Under Review p1 - Janka fic
It had been hours since the office emptied out.
The building was quiet in a way he liked. No interruptions, no unnecessary conversation, just the steady rhythm of keys beneath his fingers and the neat progression of tasks finally getting crossed off his list. He had stayed late more nights than not recently, making up for work that had piled up during the company’s transition.
Order was easier to maintain when he was alone.
Or it had been, until last week.
Zanka tried not to think about him. The way he lingered in doorways, or talked too much during meetings, or smiled like he knew exactly how irritating he was being. Jabber didn’t follow the rhythm of the office. He disrupted it. Questioned things. Did what he wanted and apologized after, if at all.
Zanka corrected him more than once.
And every time, Jabber reacted the same way. A brief hesitation, a muttered apology, color rising in his cheeks before he straightened and fixed the mistake.
Zanka told himself it was nothing. Just an employee learning the rules.
Still, he was aware of Jabber far more than he should have been.
The knock on his office door pulls him from his thoughts.
“Come in,” he says, not looking up.
The door opens. Jabber steps inside, holding a stack of papers, expression unusually subdued.
Zanka finishes the line he’s typing before turning in his chair.
“I finished the drafts,” Jabber says. “Thought you’d want to check them before I sent them off.”
Zanka reaches for the papers. Their fingers brush — just barely — and Jabber pulls his hand back like he’s been burned.
Zanka pretends not to notice.
He scans the first page. Then the second.
The sound of his name makes Jabber straighten.
“There are mistakes here,” Zanka says, measured. “Spelling. Formatting. Things I’ve already pointed out.”
Jabber shifts his weight. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll fix it.”
Zanka looks up at him then — really looks. Jabber isn’t smirking. Isn’t joking. He’s watching Zanka closely, like he’s waiting for something.
“That’s not enough,” Zanka says. “If you’re going to assist me, I need you to take this seriously.”
For a moment, Jabber doesn’t respond.
Zanka exhales, frustration tightening his chest. He stands, setting the papers down a little too quickly. They slip from his grasp and scatter across the floor.
“…I’ll get those,” Jabber says immediately, already crouching.
Zanka watches, unsettled by how quickly Jabber moves, how quiet he is as he gathers the pages. There’s no teasing. No remark. Just compliance.
“That’s—” Zanka starts, then stops himself. He clears his throat. “That’s fine. Just… fix the errors and bring them back.”
Jabber rises, papers in hand. Their eyes meet for a brief second, something unreadable passing between them.
“Sure,” Jabber says softly.
As Jabber leaves, Zanka sinks back into his chair, pulse unsteady for reasons he doesn’t want to examine.
Across the office, Jabber pauses in the hallway, fingers tightening around the stack of papers.
He doesn’t understand why his chest feels warm. Or why being corrected like that makes it hard to think.
He just knows he’s going to fix every mistake.
The office is quiet again by the time Jabber returns.
Zanka doesn’t look up when the door opens. He hears the footsteps, measured this time, stopping just inside the room.
“I fixed them,” Jabber says.
Zanka gestures toward the desk. “Leave them there.”
Jabber does, carefully. He doesn’t move away afterward.
He reads through the pages once. Then again. Slower.
When he finally looks up, Jabber is standing where he left him, hands clasped loosely behind his back, eyes fixed somewhere just past Zanka’s shoulder.
“There,” Zanka says. “That’s better.”
Jabber exhales, a quiet sound he doesn’t seem aware he’s making.
Zanka’s fingers tighten slightly around the papers.
“You respond well to correction,” he adds before he can stop himself.
The words hang between them.
Jabber’s gaze flicks up, sharp and searching. “Is that a complaint?”
“No,” he says. “An observation.”
Silence stretches. The air feels heavier now. Charged in a way Zanka doesn’t have language for yet.
“You should go home,” Zanka says finally. “It’s late.”
“Zanka,” he says softly. Not teasing. Not flippant. Just honest. “If you tell me to leave… I will.”
That lands harder than it should.
Zanka stands. The chair slides back with a quiet scrape.
He steps closer, close enough that Jabber has to tilt his head down slightly to meet his eyes.
“And if I don’t?” Zanka asks.
“Then I’ll stay,” he says. “And I’ll listen.”
Something in Zanka’s chest tightens, not desire alone, but responsibility.
Zanka reaches out, stops himself halfway, then continues, fingers curling lightly around Jabber’s wrist. Not restraining. Just grounding.
“This doesn’t leave this room,” Zanka says quietly. “And it doesn’t go any further unless we’re both clear about what we’re doing.”
Jabber nods immediately. “Yes.”
Zanka’s thumb presses once against the inside of his wrist, feeling the quickened pulse beneath the skin.
Zanka steps back just enough to give Jabber space.
“Lock the door,” he says.
Jabber turns to do it without hesitation.
The click echoes through the office.
Zanka watches him straighten again, something unmistakably calm settling over his expression.
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