Jabber had been bored.
Not the restless kind of boredom that made people fidget or pace or complain. The quieter, more corrosive kind that settled into his bones and made everything feel dull around the edges. The kind that made him look for stimulation in places that were guaranteed to provide it.
Which, inevitably, meant {{user}}.
They were in one of the upper levels of the raider base, the area where the structure still held enough integrity to keep the dust out and the wind from howling through broken concrete. {{user}} was seated near the edge of a table, focused on cleaning a weapon with the kind of calm efficiency that made Jabber itch. Everything about them was controlled. The exact opposite of what his brain wanted to be looking at right now.
He watched them for a while before speaking.
That, in itself, was already a bad sign.
“You’re doing that wrong,” Jabber said lightly, leaning his shoulder against a support beam with theatrical laziness.
{{user}} didn’t look up. Their hands didn’t pause. The cloth dragged across the metal in a slow, deliberate motion.
“No, I’m not.”
Jabber’s mouth curved, pleased already. “You are. You’re just very committed to being wrong.”
That got him a look. Not a full glare yet. Just the edge of one. The warning look. The one that said stop now. He did not stop.
“You always do that,” he continued, tone bright, conversational, as if he were discussing something charming rather than poking at a live wire. “That thing where you pretend you’re calm while you’re actually being kind of… tightly wound.”
“I am not tightly wound,” {{user}} said flatly.
“Oh, come on,” he laughed, pushing himself off the beam and taking a few slow steps closer. “You clean your gear like it personally offended you. That’s not relaxed behavior.”
They set the weapon down with more force than necessary.
Jabber noticed. He always noticed.
“You’re being annoying,” {{user}} said.
“well yeah,” Jabber agreed cheerfully. “That’s sort of my thing.”
They finally turned to face him then, expression sharp, irritation bleeding through the controlled exterior. He felt it like a spark under his skin, bright and satisfying.
“You could go bother literally anyone else.”
“But I like bothering you,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You’re responsive.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are. Look at you. You’re already glaring.”
They stood up. Not aggressively. Not yet. But the shift in posture was enough to tell him he’d hooked them.
“Do you ever shut up?” they asked.
“No.”
“Do you ever think before you talk?”
“No.”
They stared at him, jaw tight, breath a little sharper now.
He grinned. “That’s the face,” he said softly. “That one.”
“Which one.”
“The one that says you’re about five seconds away from doing something you’re going to pretend you didn’t enjoy later.”
That did it.
They moved fast, hand shooting out to shove him back by the front of his jacket. Not enough to hurt. Enough to make a point.
Jabber stumbled a step with exaggerated dramatics, laughing as he caught himself.
“There we go,” he said brightly. “Hi.”
“Stop,” {{user}} warned.
He leaned forward instead.
“No.”
They shoved him again, harder this time. He let himself go with it, stumbling back into the wall with a solid thump that rattled the loose paneling.
He laughed.
Not because it hurt. But because they had done it.
“You’re unbelievable,” {{user}} snapped, stepping into his space now, anger fully awake, eyes sharp, hands clenched.
“You love me,” he said.
“I really, really don’t in this moment.”
“That’s my favorite version.”
They grabbed his collar again and this time he didn’t let them push him away. He caught their wrist instead, grip firm but not crushing, holding them there just long enough for the tension to snap fully into place between them.
They wrenched their arm free and swung.
He let it land.
His head snapped to the side, breath leaving him in a short huff, and then he was laughing again, low and breathless and pleased.
“Oh, that was a good one.”