Work Text:
Jabber knew the migraine was coming when the words in his textbook started twisting and bleeding into each other. He'd tried to ignore the swirling patches of his vision at first, as if they'd simply go away without attention, but now he's on his third reread of the same dense-ass demyelination section:
Clinical manifestations of toxic leukoencephalopathy are extremely varied; some of these include headaches, to mild to severe cognitive dysfunction, paralysis, and death. Neurotoxicants that produce primary demyelination—
The words overlap and slip away again, and Jabber squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. He was finally getting to the good shit! He glances at the talk outlined in his notebook and can barely make out his own handwriting. Fuck. Looks like his brain really is calling it quits for the day.
Jabber rubs his temple, willing the dormant headache to disappear. The migraine aura itself is lowkey worse than the stabbing pain that follows... How is he supposed to prep for a presentation when he can't fucking read?
As much as Jabber loves aggravating Zanka by playing into the physicist's "genius" image of him, he knows he'll be torn apart at this conference if he doesn't finish this literature review. Or, even worse, the audience will write him off completely. Unprofessional, amateur, DEI hire… He's heard all that shit before. Even if he tied his locs up and took his piercings out, those old white bastards wouldn't take his work seriously.
Which is why his results need to be bulletproof. All he has to do is anticipate every possible critique they could throw at him. Light work, right? Matter of fact, Zanka might be able to help with that… seems like he's always got beef with Jabber's research somehow.
Does Zanka ever have to worry about this shit at his precious astrophysics conferences? Do people roll their eyes when he speaks at the podium, too? Jabber can't lie, hearing Zan-Zan talk science in that southern drawl cracks him up. Talkin' 'bout "galaxies quenchin' their star fermation" n' shit.
Jabber giggles, and a dull pain begins to throb behind his eye. Fuck, the migraine's already here. He winces, quickly shoving his books back into his bag. Maybe if he busts ass leaving now, he can outrun the worst of it, take some strong-ass painkillers, and pass the fuck out.
Jabber's plan works, for the most part.
As soon as he gets to the apartment, he takes his lasmiditan, grabs a bag of edamame from the freezer, scrambles out of his shoes and kicks them toward the door, then collapses into bed. Outside clothes on his clean covers… Zanka would be horrified.
Jabber grins at the mental image of his roommate's disgust, but imaginary-Zanka's scowl fades away when another jolt of pain flashes behind his eye. Ugh, useless fuckin' ophthalmic nerve. He scrunches his eyes closed to try to amplify the agony, curling his fingers into fists until the metal ridges of his rings bite into his skin. The headache stays annoyingly constant.
Where's the fun in that? Just a steady thrum of pain, frustratingly unchanging… Migraines are so fuckin' boring.
Jabber changes tactics, pinching the thin skin of his wrist and twisting it until his nerves cry out. Now that's fun… If he focuses hard enough and adjusts the pressure, he can almost feel the moment each nociceptor shoots its electrical signal up his spinal cord to his already-aching brain.
Even this game eventually grows boring, though. Jabber sighs and drags the cold bag of edamame across his brow. His eyes drift shut, and his breathing grows steadily slower and deeper until—
"You've gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me, Jabber. You had one job!" Zanka's voice echoes down the hall, intensifying the ringing in Jabber's skull. God, of course the asshole would interrupt his soon-to-be elite nap. Fuckin' sadist.
"It's been a week! Seven goddamn days! You can clean lab slides but can't clean yer own damn dishes?" Zanka continues, voice growing louder and more agitated as he approaches Jabber's room.
Jabber quickly shuts his eyes when Zanka reaches the doorway, then exaggeratedly stretches as if he'd just woken up. "What's got your panties in a twist now, Zan-Zan?" he asks, muffling a yawn.
Zanka crosses his arms. "I don't have time for this shit, J, I just got back from proctorin' that cosmology exam, n' I—" He pauses, tilting his head. "Is that my edamame?"
Jabber shifts, and a sharp bolt of pain lances through his skull. "Cosmology, huh? Man, the only Big Bang you gotta worry about is the one on your fuckin' forehead!" He bursts into laughter, which only worsens the pain. "Lookin' like Atsushi up in this bitch!"
Zanka rolls his eyes, but he looks more concerned than annoyed as he slowly steps into the room. His voice is softer when he next speaks. "Hey, uh… are you alright?" he hesitantly asks, as if Jabber's some wounded animal poised to attack and not a grown-ass man.
Jabber flops his head dramatically to the side, bringing a hand up to his temple and dislodging the bag of edamame. "Migraine," he answers simply, hoping Zanka feels guilty for yelling at him now.
Zanka nods in understanding, then steps in closer to gently move the cold bag back to Jabber's forehead. Jabber can't be sure, but he swears he felt the physicist pet his hair before retracting his hand.
"Do ya…" Zanka trails off, seemingly mustering the strength to ask his next question. Damn, it might actually fry this dude's brain to be kind to Jabber for once.
"Do ya need anything fer the pain?" Zanka finally asks.
Jabber wonders what he'd do if he asked him to kiss it better. Ha, poor Zan-Zan would probably turn redder than cinnabar, spin on his heel and storm out like the drama queen he is. Jabber smirks, then blinks up at Zanka, who's still looking at him expectantly. Ah, right, he asked him a question.
"Nah, I took my meds, just gotta nap it off," Jabber mutters. Honestly, the sooner he can get back to prepping for his talk, the better. Not that he'd ever tell Zanka that. Can't go ruining that genius facade, now can he?
"Ah, okay," Zanka says softly. He seems oddly disappointed, still hovering awkwardly at Jabber's bedside. No way… Is he really in his feelings right now over his help being rejected? First he wants to whoop Jabber's ass over a few dishes, and now he's all heartbroken n' shit 'cause he can't soothe away his pain? Ugh, make it make sense.
Just as Zanka starts to turn away, Jabber grabs his wrist and tugs him down onto the bed beside him. If he wants to help so damn bad, then so be it. Zanka acts startled, but they both know he let it happen — Jabber's already learned the hard way that Zan-Zan's mysterious martial arts training wasn't for nothing. He doesn't look all that menacing perched on the edge of the bed now, though.
Zanka furrows his brow, clearly unsure if he should pull his arm away or let Jabber trap him here. "Weren't ya gonna nap? Whaddaya want now?" he finally asks, but the words don't carry their usual bite. Jabber squints and tilts his head to look up at Zanka's face, but he won't meet his eyes. The guy's sitting ramrod straight, like he's afraid to let his guard down in enemy territory.
Jabber giggles. "Relax, Zan-Zan, sheesh! We're not spoonin' or anything," he teases. "… Unless?" He raises an eyebrow, tracing his thumb in deliberately slow circles against Zanka's wrist.
Zanka glares down at him, firmly yanking his hand out of the chemist's loose grip. "Yer barkin' up the wrong tree, asshole," he says venomously.
Fine, yeah, maybe Jabber shouldn't press his luck. But playing with Zan-Zan's emotions is addictive! He gets flustered so easily… You can't blame Jabber for seeing how much bullshit he can get away with before the guy snaps.
Zanka starts to shift away, and Jabber's skull throbs in protest. Shit, his window of opportunity is closing.
Without wasting another moment, Jabber grabs Zanka's hand again, this time dragging it onto his head. "Hurts," he murmurs weakly. He has to fight down a grin, fully expecting Zanka to call bullshit and tell him to go fuck himself.
Instead, Zanka leaves his hand where Jabber's placed it. He hums in sympathy, threading his fingers between the chemist's thick locs to massage his scalp.
Jabber forgets to breathe. His heart beats once. Then twice.
By the fifth beat, he slowly exhales, rendered truly speechless. It's hard to believe these are the same fingers that nearly wrenched his shoulder from its socket when he tried to run his dirty shoes through the wash with Zanka's sheets last week. Nah, for real, is he hallucinating right now?
Zanka seems to take his silence as permission to continue. He scoots forward and guides Jabber's head to rest on his thigh, cupping the base of his skull with one hand and tracing soothing circles through his locs with the other.
The sudden onslaught of gentle touch is jarring, but Jabber's too committed to the bit to kick Zanka out now. He sighs, trying not to think about the strong thigh pressed against his cheek. Huh. The painful pulses behind his eye have already begun to fade. Damn, those meds kicked in fast today!
"My sister used ta get headaches like this, too," Zanka says quietly.
'Sister'? Jabber always assumed Zanka was an only child. He's got that weird loner vibe, and he's mad possessive of his shit (C'mon, ya can't leave homemade gyudon in the fridge and expect Jabber not to eat it).
"Never let us see her in pain or nothin', though… always just disappeared 'till she was back ta normal," Zanka murmurs, almost like he's talking to himself.
Jabber wonders what his sister looks like. Does she have the same scowl, or the same whack-ass two-toned hair? Would she also yell at her roommate for leaving dishes in the sink? And pause, why's he talking about her in the past tense? Did they have some sorta falling out? Or did she—
Jabber's imagination wants to run further, but Zanka's trailing those blunt nails across his scalp again, and suddenly all remaining thoughts of this mystery woman dissolve like ethanol in a solvent. He shivers involuntarily, and Zanka briefly pauses before continuing his ministrations.
"This helpin'?" the physicist asks, sounding strangely tender.
Jabber slides a hand under Zanka's thigh and scoots in closer. "Not gonna lie, Zan-Zan, ya make a half-decent pillow for someone so stony! See how nice things can be when ya take that stick outta your ass for once?" he grins.
Any moment now, Zanka's gonna break. Jabber can already imagine it... Zanka shoving him off and leaving in a huff, telling him if he has time to laze around like this then he has time to do the damn dishes… But the shove never comes, and the room remains unnervingly silent.
"C'mon, not gonna clap back?" Jabber goads.
"Nah, no use kickin' ya when yer already down," Zanka sighs, twisting one of Jabber's locs between his fingers languidly.
Damn. Jabber never thought he'd be this disappointed not to be dissed... Zanka's insults are always so creative!
"Oh? Ole Jabs gets a lil' headache and suddenly Zan-Zan knows how to respect his elders?" Jabber giggles. He can't see Zanka's face, but he can feel his glare boring holes into his head.
"Fuck off, yer always startin' shit," Zanka grumbles. Ah, there he is! "Teach me ta feel sympathy fer your instigatin' ass..." He draws back, and Jabber immediately reaches for whichever hand is closest, placing it firmly back against his head.
"C'mon Zan-Zan, I was just playin'! I'll be good, I swear!" Jabber says. He'd meant it as a joke, but the thought of going from this warm lap back to a cold bag of edamame is almost more excruciating than the damn migraine.
Wait.. wasn't he just trying to get Zanka to break, though? Trying to annoy the shit out of the guy until his uncharacteristic kindness ran out? Why should Jabber care if he finally leaves? Fuck, his thoughts are all scrambled from this relentless headache.
Zanka begrudgingly starts to run his fingers through Jabber's locs again, and the chemist wisely decides to shut the hell up and enjoy it. A warm tingling feeling travels down his spine, settling into a buzz in his chest. Huh, it's almost a perfect inverse of the pain response he'd been playing with earlier.
Jabber's pulse quickens, as if his body's not sure how to react to the new sensation. God, the fuck's wrong with him today? First his brain can't handle a little light reading, and now his heart wants to implode from a fuckin' scalp massage? He needs to get his shit together!
That's easier said than done when his eyelids keep getting heavier, though. Jabber's not even high, so why does it feel like he's melting into Zanka's lap? Ugh, dude's gotta have sedatives in his cologne or something. There's no reason the calloused pads of his fingers should feel this nice.
Hm, maybe Jabber can get that elite nap in, after all…
"I swear ta God, if yer fakin' it again I'm gonna beat yer ass," Zanka mutters after a few minutes of peaceful silence.
Unfortunately, Jabber's not awake to hear the threat.