Chapter Text
Lepidoptera: An order of winged insects characterized by features such as their four large triangular wings and scale coloured bodies. Lepidopteran species undergo a complete metamorphis, and include insects such as butterflies and moths.
— via Wikipedia
The medical lab in the Krisis training compound that Zali must now call ‘home’ is… boring, Zali must admit. Especially when compared to the facility from his hometown. It’s not a slight against ASH. If anything, he’s grateful for the downgrade.
Here, he will use his knowledge to heal heroes, to nurse them back into fighting shape to protect the world from the evil that lurks in the shadows. That’s a job that requires the bare minimum of equipment. Hell, Zali could probably do it with a med kit and not much more.
But his old lab contained state of the art technology that was able to produce chemical compounds not yet known to man. It was his playground, a place of endless possibilities, where Zali had everything he needed to make a miracle happen.
Technically, he succeeded in his task. But he was just too late.
Lia is a constant, agonizing pain between his ribs and behind Zali’s eyes. She’s a ghost who smiles at him in the corner of his vision every hour of the day. His nightmares are set to her screams. His dreams are set to the sound of her laughter. She haunts him, and she will continue to haunt him for the rest of his life, and it is both the greatest honour and everything that Zali deserves.
When he pulls her picture from the box, it does not hurt him. It cannot hurt him anymore than the pain he already feels all the time. If anything, it’s been long enough since her passing that Lia’s photo just makes Zali smile, his smile small and gentle compared to her bright, face splitting beam. He puts the photo on his desk, angling so that when he’s at his computer, she will be smiling up at him.
He touches her face briefly. Her letter is in one of the boxes in his bedroom, tucked beneath his pillow.
Stop wallowing, he tells himself, tearing his eyes away from her youthful face. There is enough work to be done for now. “Alright,” Zali huffs to himself, absently wiping a stray tear from his cheek. He looks at his empty lab—sterile and pristine, but sure to see plenty of blood and tears in the coming days. “Where to begin?”
Medical records, Lia whispers to him. She always wanted to be his nurse. Zali nods in agreement, sitting at the computer to familiarize himself with his team mates’ medical information. It’s a simple matter, but important, especially considering that he is technically the operations manager of their team. Even if he wasn’t their medic, it’d be good for him to know their conditions.
He’s somewhat familiar with his teammates. While the three of them had mostly been operating as individual agents for the past few months, there have been times when ASH saw it fit to have them work as an official three person unit, most notably their recent escapades in Japan. Apparently, their work there was impressive enough for them to be formalized as an official unit like Dytica and Oriens, their overseas kin.
Wilson’s file is simple enough to deal with. He and Zali had worked with each other enough before being put into the same team. He’s also a remarkably simple patient, ordinary all the way through. No cybernetic enhancements, no supernatural abilities, no strange powers or even any allergies for that matter. He’s just a normal guy with frighteningly good combat abilities.
In a way, it makes him even weirder. Zali chuckles to himself as he adds it to Wilson’s file: entirely normally (freaky?). That’ll be sure to get a rise out of Wilson the next time he decides to snoop through his files.
The next file, however, is by far the more important one. Vantacrow Bringer’s. The newest member to ASH, the main reason why Zali has found himself in a team today. Zali hasn’t treated Vanta before, and they’ve only held a few casual conversations outside of their team meetings and fieldwork.
Zali still doesn’t know him that well, but after Japan, he’s excited to. Vanta seems like a genuine guy. He’s scary at first, big and broad and scarred, masculine in a way that only promises pain, but there’s a softness to his face that comes through when he smiles. Zali quite likes it.
Pulling up Vanta’s medical records immediately makes Zali pause, eyes stuttering over the first few lines of information.
NAME: Vantacrow Bringer
AGE: Classified
SEX: F
Now, Zali might not know Vanta that well, not yet, but most people would be able to take one look at him and figure out that there’s a problem with the file.
His fingers dance across his keyboard as he attaches the file to an email addressed to ASH’s medical department. Error in age and sex. Please update with relevant information. He’s not sure if this is ASH’s new way of scrambling classified information, but it’s certainly annoying.
A knock at Zali’s open door knocks him out of his thoughts. “Ah, hey Zali!” Vanta greets, leaning against the doorframe. The set of eyes expression is friendly but curious. He crosses his arms as he asks, “How’s the lab? Are ya’ settling in okay?”
He’s only wearing his compression shirt now, muscles bulging against the black fabric that’s stretched almost to the point of sheer. He should probably invest in a bigger size, Zali thinks to himself, saying out loud, “Yes, I am settling in well, mon vieux. And yourself? Satisfied with your room?”
Vanta’s smile stretches widely across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes to make room for his excitement amongst the rest of his features. “God, it’s so cool,” he gushes. Zali tucks a smile of his own behind his knuckle—it’s one of endearment, but he doesn’t want to come off as condescending or rude. Not that Vanta would notice, he thinks. The ace is excitedly explaining, “Kurococco made a little nest, and he can, like, control the lights and stuff for me– obviously that’s not the coolest thing that Kurococco can do but still– oh and I don’t know if you’ve checked it out yet but the training room–”
A ping from Zali’s computer cuts Vanta off. Zali watches as a flush crosses Vanta’s cheeks. “Ah, sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I guess you’ve got some real work to get done, unlike me.”
Zali can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him. “If by work you mean being harassed by ASH’s pencil pushers, then I’m afraid that never ends,” he jokes. Vanta grins back, wry and understanding. “But tell you what: when I’m done here, I’ll find the training room, and you can show me everything that it has to offer, okay?”
Vanta winks, a boyishly handsome thing. “Of course! Don’t keep me waiting too long, ya hear?”
Zali waves him off with a chuckle as he turns back to his screen, clicking open the surprisingly quick reply that he received. Its contents make his smile drop off his face.
File contains no errors and is updated with Vantacrow Bringer’s most recent medical assessment. Please find most recent exam results attached.
He opens the file. It’s from the aftermath of Vanta’s last mission, just two weeks prior. He sustained minor lacerations on his forearms and face, but that’s not what Zali focuses on. At the top of the first page, it’s repeated again: Vanta’s age is classified and his sex is female.
Zali immediately gives up on the age thing—ASH can be ridiculously cagey about these sorts of things and he knows damn well that getting this information from them would be more trouble than it’s worth. He’d be better off just asking Vanta about his age directly.
Sex… not so much. Zali has only really known the man for a few months or so. They definitely don’t have the rapport required for Zali to just ask him, right to his face, “Are you transgender? Your file seems to indicate that you are.”
Irritation curdles under Zali’s tongue, which he clicks in frustration. ASH has never been the most delicate organization. Unfortunately, outing their agents in their files without their consent is something that they’d do. What’s truly shameful for them is that they aren’t even outing Vanta in a way that’s useful.
SEX: F. Sure, but how does that help Zali in the slightest? It doesn’t tell him how far Vanta has gone in terms of a medical transition or what prescriptions he might need refilled. Checking Vanta’s prior prescriptions only reveals the odd painkiller, which means it’s entirely possible that Vanta just hasn’t been taking any hormonal treatments since joining ASH, and ASH never bothered to ask him if he needed any.
Zali massages the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Nurse Lia urges him, you have to ask. If you have to be his doctor, you have to know his medical needs. As always, Zali is inclined to agree with her. She was the smarter one between the two of them. That was something that everyone agreed on. He often thinks that he would’ve been better suited as Dr. Lia’s nurse than the other way around.
But then he thinks a little longer. He thinks about the easy smile on Vanta’s face as he leaned against the door, the genuine excitement in Vanta’s voice as he said, don’t keep me waiting too long, ya hear? He thinks about the natural back and forth that Vanta and Wilson had right from their first ever exchange, and the way that their bickering makes Zali laugh.
When ASH picked him up from the rubble of his home, Zali did not expect to be assigned to a team of heroes. To be given a home with them. To be able to hear Wilson rummaging through the kitchen, to know that Vanta is waiting in the training room for him. Honestly, Zali did not think he would be a hero at all. In many ways, he still thinks that he’s unworthy of the title.
It probably isn’t heroic to put this matter to the side. To neglect his duty as a doctor, Vanta’s doctor, in favour of his own comfort. But Zali tells himself that it’s for Vanta’s comfort too. That Vanta deserves better than an interrogation from someone who he still considers as an acquaintance, a coworker, more than he does a teammate or a friend.
Nurse Lia pouts, but she doesn’t probe the matter any further. Her bedside manner has always been impeccable. Zali smiles at her, on his desk in her frame, and closes out of the window. He supposes that for now, the best thing to do would be to find the training room, and start getting to know Vanta a little better.
It doesn’t take long for the three of them to build a rapport between them. They spend their days training together, eating together, and bickering together, a comfortable routine that’s interrupted by the odd mission that ASH decides to give to them. They’re always laughably easy tasks—retrieving information from a villain’s lair or being security detail for a key witness—but they’re never boring.
Zali thinks it’d be impossible for things to be boring with Wilson and Vanta around.
“You are so full of shit,” Wilson is snorting over their comms. He’s perched on a rooftop across the street, looking at them through the lens of his rifle. “Yamcha would stomp your ass.”
Standing over Zali’s shoulder as the medic takes the last of their spoils, Vanta’s smile sharpens his retort. “Are you kidding? It’s Yamcha.”
“Put some respect on my boy’s name!”
“I respect your boy—he’s my boy too! But c’mon Willy,” Vanta huffs with genuine exasperation, as though he is really, genuinely frustrated that Wilson’s not getting the point. Zali would consider the highly illegal drugs that they’re taking from this compound to be of greater importance but he will admit, he is invested in this debate himself. “He basically gets retired from the narrative halfway through Z. It wouldn’t even be a sweat for me.”
Wilson mutters, “You’re a narcissist.”
“How is it narcissistic to say I could solo one of the weakest characters in the show!” Vanta’s voice is so loud that it echoes off the ceiling of the abandoned building that they’re in. It peaks through their comms—Wilson should be fine, given their distance. For Zali, it’s piercing. “Ah, sorry–”
“T'inquiète,” Zali returns through his wince, waving off Vanta’s concern as he zips the bag and stands. When Zali turns around, Vanta’s eyebrows are knitted with guilt, an expression very much akin to a kicked puppy. Zali can’t help but tease, “Did you hear me, Vanta? Ne t'inquiète pas. ”
Vanta blinks, confused, but no less distressed. “Uh, s-sorry. I don’t follow.”
Zali grins at him. “It means no worries.” He reaches up to pat Vanta’s cheek affectionately. Even with his heels, Zali still has to rise on his toes slightly to reach. “So why, Monsieur Tyran, do you continue to worry?”
Even in the dim light, Zali can see the heat that spreads over Vanta’s cheek. Over the comms, Wilson teases, “Ooooh, Vanta, watcha’ gonna doo~?”
Vanta jerks his head to the side, out of Zali’s touch, but it’s not like he’s trying to escape. Zali can tell that this is Vanta’s attempt at scowling directly at Wilson, even though their teammate is a full street away.
“Shut it, you little rat,” he grumbles into his mic. As Wilson squawks, Vanta looks back at Zali with a quiet tilt of his head. Zali can’t fully decipher it, whether it’s another apology or gratitude or just plain courtesy.
He accepts it still, all the same. “Of course,” he returns quietly. Louder, he says, “We’ve taken everything we need. Without these reagents, the chemical weapons are impossible to produce. They’ll have to source more, at which point ASH will have the evidence needed for a more direct intervention.”
There’s a beat in Zali’s proud silence. “I guess that means we’re ready for extraction?” Vanta intones, and Zali blushes when he realizes that the instructions were probably more important than the gloating.
Neither of his teammates seem to mind. “Right then!” Wilson’s voice remains cheerful, but the professional edge that he adopts is hard to miss. “I’ll call it in. The car is two blocks over. I’ll provide cover until you reach it and then head to the secondary location. Roger?”
Serenely, Zali replies, “No, I’m Vezalius.” Vanta lets out an ugly snort as Wilson sighs a long, weary sigh before disconnecting the comms. Zali tries not to be too pleased with himself.
“Here,” Vanta says with a grin, holding out his hand. Zali blinks at him. Vanta blinks back. “The bag. I can carry it.”
He’s already carrying two bags full of confiscated equipment. Zali hesitates, seemingly too long for Vanta’s liking. Before Zali can blink, he’s rolling his eyes and just tugging it out of Zali’s hands to heft over his shoulder.
It’s a bag that requires Zali two hands to lift off the ground. Vanta hoists it on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, the straps of the other two bags looped around his other forearm. “Shall we go?” he says, voice betraying no strain at all.
Zali swallows. “Of course.” They fall into step with each other, moving quickly and silently so that their mission can finish without issue.
Still, when the car is within their sight, Zali feels compelled to add, “Thank you. It probably would’ve taken me ages to drag even one bag down this street.”
Vanta huffs a laugh. “What was it that you said? Uh, ton-quitty-pah?”
They’re lucky to reach the car at that moment. Zali has to brace himself against the hood to laugh. “An admirable effort,” he wheezes as Vanta throws their spoils in the back of the car. “But in this context, you’d actually use de rien.”
“You fuckin’ French people and your weird fake language,” Vanta grumbles, slamming the trunk of the car shut. Still, to Zali’s surprise, he comes and opens the passenger door for him, even as he says, “I hate y’all.”
Zali grins and teases, “Merci, mon vieux.”
“Oh, hon hon to you too, asshole,” Vanta retorts, slamming the door shut as Zali bursts into peals of laughter.
He’s still grumbling when he climbs into the driver's seat, but Zali can see his pleased little smirk clear as day. It widens when Zali hiccups trying to catch his breath and sets himself off again.
As their missions get harder, Zali occasionally gets pushed into the role of handler rather than field operative. Sure, he’s competent enough to hold his own in battle, and his powers allow him to keep pace with Wilson’s reflexes and Vanta’s raw strength. But there are the odd missions that spell nothing but trouble for him, and he’s the first to offer to stay back and be their eye in the sky when needed. His weakness is theirs as well, after all. If they got hurt because he was holding them back, Zali would never forgive himself.
Still, he doesn’t allow himself to slack in his training. He joins Vanta and Wilson in the training room every chance that he gets. Today, he arrives to training a bit late, held up by a sample analysis that a colleague requested. Zali ties his hair back as he enters the room, just in time to watch Wilson graze Vanta’s jaw with a spinning kick, deftly twisting his body to escape Vanta’s punishing grab.
“Hey Zali!” he greets, waving with a bright grin. Vanta lunges for him, but Wilson ducks with a yelp. “Woah, hey, I’m saying hi to our good friend Vezalius! No cheating!”
“You don’t get to use Zali as a time-out! That’s cheating!” Vanta shouts back, but he still stops to turn and wave politely. “Uh. Hey Za– ”
Wilson’s right hook cracks across his jaw and sends Vanta’s neck snapping to the side. Zali winces while Wilson, despite being the person to actually throw the punch, whimpers in fear. “S-Sorry, Vantabro!” he tries. “That was my bad. Truce?”
If Vanta hears him, then he doesn’t care. “You’re dead, Willy,” he roars, lunging for Wilson with a powerful swing. Wilson yelps and darts out of reach. “Get back here you filthy fuckin’ cheater!”
Zali sighs and leans back against the wall to watch. He’s a little grateful for their shenanigans, in all truth. They’ll wear themselves out and be much easier to handle when it comes time for him to spar. Also, it is entertaining to watch them scrap like little kids.
Vanta winds up getting Wilson pinned to the ground in a triangle choke, the poor ex-hitman’s face turning red as it’s trapped between Vanta’s powerful thighs. It’s honestly kind of bizarre to see—Vanta is just so much bigger than Wilson is, each thigh seemingly wider than Wilson’s entire head.
Somehow, Zali’s mind wanders back to Vanta’s file. Like Wilson, Vanta didn’t seem to have any genetic anomalies or supernatural incidents in his medical history, nothing that could explain his size and strength. Was Vanta always this big, this strong, even before getting on testosterone? Zali’s been studying procedures related to medical transitions as of late. He’s seen some incredible before and afters: women who grew ample bosoms and their mother’s jawlines and men who put on double their weight in muscle alone.
Zali can’t really imagine what a before Vanta would look like. Honestly, he’s not really interested in that part of it at all. What he’s more fascinated by is the Vanta that must have existed in between. Bulking up, getting bigger and stronger, taller and broader, his voice dropping and shoulder’s squaring. The period of time when Vanta was becoming a man. He must’ve been working out a lot and fighting even more.
At what point did Vanta’s thighs become as solid and thick as tree trunks? Zali wonders, biting his own lip, tracking the way that Vanta’s shorts ride up to reveal more tanned skin.
“Uh, Zali?” The sound of his name makes Zali blink. How long has he just been staring at Vanta’s thighs? His eyes dart to Vanta’s face, and he almost recoils at the way that Vanta is just staring back at him. “What’s–”
Before he can finish the question, Wilson wriggles his way free, twists around, and clocks Vanta right in the face. Vanta falls back with a shout of pain, hands flying up to cover his nose. His thighs fall apart naturally, and Wilson jumps to his feet with a triumphant shout. “Fuck you Vanta! Now we’re three to three!”
Zali just barely manages to force out a laugh. He hopes that it isn’t too strangled or flustered. At the very least, he hopes that Vanta’s too busy reeling from Wilson’s hit to pay too much attention to Zali’s shame.
After the missions start getting harder, it doesn’t take long for things to go wrong.
Zali’s pacing around his office and chewing uselessly on his thumbnail when the door finally opens. “P-Package for delivery,” Wilson grits out, voice strained under the weight of Vanta’s whole body draped over his side. “Did you order a sacrificial idiot?”
“Dude, you gotta chill,” Vanta bites back, but he’s still pliant as Wilson lays him on the bed. His eyes are clear and his voice is strong, which immediately has Zali relaxing in relief, but the amount of blood that covers both him and Wilson is still worrying. To Zali, Vanta says, “It’s really nothing crazy.”
Zali raises an eyebrow back. “Bold words from a man with that much blood on his face.”
Vanta barks out a laugh. “Fair. That’s from a shallow head injury. Wilson administered the healing foam. I’m totally fine, just covered in a shitton of blood. You know how it is.” Zali nods. Indeed, he does know. Both from treating many head injuries himself, and also because he watched as Vanta had a glass bottle broken over his head and not even flinch, immediately whipping around to shoot his assailant in the face.
“And your ribs?”
“Well…” Vanta’s expression gets sheepish. “That is hurting a lot…”
“Good!” Wilson shouts. “Glad we’re in agreement. Now, shut up and get healed, idiot!”
He then leaps onto the hospital bed to start undoing the buttons of Vanta’s vest.
Vanta’s reaction is, understandably, both immediate and violent. “What the fuck!?” he squawks, shoving at Wilson’s shoulders. “Get off of me you little freak–”
Wilson’s deft fingers manage to get Vanta’s vest open in record time. “You gotta take your shirt off for Zali to treat you!” he snaps as he throws open the vest and starts yanking at the hem of Vanta’s compression shirt. Vanta’s hands slip on Wilson’s shoulders. “Now stop struggling–”
Zali’s eyes dart to Vanta’s face to find real, genuine panic.
“Wilson.” He steps forward, putting a hand on Wilson’s chest. Gently, but still firmly, he pushes his teammate back. Wilson’s grip loosens on Vanta’s shirt, but he doesn’t let go. “Please, calm down. I know that an injury can be alarming, but that is why I am here, no?”
Wilson’s blue eyes fixate on Zali’s face. He insists, frustrated, “He’s not–”
“And that is my responsibility.” Zali smiles at him kindly and squeezes his shoulder. “You are not done with yours. Go and give your report, agent. I can handle notre tyran myself.”
Reluctantly, Wilson clambers off the bed. “T’es sûr?” he blurts, surprising Zali with both his change in language and tone.
Wilson’s French will always feel slightly off-kilter to Zali, as if it’s slanted the other way, a reminder of their different places of origin. What’s really disconcerting is the way that Wilson’s voice suddenly sounds so childish and small, like he’s asking Zali about the monsters under his bed.
Vanta groans, “Do not use French to talk over my head, you bastards.”
Wilson adds, almost spitefully, “Il fait son… son osti de tête de cochon.”
Despite the uniquely crass phrase—most certainly a colloquialism from Wilson’s home—Zali’s lip twitches with the effort of holding back a laugh. “Je le sais,” he agrees. Vanta groans even louder. “But I am your medic. I will take care of him. I promise.”
It comes out exactly as he means it, in a language that they both can understand, halfway between a flippant joke and the honest truth. Wilson’s eyes soften, even as his jaw sets. “You better,” he says, jabbing Zali in the chest before turning on his heel. “Or you’re fired!”
Zali calls after him, “I’ve worked here longer than you have!”
When he turns back to Vanta, he finds his patient looking at him warily. “What is he making you do?” It does not escape Zali’s attention that Vanta’s hands are clutching the hem of his shirt and pulling it down.
“That was nothing more than banter, Vanta,” Zali tries to soothe, but still, Vanta’s expression is still wary. “Vanta.”
“Zali,” Vanta returns, eyes narrowing.
Again, Zali’s lip twitches. He wishes his teammates would stop being funny at him while he’s trying to do his job. “Do you or do you not feel comfortable taking off your shirt?”
Vanta freezes again. This time, not in panic, but in sheer confusion. As if he was not expecting to be asked. As if he doesn’t know what to do with the question. “I, uh…” he coughs, wetting his lips nervously. “If it is in your way, then it’s fine, I can–”
“I can always use scissors to make room if need be,” Zali reassures him. Vanta looks at Zali with genuine confusion. “You’d lose this shirt, yes, and it will be uncomfortable to take off after I am done with your stitches, but that is all up to you. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”
Zali hopes that his voice is steady and soothing enough, that it does not betray the way that his chest aches. He hates the expression on Vanta’s face. When patients look at him like this, it means that their previous doctors did not do their job.
After a long pause, Vanta eventually says, “I’d uh, prefer to keep it on, if that’s okay.”
“It is.” Zali gives his reassurance with a warm smile. “Just put your arms above your head, please?”
Vanta does, and Zali grimaces. It’s a long, deep gash that extends from the middle of his waist to the bottom of his ribcage. It’s no longer gushing blood, but it’s still not a pretty sight.
Zali shot to his feet with a shout when it happened. He had been watching through the security cameras, which were angled in such a way that even he was blind to the henchman creeping up behind Vanta. He had a big, heavy machete that he pushed forward in a thrusting motion. With his superhuman reflexes, Vanta sensed his presence just in time to avoid being stabbed through the chest, twisting and turning away from the worst of the blade. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been fast enough. It tore alongside up the side of his chest, and even through the grainy CCTV camera footage, Zali had been able to see Vanta’s face twist in pain.
Wilson had been the one to put Vanta’s attacker down, his steady hands firing a bullet right into the henchman’s brain. Even through his panic and concern, Zali had thought it was much too merciful of a fate. It took far too long for him to unclench his fists.
“Is it bad, doc?” Vanta jokes now. It falls flat.
“Not ideal,” Zali hums. He sits in the chair by the bed. He thanks his past self for having the foresight to lay out his implements while they were coming back. He pulls on a surgical mask and grabs the scissors and gently nudges Vanta’s thick bicep until his body is at a better angle. The movement makes Vanta wince, which Zali idly soothes. “I know, I know…”
He neatly snips away the surrounding fabric, exposing the skin around the injury. “There,” he murmurs. He grabs his stack of gauze wipes and a bottle of saline solution to begin cleansing it.
Above him, Vanta hisses. Zali would normally try to keep talking to distract his patient from the pain, but the part of his brain that isn’t occupied by the gash is worried about saying the wrong thing. He doesn’t want to reveal that he knows what Vanta is trying to hide, doesn’t want to make Vanta even more stressed than he already is.
The position that Vanta is holding is already not a comfortable one, but his shoulders are bunched high with tension that’s unwarranted for this amount of pain.
Zali’s stomach twists with guilt. He does not apologize, not in words or in his thoughts. He can’t. He has not earned the right to give apologies, so for now, he does what he is permitted to do: treat his patient.
It’s a long wound, but Zali has always taken pride in his suturing abilities. It’s with deft movements that he closes the wound, hands steady as he ties off the knot. He reaches back blindly and finds the surgical glue to squeeze over his work. “Almost done…” he hums, glancing up at Vanta to flash him an encouraging smile. “You’re doing great.”
Vanta blinks down at him, caught off guard, before he awkwardly smiles back. “I-I’m not a kid, you know.”
Zali just shrugs, turning around to grab a thick gauze pad. “You’re still doing great. That’s worth saying.” When he turns back, Vanta’s cheeks are dark. Zali can’t help but smile at the sight. “I have to tape over the injury now, but ideally, the gauze pad should be further secured and protected with bandages.”
“Okay.” Vanta nods. Then he seems to get it. “Oh. Uh. Would you be able to cut more of the shirt and do it like that?”
Zali considers it. An uneven scissor job would allow him to reach the top of the wound while keeping the front of Vanta’s chest covered, which is what seems to be most important for him. “That would work.”
Vanta’s shoulders loosen. “Alright then,” he says, shifting to let Zali work.
When Wilson returns, Zali has finished winding the bandages around Vanta’s body, knotting it off neatly. “What the fuck?” Wilson blurts from the door. They both look up at him, and their expressions seem to only make Wilson even more incredulous. “Why’s Vanta in a crop top?”
Vanta looks down at himself and seems to only then grasp how much of his shirt Zali had to cut off. “Ah well,” he starts with a shrug, voice somewhat tense. “You know. Fashion. It’s French.”
Wilson’s eyes shift to Zali’s face for an explanation. Innocently, Zali lifts his scissors. “Would you like to match?”
Wilson’s expression flattens as he turns on his heel and walks away without another word. “Don’t laugh,” Zali immediately warns, before Vanta’s shoulders can even start shaking. “I don’t want to undo all these bandages to treat your stitches if you rip them. Also, I will have to cut more of your shirt if you want an easier time removing it in your room.”
“Got it, doc,” Vanta chokes out, voice stranded and wheezy. Zali crosses his arms and patiently waits for him to calm down before finishing his work.
When all is said and done, Vanta is sent on his way with an armful of scrap fabric, bandages all along his waist, more scrap fabric hanging off his shoulders, and strict instructions to not do anything stupid. With everything that he’s been given, there’s no room for any of that previous fear or tension, a fact that Zali notes with no small amount of relief.
“Make sure not to get those bandages wet, okay?” he calls after Vanta’s back, disappearing down the hallway. “And get some rest!”
Vanta waves over his shoulder, not looking back, walking down the hall with weary steps. Zali watches him until he can’t see him anymore, and it’s only then that he manages to exhale.
Gender affirming care was never something that Zali thought he’d have to know about. So naturally, he never studied it, at least not in detail. Back in his village, he studied the medicinal practices of his people. After Lia got sick, he studied anything that he thought could save her.
After joining ASH, Zali… stopped studying entirely. There wasn’t much more he needed to know. No amount of studying would bring her back.
His recent academic pursuit into the subject of gender affirming care has been short-lived, simply because it’s a narrow rabbit hole compared to his previous research interests. The territory is charted, all the procedures have been done before and are pretty set in stone. There’s only so many ways to make a penis or carve off breast tissue.
When he runs out of novel studies and reports to read, Zali just moves on to the mundane ones. Studies with small groups that compare the effects of testosterone with different kinds of birth control. Longitudinal studies that track breast regrowth following top surgery. The kind of articles with four or five citations at most, done by diligent researchers not for glory or fame or to break new ground, but to make sure that what is being done is good and right.
Zali appreciates this kind of medicine and research. It comforts him on the harder nights, the ones where he finds himself obsessively rereading Lia’s letter. The nights when he wakes up in a cold sweat, his scars aching from where the crystals ripped through his muscle and sinew and bone.
This kind of medicine is… mundane, so to speak. Not in its importance, because of course, it is important. Zali knows damn well that every single anonymous participant has fought tooth and nail for their survival, that these articles in the backs of medical journals concern life-saving care. The mundanity is not a lack of importance. Rather, it is in the procedure.
Taking tissue from the forearm to construct a neophallus. Grafting nipples back onto freshly flattened chests. Adjusting doses of testosterone based on the results of bloodwork. Life-changing results, life-saving results, but the work itself is simple, routine. An extension of one’s already existing skillset.
It’s medicine that just… heals. Makes people’s lives better. Medicine that allows for a process of becoming, of transforming into someone new.
On the harder nights, Zali goes to his lab and reads these articles for hours. Like they’re fairy tales, magical and fantastical and full of happily ever afters, to quiet the voices screaming about his failures, about the fact that he studied medicine and never saved anyone, that he took an oath of healing and joined an organization that taught him how to kill.
But look what we could do, Zali tells them desperately. Patient satisfaction scores, improvements in quality of life, better mental health. We are capable of this. Our hands could one day make a change that actually matters.
Sometimes, the voices are not satisfied, and they scream for blood until the sun starts to stream through the window. But some nights, they fall silent, and Zali is mercifully granted some rest.
Last night was, mercifully, one of the latter nights. As such, Zali gets to wake up feeling somewhat rested—still tired, still sore from sleeping at his own desk, still hollowed out from the grief that never seems to leave him—but in better shape than he would’ve otherwise. He groans as he straightens, cheek stuck to his desk with a bit of drool.
A blanket falls from his shoulders.
It takes Zali a moment to process it. The blanket is thick and soft and purple. It’s the same colour as the sticky note that’s stuck to Zali’s monitor. The message on it is written in a rough, slanted scrawl: Thanks for your help before. I’ll be making breakfast if you want any. If not, please go and get some more sleep, Dr. Z!
At the bottom is a lumpy shape. It takes Zali a moment, but eventually he figures that it’s probably a crow.
Zali’s laugh is raspy and dry and awful sounding, but it doesn’t stop, not even when he stands with creaking knees and hobbles his way to the kitchen. Every time he starts to gather himself, he feels the crumple of the note in his hand, and it sets him off again. He’s still laughing when he walks into the kitchen, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.
“Woah,” Vanta laughs back at him, slightly concerned. He’s in gym shorts and a loose black t-shirt. It hangs nicely off of his broad shoulders as he reaches into the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water to toss to Zali. “Did you swallow sand immediately after waking up?”
Thankfully, Zali hadn’t taken a sip of water yet, so he doesn’t choke on his laughter. “Can you stop making me laugh?” he complains when he finally catches his breath. Vanta grins toothily at him as Zali takes a long, slow drink. His voice sounds much better afterwards. “You act like your title is Krisis’ Official Clown.”
“No, that’s Willy,” Vanta quips back. “Anyways, I’m cooking some protein french toast sticks if you’re interested. Dunno how French they actually are, but you can let me know how badly I’m insulting your culture.”
Zali leans against the counter, watching Vanta push the sizzling sticks around his buttered pan. “They’re not actually from France,” he informs. “I think they’re Roman. And French toast for breakfast is more of an American thing. We tend to eat it as a snack or a dessert.”
Vanta grumbles, “I swear, you French people are gonna be the death of me…”
He still puts a few more in the pan. Zali bites back his grin as he pulls Vanta’s blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Coffee?” he offers, turning to the cabinet to grab their mugs. His is a deep, midnight blue. Vanta’s is jet black. The ceramic clacks together as he takes them in one hand and the coffee powder in the other. “I can do a pour over if you want.”
“Oh my God, please,” Vanta groans, sounding absolutely delighted. “I mean, you probably shouldn’t, considering that you normally drink tea, and you should actually be in bed soon I think, because that desk does not look comfortable to sleep in and I’m still confused why you didn’t just use your cot, but if you’re going to make it anyways–”
“Vanta,” Zali chuckles as he fills their kettle with water. “I would like to have a pleasant morning in your company. So, ferme la bouche, s'il vous plaît.”
There’s a beat of silence. Zali clicks the kettle on and sneaks a glance at Vanta’s face. He finds darkened cheeks that are puffed up in embarrassment and an awkward twist to the tyrant’s lips. “Well, I don’t need a translation for that one,” Vanta mumbles, but he’s not quiet enough to hide the oddly pleased note to his voice.
Zali grins as he looks back at the slowly heating kettle. The sun streams through the windows of the compounds. Upstairs, they can both hear the clatter of Wilson’s equipment as he sluggishly starts to move through his day.
It’s not the kind of morning that Zali thought he’d be having. He never could’ve imagined a morning like this, not when he was a kid growing up, not when he was a new recruit to ASH, not even when Krisis had just formed.
Vanta’s elbow brushes against his as they work silently, side by side. Zali thinks that this might be one of the nicest mornings yet.