to function normally with a little left over. As injured as he is, and with the new energy regulator dumping his reserves to far lower than his body typically runs on, his body is reliant on outside energy sources. Eating and drinking is a far more pleasant way to keep his body going than being plugged into an outlet or removing the regulator. He’d happily have a nice cooked meal before risking another overload.

Jay steps back with a smile so Zane can see his work in its entirety, “So, now that Pixal’s got your spine stabilized, would you like to take it for a spin?”

Zane winces at the reminder of the back brace bolted into what passed for android ribs. He was grateful for it since he could finally sit up, but it was an unpleasant sensation nonetheless. Though his entire existence since waking up yesterday was an unpleasant sensation. He hesitates to respond.

…It was an incredibly kind gesture. Jay had spent all his free time- and even some of his not so free time, if Nyas grumbling about his insomnia was any clue- building this for him. The wheelchair was ice blue and pink, decked out with all sorts of fun little amenities and padded with soft cushions and fabrics to make the experience as painless as possible. One of the arm rests was curved up on the side so his bad arm wouldn’t flop off the side.

Hidden under the other arm rest was a button he could push that notified the others when he wanted to be moved. It pinged their Borg brand smart watches with a cute little chip tune Jay had made himself.

The monastery wasn’t made very well to accommodate a wheelchair or else Jay would have made it electric. As it stands, there’s too many stairs or uneven floors for that to be feasible. So this was the… the best option.

It was an incredibly kind gesture! But the idea of having to bother everyone else to move him was… hard. To be comfortable with.

Jay looked so hopeful. Zane finally nodded, “It would be nice to leave this room.” he acquiesces.

Looking like he won the lottery, Jay perks up with a small cheer, “I knew you’d love it!” There’s a pause as Jay looks at him expectantly. Jay's smile drops a little and he seems embarrassed, “Oh, right, sorry. I’ll need to go get someone to help me move you over!”

Zane's belly curls unhappily, “Ah… yes…” He was very heavy, after all. Even missing as much as he did. Cole would be the obvious, least shameful person, but he was in the shower. “Perhaps we can wait for Cole, then.” he says, looking down at where his hands were folded in his lap.

“What? Nah, I'll just go get Kai or something. We can handle it!” but Jay doesn’t move.

Zane looks up and startles as he realizes Jay is very carefully studying him, “Alright. I will… wait here.” he offers weakly.

Instead of accepting the dismissal, Jay plops down on the wheelchair and rolls it forward so he’s closer to Zane. Face to face and on his level, “You don’t like it.” He guesses frankly. Zane is too quick to forget how perceptive Jay really is. He’s looking at him like he’s a puzzle that needs to be solved, analyzing every interaction in the past fifteen minutes to find all the pieces. Something about his face must give him away because Jay leans back against the seat with raised eyebrows, “You don’t like that you can’t do it yourself.” And he sees the image in full. It’s almost effortless for him.

His shoulders drop and he can’t think of a way to refute it that doesn’t sound like a lie.

Jay pushes himself forward and back with the balls of his feet, ruminating over it for a moment. “I get it, y’know? It's sorta difficult to rely on others. I, uh, didn’t have a lot of support growing up. My parents were there of course, but other than them… I just learned to be pretty self-sufficient.” He stops, bites his lip in an old bad habit Zane should scold him for, “But, uh, we’re friends. And friends don’t let friends suffer alone. It took a while for me to really be okay with that. Leaning on you guys and stuff. Metaphorically, since I'm too short to use you as an arm rest heh.”

He looks awkward and unsure, frustrated with the way his words were coming out, “What I'm trying to say is that there’s nothing wrong with asking your friends for help. Ever, but especially with recent circumstances, okay?”

Zane nods, throat tight. Jay keeps looking at him so Zane clears his throat with a cough, “Okay. I… suppose you’re right.”

Jay offers him a small smile, “I usually am!” he stands up then, “I’ll be right back!” And with that, he’s gone.

He comes back with Lloyd instead of Kai, and something about this makes any progress Zane might have been feeling towards his status as a burden wither up and die. Lloyd wasn’t supposed to take care of him. He was still that little kid Zane taught to cook, deep down- the tiny boy in the oversized hoodie that looked to Zane with pride the first time he flipped a pancake without it landing lopsided and lumpy. Lloyd doesn’t seem put off by the situation at all, hooking his arms under Zane's shoulders and hefting him into the chair with Jay's help. They talk over him as Zane sits there unhappily, arranging his legs and making sure the strap around his waist was secured properly.

Lloyd grabs the throw blanket at the foot of the bed and tucks it around Zane's waist so the damage to his legs was hidden. He feels himself relax a little at that- he didn't realize how exposed he’d felt until he was covered.

“Alright, where to?” Lloyd asks brightly, stepping behind Zane and grabbing the handles of the wheelchair.

Jay’d left at some point. Zane was too busy wallowing to notice Lloyd quietly shoo him away.

He tries to think of the path of least resistance, “How about the library?” He offers.

Lloyd nods easily and begins to scoot him along. Despite everything, it is nice to be out of his room. He never thought he’d be someone who got stir crazy, but staring blankly up at the ceiling had gotten old rather quickly. There’s a bump and the wheelchair stops abruptly- why? Zane was certain the path to this wing of the monastery was a smooth ride. He tries to look but he can’t put any weight on his bad arm.

“Oops,” Lloyd huffs out a laugh, “My bad.” He walks around the chair to crouch in front of Zane, pulling up the loose edge of the blanket he’d run over and tucking it behind Zane's foot.

He doesn’t say anything as he miserably watches Lloyd maneuver his foot like a child's.

After the blanket is freshly secured, Lloyd settles down onto his knees in front of him, “Zane?” he says quietly.

Zane looks up at his face and Lloyd is giving him a sad look, “Do you want me to go get someone else?”

What was wrong with him? Was his mask slipping so badly? A little pain and suddenly he couldn’t hold it together enough not to worry his friends. He's acutely aware he’s in a spiral but can’t stop himself, feeling lower and lower with every second.

Lloyd swallows and awkwardly goes to fill the silence, “I was gonna try and talk to you in the library. Say something inspiring or whatever, like a good leader but… it feels like I'm just making things worse for you. I guess even the green ninja messes up sometimes, huh?”

It’s meant as a lighthearted joke, something to break the tension. Zane says, “You are not messing anything up.” instead of laughing.

Another pause, “Thanks, Zane.” He almost seems guilty about Zane's words. “But it’s not about me right now, yeah? Is there anything I can do for you?”

His filter has grown gossamer thin throughout this ordeal, words slipping through his mind and past his lips before he can analyze them and shape them into something kinder, “I do not want your help.” Immediately he wants to snatch the words back out of the air, but it’s not possible. Even if it was, he was in no condition to successfully grab anything.

“Oh.” Lloyd says flatly, doing everything in his power to conceal the sting of those words.

He has to fix this, “It is not… You should not have to help me.” he tries.

Lloyd’s eyebrows furrow, “I shouldn’t…?”

“I am supposed to take care of you.” Zane admits weakly.

That seems to explain everything. Lloyds face opens up with understanding, mouth forming an O before he offers Zane another sad smile, “Thank you, Zane, for everything you did for me as a kid. You were there when I needed you so… let me return the favor.” he tries. When Zane doesn’t respond, he rests his hand on Zane's softly. He’d been picking at the fibers of the blanket, and now his fingers stilled, “There is no shame in accepting my help, Zane. I want to help you. This doesn’t make me see you any differently, you know? You’ll always be someone I rely on. I want to be someone you can rely on, too.”

Zane's eyes feel wet again, “Thank you, Lloyd.”

“I love you.” Lloyd says as he stands, leaning over to lightly lay his head on top of Zanes. A real hug wasn’t a good idea- but this little sign of affection worked just as well. Zane has to wipe away a few stray tears.

“I love you too.”

He’s in the kitchen today, doing his best to help with dinner. Kai was humming to himself while Zane prepared some of the spices for the chili. Rarely was Kai so particular about teaspoons and tablespoons while he cooked, but he’d handed him an old recipe card so Zane could help. It was almost patronizing if it wasn’t so refreshing to be cooking again. He rarely went three days without preparing some sort of meal and he was having withdrawals. After expertly and so carefully doling out the proper ratio of chili powder to cumin, Zane was all done with his assigned tasks.

He was absolutely not satisfied.

Kai was busy browning the ground beef on the stove. The tomatoes needed to be diced, and the knives were all within reaching distance… Well, he could cut a tomato, one handed or not. How hard could it be? He’d been cooking for years at this point. He could mince garlic with his eyes closed!

Quietly, so Kai wouldn’t catch on and fuss over him, Zane grabs a knife and prepares to make himself useful. Without a second hand to steady the fruit, the first slice failed and sent the tomato skittering off the counter. Zane jerked sideways to catch it, dropping the knife with a small clatter. Success! He caught it! One catch: the sudden movement caused his system to jolt and his chest spit sparks, pain ricocheting up his shoulder and down his chest, curling upwards up his throat too and ending with a splitting headache at the top of his head. His chest feels wet now, too.

Kai made a distressed sound, darting over to him. His hands hovered while the sparks died down before he steadied Zane, helping him sit upright again.

“Zane! What were you thinking?” He grouched, taking the tomato and tossing it on the counter as he inspected his chest for damage. His gi top was tied loose and he wasn’t wearing an undershirt for this exact reason. His power source was still volatile while they waited for those parts to finally arrive. The movement had irritated some of Jay's jerry-rigged tubing, too, and he’d bled a bit. His blood being coolant and oil dripping down from the junction of his collarbone. Kai pops the loose plating at his throat aside and readjusts the weeping tubes with practiced ease. It hurt because everything hurt all the time now. Zane was so tired of constant pain. He was so, so exhausted with being so… weak. Kai dabbed at the streak of oil on his chest with the hand towel usually slung over the handle of the stove.

Something about Kai's tone rankled. That, at the comment he’d made at the beginning of their foray into injured cooking- this is just like when Nya was small! And his head hurt. So he wasn’t exactly as rational and pragmatic as usual when he snapped back, “I am not a child!”

Kai leaned back, startled. “I know that.” He said calmly, which only made Zane more irritated.

“That’s how you’ve been treating me.” He says tightly, trying not to fume. He hates his own tone, hates the hostility worming into his words because This wasn’t really about Kai.

What so-called chef couldn’t dice a tomato?

Frowning, Kai looked a little guilty, “Sorry, Zane. I didn’t mean to.”

“Well.” Zane wants to cross his arms petulantly, but only one of the awful things works so he ends up hugging himself with one arm instead. Which is not really what he was going for, and only succeeds in making Kai's face soften with sympathy.

“I know you’re an adult, dude. If you were at one hundred percent, you’d have made a seven course meal or something by now.” He said, leaning back against the counter, “But you’re not.”

“What?” Zane blinks, startled.

“You’re not at one hundred. You’re probably at like, ehhh, forty five?” he wobbles his hand in front of him, “Give or take.”

“I’m not useless.” Zane grits out.

“That’s true.” Kai says evenly, “But let's not pretend like you’re back to normal, alright? You wouldn’t expect me to make dinner with a broken arm, would you?”

“I would not expect you to make dinner with two working arms.” Zane snarks, but the frustration in his chest is fizzling out.

“Oh, shut up, tin can.” Kai rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Point is, don’t push yourself while you’re healing. Or whatever the robot equivalent is. If it makes you feel better, this is actually your recipe. So in a way it’s all your work anyway.”

Oh. He glances at the recipe card still sitting on the counter, belatedly recognizing Cole’s handwriting- it was one of the first things he ever made, back when his palette was less refined. Cole had insisted upon writing down the instructions to all his old meals back when he first made them. Flirting, in retrospect, though Zane had been too socially clueless to pick up on how the other boy seemed to go out of his way to invent reasons to spend extra time with him.

He should feel some type of way that he hadn’t recognized it as his own, but the Overlord had taken many things from him. He’d made peace with that choice, and could lay the sadness down to rest. Plus, the spice ratios were old and outdated, and he’d basically stopped using it after seeing just how little chili powder it called for.

The anger fades completely, leaving only pain in its wake. He almost wants to grab at it, keep it hot and simmering so he has something to focus on besides the hurt. Kai was right. He couldn’t keep pushing himself to do the things he used to, not while his body was in pieces. It didn’t make it easier to accept. It didn’t make the ache gentler to weather. Fury slips through his unworking hand like sand.

“I don’t like this.” Zane says pitifully.

Kai arches an eyebrow, “Well,” He says at length, “Don’t blow up next time.”

The frankness of it makes Zane bark out a startled laugh and he reaches up to scrub at his face. It was… nice. He’d gotten a little sick of being handled like glass. Kai always seemed to know exactly how tough Zane was, even when he was at- what was it? Forty five percent?

“Seriously, Zane, just try and relax. It’s been nice taking care of you for once- well, not the part where you’re in pain, but…” Kai shrugs a little, “You’re always doing stuff for me. I like being able to help you.”

Zane smiles a little, feeling better. Anger left pain, but happiness eased it to the background.

“Plus, with you out of commission, I’ve been able to beat your highscore on Dance Dance Revolution.” Kai adds cheekily.

Snapping up to gape at him, Zane narrows his eyes, “Oh, when I am repaired…” He threatens.

“We’ll see.”

“Well, master gamer, you might want to check on the beef.” Zane leans back conversationally, “I believe it’s burning.”

It had actually just burst into flame behind him. Perfect timing. Kai turns around and screams.

They order pizza for dinner.

The window is open and there's a soft breeze, cool air trickling in and circulating through the living room. He’s sitting on the couch leaned up against Cole, dozing lightly in the late morning slump. This had become his favorite spot in the monastery over his recovery period. The team had come together for a few movie nights over the week, and if not movies then he would lounge around while Cole read to him or Jay and Kai played video games. It was the hub of activity during this period of downtime, and he rarely was alone.

He coughs lightly, grimacing at the stab low in his chest and the acrid taste of oil on the back of his tongue. There’s no avoiding it. His body isn’t meant to run so long duct taped together like it was- things kept jostling loose. Nya and Pixal are out in town, so he’ll have to find Jay soon. Which suited him fine. Jay was, by virtue of growing up with an eccentric inventor in a junkyard full of scraps, naturally inclined to making the most of bits and bobs in a way Pixal and Nya had been spoiled from. His temporary fixes tended to stay the most steady.

For now, though, he keeps the blood in his mouth to himself. He can wait just a little longer, so used to the mess of his body by this point that he can tell an emergency from an annoyance. He wants to stay right where he is just a little while more.

Tapp tapp tapp

Cole makes a questioning noise as he taps his pencil against the variety pack of word puzzles on the coffee table.

“Hmm?” Zane blinks up at him. He’s nestled with his back against Cole's chest, legs stretched out in front of him and a blanket pulled up to his armpits. It was a cozy arrangement, sitting nearly in his lap- really, half-laying down, cuddled into the couch cushions. It made filling out the puzzle a little awkward for Cole, but he didn’t mind. He’d just pulled the furniture together so he wouldn’t have to strain, the booklet sitting on the coffee table where it’s pressed flush to the couch. This wasn’t painless because nothing was painless, but it was as close as possible. It felt nice to rest with him like this.

“Seven across. The clue is ‘clothing.’” Cole repeats, scrutinizing the crossword with a frown.

“Costume?”

“The third letter is an R.”

“Garment, then?”

“Nope.” Cole absently pets a hand over his head, the feeling soothing, lulling him back into that hazy space before sleep. “Ends in an S.”

“Mmm.” Zane closes his eyes again, “Threads.”

“Oh, I think that’s it.” The scratch of pencil on paper fills the room.

There’s a bird call outside and Zane feels Cole shift to look at him, waiting patiently. It’s a soft, tittering sound, high pitched and sweet, “Alpine Chough.” He answers the unspoken question. Cole always asked if he knew the bird from the call alone. It became tradition for Zane to tell him without even being prompted.

“Oh I like those. They’re the ones that are all black except for their orange feet, right? And yellow beak.”

Zane opens his eyes, looking out the window to the sky beyond. They can’t see the bird from their vantage point. Cole just remembered. Probably from the time Zane had pointed one out to him months ago.

“I love you.” He says sincerely.

“I love you too, Zane.” Cole kisses the top of his head gently.

The silent spell around them was broken by the front door flinging open, “Zane!” Nya’s voice rang out, loud and excited, “Guess what Pixal just picked up!”

He perks up immediately. There’s only one thing that could cause that excitement!

Nya's footsteps turn away from the living room but Cole calls out to her before she heads to the bedrooms, “In here!”

Nya practically flies into the room, “Your parts are in!” She cheers, empty handed.

The discrepancy is immediately rectified as Pixal walks up behind her. The box she’s holding is awkwardly sized and sagging with weight, but Pixal doesn’t appear to notice.

“Does that even weigh, like, anything to you?” Cole asks jokingly.

With a smirk, Pixal shifts the box so she’s holding it with one hand, “Care to join us in the garage?”

“I would like nothing more.” Zane says seriously. As Cole lifts him up and steadies him in his chair he adds, jokingly, “Only if you have the time to spare, of course.”

Pixal shakes her head at his words, “I’ve been waiting for this moment all week.”

“I’d do anything for you.” Nya adds.