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Jabber is not surprised at all he can pick up Zanka's scent— not when his thoughts drift back to him often, ghost pains rising to the surface every time Jabber thought of the numerous wounds he had acquired whenever they crossed paths. His eyes look for him in the aftermath of the battle, squints his eyes as if that would help him locate him better through the settling dust. He finds him atop a building, keeping his distance and keeping eyes on him. He can't help the smile that curls his lips, and he finds his body moving, as if pulled, before he can even think about it.
Zanka makes to turn, steps back— but Jabber doesn't want him to leave, can't begin to imagine parting ways before even sharing space. He can see it, the tension in the Raider's posture, the irritation in his eyes, withdrawn and distant and Jabber itches to peel off what troubles him.
When Jabber had called out to him, Zanka had stopped. He'd looked the other way (one second, two), before he turned his body towards Jabber. The flicker of annoyance passed, and those blue eyes softened, warmed with the loose affection they held for each other. Zanka had stayed because Jabber had asked him to.
And because he had asked him to, their usual routine had picked up. The fight always dragged something within Jabber, primal and eager for more. And it was that same something that found satisfaction upon Zanka's ferocity, on the numbness that crept up his arms whenever their Vital Instruments connected.
Jabber uses Mankira as a shield, folds the bigger claws onto themselves to block the upcoming swing. Even with that, his arms tremble with the effort, and a jolt travels from them to his shoulders, painful in nature. Jabber grins, pushes back to create space between them.
"You're a little prickly today, huh, Zanka?" Jabber points out, shakes his hands to dispel some of the numbness.
"Sorry, I'm in a bit of a foul mood."
Jabber laughs, thrilled by the admission. "Yeah? Then take it out on me, my friend."
Zanka smiles at him, something small and soft and tender in the way their fights aren't, and Jabber feels himself aching for it, lunges forward to meet Zanka midway.
Jabber's breath gets caught when he catches the opportunity— Zanka drives his staff forward, and Jabber has enough mind to find his footing, lets himself fall a step back as he steps to the side. He brings Mankira to its more compact form to be able to catch the upper half of the staff. He manages just fine, the throbbing pain that envelops his arms nothing but sweet victory. He pulls at it with force, and Zanka, obviously put off by the brazen move, follows suit, stumbling. Jabber all but hopes he has cracked a couple ribs as he delivers a powerful kick to his middle, feels exhilarated when he manages to separate the Instrument from its Giver.
It is with mirth that he holds Lovely Assistaff between his hands, laughs in triumph as he watches Zanka spit blood against the ground. Zanka pushes himself up, and the look that crosses his features —rabid and hungry with enough fury to feel like teeth around his throat— is dangerous and sharp, and Jabber swoons, because that is just what Jabber wants— no, needs. As much as the sweet buzz of victory leaves him pleased, nothing rivals the feeling of knowing that his struggles are something he is allowed to do. And here, with Zanka, he feels free, pain always on the table as they bare their teeth to each other.
"Ha! Ha! Gotcha good, Zanka!" Jabber preens, finds the comfort as his palms adjust along the staff's langets. "Got her good, too!" Jabber floats in his giddiness, is reminded of the many times the staff's rivets had left their mark on his skin as their form prod against his hands.
Zanka outstretches out a hand. "Give her back, Jabber."
Jabber pouts, brings the Instrument close, as if a child refusing to return something. "But I won, fair and square." He whines, turns his nose up when Zanka's eyes narrow. "Bet Lovely Assistaff would prefer to travel with me." He teases, and he feels anxiety prickle against his flesh when Zanka's eyes don't light up in amusement, when the shadow of irritation peeks through those blues Jabber loves so much.
"Why don't we ask her, huh?"
But Jabber simply scowls, pokes his tongue out in his direction. "Yer jus' a sore loser, admit it." He says as he brings the staff above his head, grinning at the Raider. When Zanka laughs at his quip, Jabber relaxes.
"Ya know I am, dumbass." He huffs, folds his arms across his chest. "Wanna see somethin' cool?"
The loop-sided grin holds a confidence Jabber finds himself attracted to, and he is all but a willing prey walking into the predator's mouth. So he nods enthusiastically, eagerly awaiting. His fingers twitch as something in the back of his head nags at him, reminds him of the times the itch of Mankira wanting to flex its full potential gnawed at him.
"O-OUCH! OUCH!" His hands jolt, and with a jerky motion he recoils from the source, letting go of Zanka's Lovely Assistaff. He brings down his hands to inspect them, feels the blood rush to the surface as he looks at the holes poked into his hands. He finds himself puzzled, only to find the answer when his gaze falls onto the staff, now adorned with spikes were the rivets are. "WHA—?! It could always do that?!" He brings his hands to his mouth, Vital Instrument now deactivated. He can't help but dig his fingers against his cheeks, tries to contain the grin that threatens to split his face in two.
Zanka's figure coming into his field of view snaps him out of his awe. The spikes retreat as Zanka's hand reaches for the staff, and Jabber all but bounces on the spot.
"What else does she do?!" He asks, hungry for more— surely that is not all, right? Surely Zanka has more under his sleeve, keeps secrets close to his chest that Jabber has yet to see.
The corner of Zanka's eyes wrinkle with the smile that he wears, amusement clear now. He brings the staff towards Jabber, pushes the half-moon against his middle, and Jabber looks down, expectant. "Something like this..."
He feels the gentle bite against him, spikes now growing from the then-flat nubs that flared from the inside of Lovely Assistaff's fork. Jabber feels euphoric, wishes he could taste the full bite of them in battle. His eyes find Zanka's, and the fondness in which they look at him make Jabber's heart leap.
"Promise you'll use them." Jabber breathes, takes a step forward in time that Zanka draws back his weapon. "You could have impaled me so many times by now!"
The Raider grimaces as his eyes dart away, obviously uncomfortable with the idea. "Not quite my style..."
But Jabber doesn't care, he wishes to experience everything Zanka has to offer, so with that in mind he pulls him close by his clothes. "I won." He says, as if that gave him any leverage. Zanka's eyes meet his again, and Jabber becomes aware of how dry his mouth feels, how chapped his lips are. He licks them, finds the taste of his own blood on them.
Zanka's hand reaches for his face, and Jabber stays still, doesn't know if to bite or let himself be touched. But Zanka's fingers find the corner of his mouth and wrap around and under his chin, lay there for a hot second before they fall down in a caress. Jabber's breath hitches, feels the pull he can't fight start to tug at him.
He leans close as his eyes drift to Zanka's lips, just as chapped as his and with leftover blood from when he'd spat it out prior. Underneath him, Zanka stills, and his blue eyes look at Jabber with that soft affection he has become used to, an edge of hesitation around it. Jabber's fingers pull minutely, nothing but a twitch with a silent request.
Zanka doesn't pull away, instead, his lips meet Jabber's halfway.