Archive of Our Own

It's a strange sort of celebration. There's blood in his mouth and he can feel Shroud’s pulse pounding under his hands, and the building is still crumbling in flames behind them while the parking lot swarms with cops, but they won.

It's been too long, Robert thinks, since he's cared about anyone like this. Especially not this many people at once. It's humiliatingly unfamiliar. But being part of a team - knowing that someone, or even multiple someones, have his back - it's good. Terrifying, to rely and be relied on, but still good.

However; deeply inconvenient.

“We need to fucking party,” Prism says, looking the most disheveled he's ever seen her, with two-toned flyaways and a jagged tear in one of her long boots, one side sagging halfway down her calf. “No way in hell did I put in all that OT and almost die just to stay sober for the rest of the day."

Mostly, Robert wants to sleep for the next few months, eat his bodyweight in horrifyingly unhealthy food, and then, just for good measure, sleep a little longer. The adrenaline is waning. His ribs are knocking politely to let him know that they're ready for the top shelf painkillers, please and thank you, and there's a dull ache radiating from head to toe to echo the sentiment.

“I'm pretty sure half of us need medical attention,” He says, swallowing the last of his now-lukewarm beer. “And we might still get called in tomorrow.” It's a futile attempt.

“Shut the fuck up, Robert.” Flambae snorts. “Getting called in to where?” Behind them, one corner of the SDN building crumbles loudly to the ground. Timely.

“We just saved everyone's asses. We're getting a day off.” Prism nods.

"And look,” Flambae cuts in again, gesturing broadly to the line of reasonably uninjured people. “We're all fine.”

Superpowers, Robert suspects, come with the unfortunate side-effect of selective blindness to anyone non-powered.

“I’m pretty much a walking bruise right now,” He says mildly.

Flambae squints, turns his head from side to side, mockingly careful. “I don't see any difference, Robbo,” he says. “You know what? I actually think you look better. Maybe you should get beaten up by the guy who killed your dad more often.”

"I'll keep that in mind." He says, blowing out a defeated breath and feeling something crackle in discomfort. (Ow.)

“So… where to?” Malevola asks, tail flicking lazily.

“Not the Sardine.” Sonar, says immediately, at least having the grace to look vaguely guilty. “Because, it's, uh, probably a crime scene.” He adds, avoiding eye contact and scratching at his neck discreetly. “You know. Dead bartender, and everything.”

Robert sighs, presses down on the sensory memory of blood spray and muzzle flash. "Seconded."

It takes some herding, but they end up at an entirely mid-range bar, largely unaffected by the power cut and subsequent Red Ring attacks by virtue of being utterly uninteresting.

"The Pour House?" Robert asks critically, reading the sign. Food, drinks, and good music, it advertises. Robert imagines the last one is far from true.

"It's cheap," Coupé shrugs, sidling past him to the door.

The sleepy looking bartender perks up just enough to stare suspiciously at their ragtag group as they shoulder their way in. Golem, ducking as low as his inflexible body will let him, still manages to crunch up against one of the door handles, leaving it hanging precariously. Another day, maybe, the bartender would have something to say, but something about all the blood or maybe the absurd collection of costumes must be enough to keep him quiet.

Robert ends up on the outside of a booth, wedged beside Flambae and facing Waterboy, who's already managed to leave damp hand-prints on the slightly sticky table. It's a tight squeeze between the eight of them, and Robert winds up pressed against Flambae on one side, halfway hanging off his seat on the other. Golem looks critically at the booth with his craggy face and sits heavily on the ground. (There's a disturbing splintering sound; a problem for later. Maybe he'll do something by the third instance of property damage.)

It takes some prodding, but Sonar buys the first round. It only feels fair, considering that he tried to kill them all, and also punched Robert hard enough to maybe-possibly-probably rupture something; he accepts it with mostly good grace, straightening his tie and worming out of the booth, stepping on toes in a way that Robert is entirely certain is deliberate. Better than murder attempts, Robert supposes. Silver linings.

“Second round on Robert?” Malevola suggests as she watches Sonar lean against the bar, tapping his fingers aimlessly. "For putting us through all of his weird family's bullshit?"

“Seconds on Robert!” Flambae echoes louder. There’s a small cheer across their table, entirely too loud for the rest of the bar, whose patrons are only barely starting to trickle in, considering the hour. Flambae hooks a solid arm around Robert's shoulders, slightly too tight to be comfortable, and grins, smarmy.

“I should've knocked out more of your teeth.” Robert says without heat, staring at the gap in his smile and battling the frustration at just how solid Flambae's arms are.

"As if you could." He scoffs, squeezing tighter. Tomorrow, Robert is going to have a tough time figuring out which bruises came from where. "You barely even got the first one. It was all luck." Sonar, precariously balancing a tray full of drinks, makes his way back, sloshing overfilled glasses.

"Well, let's see if I can get lucky again." Robert says, elbowing Flambae in the ribs and extricating himself from his grip. A steady, irritating undercurrent of endearment snakes its way through him even as Flambae flips him off. Caring, right? Far from useful.

“It's basically your fault that this all happened to begin with,” Malevola teases, interrupting his train of thought. “You owe us, big time.”

“Second time I've saved your life.” Golem rumbles, holding a glass carefully in his sludgy fingers.

No arguing with that, he supposes.

It's kind of circular from there.

Predictably, they start to buy their own drinks only after Robert's been coerced into getting rounds two and three. Someone, somehow, gets control of a speaker and puts on some loud, glitzy music that thuds unpleasantly through his aching head and makes his teeth rattle. They drink, and they talk, rowdy and stupid and plastering over the pockmarks of anger and injury, and then drink a little more. (A lot more.)

Somewhere after his fourth drink - fifth, technically, if the beer from earlier is to be counted - where the pleasant buzz is starting to tip into something that whirls freely through his head, Robert notices the blood creasing the lines of his palms and crusted under his fingertips, flaking steadily as he toys with the peeling label of his beer.

It itches. It itches, and Robert stares, and he rubs his fingers together and watches it curl away in tiny red flecks,. He can feel it scratching through his skin, lysing his cells and permeating every part of him. He knocks back the last of his drink.

The bathroom is quiet, at least. Grimy in the way that bars always manage to be, but pleasantly unoccupied by drunks thus far.

He washes his hands methodically in the rusted sink, scouring every inch of exposed skin until it's raw and red and more painful than it was before. Splashes hot water on his face, and digs his nails into the soft flesh of his palms, leaving crescent shaped divots behind.

Thinks about Invisigal. Looks at the blood - her blood - staining his shirt.

(He'll need a new one, after this, if he - if he continues dispatching. Robert flexes his knuckles, thinking about the solid feeling of the suit controls in his hands, the steady mechanical hum.)

Hopefully, Visi's been all patched up by now, given the high-quality painkillers. He knows, from experience, that shoulder wounds ache. He feels a sympathetic twinge in the old, bunched scar tissue behind his shoulder-blade, then looks up, catching himself in the bathroom mirror.

Looking good, he thinks wryly, angling his head to get a better view of the lurid bruises patterning the side of his face.

Most of them are courtesy of Sonar. The others, from today's battle, are sure to make themselves known soon; he probes the tender edges of a particularly dark, mottled one, feeling the sting hiss along his jaw.

There are scratch marks along the back of his hands, clawing down his wrists, he notices, made newly visible with his cleaning. The sensation of blunt nails scrabbling against his skin crawls through his mind, followed by those desperate, animal sounds as Shroud struggled for air. He traces one of the long lines absently.

None deep enough to scar, at least. Shroud is responsible for enough of those as it is. Robert flexes his split knuckles, watching the scabbing tear, and thinks about his father's mighty, marred hands.

Not for the first or last time, Robert wonders what he'd do. How he'd feel. Would he be angry? Would he be disappointed? That Robert didn't kill him?

"Fuck," Robert says, dragging a hand through his hair. "I need to drink more."

Robert is a problem solver. It's his best trait. And right now, his problem is this: drinking doesn't entirely erase the shadows clinging to him. Solution? Distraction.

"Do you think this is some kind of weird foreplay?" Robert asks hazily to no one in particular, watching Coupé and Punch-Up locked in an overly passionate arm wrestle.

Judging by the look on Punch-Up's face, it almost certainly is.

He's stopped counting the drinks. Malevola borrowed his card some foggy amount of time ago, and he'd given up before he even had the energy to protest it. He's yet to be without a drink, though, so he isn't going to start complaining.

"Probably," Flambae says critically. "I bet the real thing sounds way more fucked up. They probably, like, drink each other's blood. " Punch-Up grunts loudly, and Robert snorts into his beer.

Outside, the street lights are on, illuminating the steady streams of people making their ways home. A few break away into the bar, largely looking tired and abjectly civilian. Robert feels tense, anyway. Still ready for a fight.

Waterboy left not too long ago, citing his grandmother. "She gets nervous when I'm out - when I stay for - go out for late. For too long." He'd explained, still only on his third beer and fidgeting nervously.

He left the glass behind, still half full. Robert finishes the one in his hands and then reaches for it, almost fumbling the slippery glass.

"Seriously?" Flambae asks. There's a funny look on his face, judgemental and unimpressed in equal measures.

"I'm sorry," Robert says magnanimously. "I should've offered it to you first." He pushes the glass towards Flambae, letting the edges of a grin play across his face.

"You're totally the lamest dispatcher we've had." Flambae says, shoving the glass back. "Like, worse than that guy whose car I set on fire. And he was fucking annoying, man."

"You like me." Robert says. "Deep down."

Flambae scoffs. "Don't get it mixed up. I saved your ass because I'm a hero, Robbo. That's what we do." He says grandly.

"Sure," Robert allows, "but you also like me."

He's not sure when he ended up left alone with Flambae; slowly but surely, their party has haemorrhaged its members. Prism disappeared into one of the darker reaches of the bar, chatting up some fluorescent, alien-looking creature with freakishly long antennae. Golem, four drinks in, lost interest in any conversation and retreated to some far corner, headphones in and head nodding slowly. Sonar and Malevola look to be mid-debate as they lean against the bar, gesturing widely, and Coupé and Punch-Up are eye-fucking blatantly across the table.

Again, Robert suffers through the wave of fondness that ripples out.

Flambae grimaces. "I like you a little bit." He says, pinching his fingers almost entirely together. "This much. You're still mostly a bitch to me." There's no real bite to it, though.

"Glad to hear it." Robert says. And, embarrassingly, he is. "I like you a little bit too."

"Shut the fuck up. Obviously you do." Flambae says, rolling his eyes. "I'm the best there is."

Robert raises his glass in toast mockingly, then takes a long swig. Grimaces at the taste of Waterboy's unintentionally watered down beer.

"You're disgusting." Flambae says, wrinkling his nose.

There's a thud, and Robert glances over to see Coupé triumphantly pinning Punch-Up's hand, sweat beading at her temples. He looks downright gleeful as he frees himself, shaking his wrist out and standing up.

"We're going to go," Punch-Up says, rapping on the table with his knuckles. "Don't get in any more fights, Robbie."

"Goodbye." Coupé says solemnly, sliding out of the booth.

Robert waves his goodbyes, then makes a face.

"Do you think she's going to eat him?" He asks, faux concerned. "Like those spiders."

"I think he'd like it if she did." Flambae leers. "Did you see his face?"

There's really no reason for them to still be this close together, now that it's only the two of them. There's more than enough space. Still, Flambae makes no move to shuffle further up the booth.

Something that shouldn't be surprising - Flambae is ridiculously warm, pressed against him like this.

It makes sense, obviously. It'd probably be stupid to assume anything else. But. Robert's had a lot going on. Dedicating any significant portion of time to considering Flambae like that hasn't been on his radar.

Well. He has eyes; and Flambae is hard to miss, even if he was trying, loud and bright and aggressively obnoxious as he is. He just wasn't an option that had occurred to Robert.

Maybe it's the drunken buzz. He knows he gets a little… impulsive, when he drinks. Blazer is evidence enough of that; were he sober, he'd cringe at the thought.

He isn't, though. Sober.

“You know," Robert says lazily, leaning too much of his weight on Flambae. "You're really warm.”

“I can literally set myself on fire," Flambae says condescendingly, shifting his bulk to accommodate. Robert looks at him. Really looks, taking in yellow eyes and stupid hair and ugly suit.

“Okay.” Robert says, and then he's leaning forward to kiss Flambae. Or, try to, at least. He misses, slightly, getting the corner of his mouth while his equilibrium adjusts.

“Oh, shit,” Flambae says, and then he's cupping Robert's face with one furiously warm palm and fixing the angle.

Neither of them are particularly coordinated. Based on the way he's mellowed with each drink, Robert assumes that Flambae doesn't have Blazer's level of alcohol tolerance; further solidified by the way he fumbles gracelessly at Robert, almost pawing at his face. He's ridiculously solid under Robert's palms, all sharp planes and angles and burning heat.

"You're a terrible kisser," Flambae bites into his mouth, pressing against him fiercely enough to nearly knock him out of the booth.

"Fuck you," Robert says easily, sliding his hands under the tight material of his ugly suit and feeling firm muscle under his fingers. "Go kiss someone else, if you want."

"Maybe I will," Flambae says arrogantly, making no move to leave.

"Shut up," Robert says, then makes him do just that.

He isn't sure how much time passes, caught in the maelstrom of heat and slick mouth and sharp teeth, until suddenly there's a sturdy weight on his shoulder.

Robert jerks away fast, hitting his elbow against the edge of the table painfully.

"Fuck," he hisses, pressing one hand against it even as he turns to look at the interruption.

"Bye." Golem says tonelessly, staring at him with an expression that Robert finds impossible to gauge. Amusement? Boredom? A complete lack of anything? All meaningless on his rocky face.

"Bye, Golem," he returns distractedly. "Have a good night."

Behind him, Flambae leans over his shoulder, looking disheveled as Golem lumbers away.

"You think he saw that?" He asks.

"I think he'd have to be blind not to." Robert says, noticing the very inconvenient reaction occurring in his lap.

Flambae appears to notice, too.

"You want to get out of here?" He asks, pitching his voice lower as he leans closer to Robert. Suddenly, it's feeling a little less inconvenient.

"My place?" Robert suggests, swallowing his influx of saliva.

"I've seen your place," Flambae says critically, wrinkling his nose. "And I don't want to see it again. It's crazy depressing, man."

"Yeah, okay." Robert allows. He stands up unsteadily, balancing himself against the table while the strongest surge of dizziness passes.

"Come on." Flambae says, grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him towards the door.

Waking up in an unfamiliar bed (waking up in a bed at all, lately) aching all over isn't actually something Robert has a wealth of experience in.

He's had a few reckless hookups, certainly, but free time isn't something he has in spades, and usually, when he does get it, he's more inclined to spend it sleeping or hanging out with Beef.

So. It's been a while.

Actually, when he pauses to think about it, it's been a while. Like, 'how-did-I-seriously-go-this-long,' type of while.

That brings him to his next, and arguably more important, question.

Who the hell did he go home with?

Gathering his courage, Robert slowly blinks the sleep from his eyes, prying them open.

"Uh," he says, staring at Flambae where he's sprawled gracelessly across the bed. "Hi."

"Shut up." Flambae says, muffled into a pillow. "Too early."

"Um," Robert manages, sitting up and staring at his t-shirt, thrown lazily on the floor beside him.

Flambae, scowling, turns over and. Pauses. Stares.

"Why are you in my bed?" He asks suspiciously.

"I have a theory." Robert says, putting his head in his hands. Chase is going to blow a gasket.

"Oh, shit." Flambae says.

Robert expects, somewhat reasonably, to be kicked out with haste, but Flambae mostly does a lot of sighing and grumbling before he slides out of the bed, dragging the sheets with him and leaving Robert uncomfortably exposed.

He watches as Flambae pulls on sweats and a shirt that stretches across his broad back, briefly distracted by the way his loose hair falls across his shoulders, and -

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Too early to immediately rehash his mistakes. He clears his throat, loudly, and starts fumbling around for his own clothes. His muscles groan in protest as he pulls his shirt on, reminding him with fervour about everything that's happened over the past twenty-four hours.

"Do you own any other clothes?" Flambae asks critically, staring at him. "That's like, the only thing you ever wear. Even in your own house."

"No." Robert says, fumbling with his socks. "This shirt is the one true source of all my power. I'd wither into dust without it."

Flambae clicks his tongue, unimpressed, and says to himself, "I need to stop drinking. My standards go way too low."

"Thank you." Robert says dryly.

There's a brief moment where the awkwardness threatens to overwhelm, and then Flambae clears his throat.

"I have cereal," he says, extending the olive branch, stilted.

"I could go for cereal."

Flambae's kitchen is more… lived in than Robert would've expected.

He's remembering flashes of last night now, mouths and hands and hot, hot breaths and heady whispers, and.

Anyway. He hadn't been paying attention to the decor, is the point.

In the stark light of day, he finds himself looking around curiously, observing various knick-knacks throughout the kitchen as Flambae clatters around.

A lot of it is tacky. There's a not insignificant amount of shitty flame decals, from the mugs stacked precariously on the edge of a shelf to, bizarrely, a framed photograph of Guy Fieri. Robert makes a mental note to ask about it some other time.

Behind all the weird, gaudy trash, though, Robert notices a few photos of a cute kid, gap-toothed and grinning next to Flambae. The famed niece, he supposes. It shouldn't be so endearing.

His home has all the hallmarks of a shitty, thirty-something ex-con with a complete lack of taste, but it's - it feels real. Authentic.

For no reason at all, Robert thinks about his own apartment, with it's blank walls and the plastic chair that digs viciously into his back every time he goes to sleep.

"Here," Flambae says, sliding a bowl of cereal towards him. The bowl is chipped, with hairline fractures running across the sides.

"Fancy." Robert nods his gratitude, shoveling cereal into his mouth.

"I'm not your wife." Flambae scoffs, propping his socked feet on the table. "Anyway. I don't cook." Somehow, he manages to sound smug while he says it.

"I'm not judging." Robert says around a mouthful. "This is probably the healthiest thing I've eaten this week."

It really is, too. It's that, like, health-conscious high-protein-low-sugar bullshit that tastes a little bit like cardboard and a lot like air; nothing that Robert can afford to turn his nose up at. His tastebuds are probably permanently seared off as a result of his own diet.

Flambae watches him with an indecipherable expression, scrutinising his movements while he eats his own cereal. Despite that, the silence is almost companionable. Underlaid with a heavy awkwardness, to no one's surprise, but not overtly uncomfortable.

"So," Robert says when he finishes, standing up to set his bowl in the sink, turning the water on. "Uh." He scrubs at the bowl halfheartedly, searching for the right words.

He's a good talker, usually. It's possible that one night stands just aren't his forte.

"Should we-?"

"Ok," Flambae says abruptly. "You're going now."

He takes the bowl from Robert, then plants his hands firmly on Robert's shoulders, steering him bodily to the door.

"Oh," Robert says mildly, allowing Flambae to propel him. "Is this-?"

"Goodbye." He says, pushing him out.

"Wait," Robert says, turning and putting his hand in the doorframe and hoping to God that Flambae doesn't currently feel like getting revenge for his missing fingers. "Should we… uh, how do you want to handle this?" He asks, stunted and desperately out of his depth.

Taking down crime rings, fighting kaiju, rehabilitating supervillains, and this is where Robert is a fish out of water.

"Is this your first ever hookup? We're not going to talk about it." Flambae says authoritatively. "Look. I'm irresistible, you can't be blamed, no one needs to know. Whatever else. The end. You understand?"

"I mean - Ok," Robert says, relieved. "See you around, I guess?" He steps back, awkwardly, and gives Flambae a completely unfitting 'bro' nod.

Flambae stares at him, incredulous, and shuts the door.

"That's reasonable." Robert says, dragging a hand over his bruised face.

"Don't mope outside my door." Flambae calls through the wood. "Go away."

Robert leaves.

Chase is there when he gets home, blonde and hovering. Definitely a sight that'll take some time getting used to.

"Thank you for babysitting." Robert says, crouching down painfully to scratch Beef behind the ears.

"Anything for that little guy." Chase says, floating half an inch above the ground. He leans over, ruffling Robert's already disheveled hair. "You out getting lucky last night? Way to celebrate, hotshot."

Robert pats his hair down instinctively and tries his best not to look guilty.

"Sure," Robert says. "Definitely."

"Should I expect to see a new face over here more often, huh?" Chase asks, digging a teasing elbow into his ribs.

"Definitely not." Robert grimaces.

"Uh oh." Chase says, peering closer. "I know that look. Who is she? Is she crazy?" Robert makes a face, and Chase starts counting his options down. "Can't have been Blazer - I was with her yesterday, and Little-Miss-Side-Switcher is still in hospital. Who?" Chase demands.

"I was quite drunk," Robert starts.

"Don't start with that." Chase says. "That's always a bad opener. Who? No, don't tell me. It can't be the short-stack or his stabby girlfriend." He mutters, counting them down on his fingers. "The tall, damp kid? No; you'd probably look… wetter."

Beef licks Robert's hand, and Robert thinks about leaving through the window before Chase reaches his conclusion.

"Can't be the red chick. Or the sparkly one. You'd be prouder about those." Chase stops, appalled.

"Was it the bat?" He asks, craning his head to stare at Robert.

"No." Robert says, making a face. "Why are you assuming it's someone from the team? Maybe I just went home with some weirdo you've never met."

"Sure you did," Chase snorts. "You don't have any game. Also, you look like you've been hit by three different trucks. At the same time. Not what most people are searching for." Review of Robert's personality and appearance completed, he re-counts quickly, staring at his hands. Then pauses.

"Robert," he says, "You better correct me on this, but right now, I'm seeing your options as a maybe-sentient rock, who I think might be physically incapable of sex, or the serial arsonist whose tooth you knocked out."

"It's really not that bad."

"Not that bad?" Chase says, hovering slightly more frenetically. "I didn't think you could do worse than Invisigal!"

"Wow," Robert says. "Is it because he's a man? I know that kind of thing wasn't appropriate back in your day, but-"

"Jokes," Chase interrupts incredulously, "I save your dumb ass again and I'm getting jokes for it."

"Get in line." Robert sighs, watching Beef meander lazily away, petting quota filled. "I'm eminently saveable, it seems."

"Didn't he try to kill you? More than once?"

"A little bit." Robert scratches at his stubble. He needs to shave again soon. "It happens."

"You know what?" Chase says, "At least I won't have to pay your cremation fees. Seeing how he'll probably handle that part all by himself when he kills you."

"Economical." Robert nods, and Chase slaps the back of his head with his new strength. Robert winces, then laments ever so slightly. "It won't happen again. We were both drunk, and, you know, one thing lead to another. It's not a thing."

"Better not be." Chase mutters. "You really know how to pick 'em."

Chase stays a while longer and eats the last of the edible food in Robert's flat, but eventually has to go help out with rebuilding the SDN building. Their current solution to Blazer's lack of powers seems to be having her dictate what Chase does, sending him flying around and punching through walls like a blonde cannonball. He seems to like it.

Similarly, Robert will probably have to go in at some point. The legal aspects of everything likely need handled, and Robert would class his own involvement as pretty high. Mecha-Man will need to give a statement now that he's back. The suit will need repaired, again.

Much to do, in any case. No time to sit around thinking about what can't be undone. And, like he told Chase, it won't be a Thing, capital T. One and done; that's him.

Funny, that.

In the end, it takes two and a half weeks before they're ready for anyone to come back to the SDN. Heroes rebuild fast, it seems. In that small, but somehow endless stretch of time, Robert does what he can to stay busy; staving off boredom becomes a matter of urgency when the alternative is dealing with the confusing tangle of thoughts and emotions surrounding Shroud and his own actions, and to a lesser degree, Flambae.

It works, kind of.

He walks Beef. He fills out paperwork. He brings coffee to Blazer and works out at a different, undestroyed gym and gets far less sleep than recommended by any health expert and he thinks about his father again, and what he might have to say about all of this, except he hardly even knew him so it feels a lot like guesswork based off of everything he's heard from other people, and he thinks about that slimy bartender and the hot metallic spray of his blood and the gunshot, and he thinks about how Shroud is the closest he's ever come to really, truly killing anyone, and he thinks about how easy it could've been to dig his fingers just a little deeper into his windpipe, and.

Okay. So. It doesn't really work at all.

In the space between whatever busywork he can occupy himself with, Robert goes to three more parties with the Z-Team. Two of them are aimless, unexcused reasons to get tanked, which Robert is unequivocally on board with, because learning from his mistakes isn't something he holds as a skill. One of them claims to be a celebration of Golem's birthday, which Robert thinks isn't entirely truthful for a number of reasons, but doesn't plan on disputing. Even when they sing happy birthday and Golem leans over to ask Robert who they're singing to.

It's nice. The team is solid, and dependably undependable.

There's just one, single problem, in that Robert's predictive abilities are looking to be less than stellar.

It won't be a thing! A little voice in his head mocks as pops the buttons on an ugly pair of denim shorts and licks the planes of Flambae's teeth.

It won't be a thing! It whispers as he breathes hard against furiously hot skin and faces down Chase the next day, hangdog.

So, it happens again.

Once is an accident. Twice? Coincidence. With three times, a pattern is established, and by the fourth time, which happens without the excuse of a party or alcohol, Robert accepts his fate.

It's like a dam has broken somewhere in his psyche. He goes to the parties. He talks to the team and drinks and gravitates to Flambae and they flirt with just enough deniability to feel safe, and he ends the night pleasantly bruised with his thoughts quieting for just a few moments.

There's something to be said about coping mechanisms and pushing the boundaries of his own self-destructive tendencies, but Robert isn't entirely sure what it is.

Obviously, the Shroud debacle wasn't his first time dealing with death. He's been in the business for more than half of his life. Still. It's different, knowing that he could've done more. That he could've paid more attention to his surroundings. Would it still have happened if he had just ignored the mouthy bartender and left? In all honesty, Robert can't claim to truly care about the man himself; but he's a hero. He's meant to save people, no matter who they are. And he didn't.

The ache will fade with time, he knows, but right now it's raw with recency.

There he goes again. The spiral of self pity is infuriating.

Anyway. Flambae, strangely, is the most consistent relationship that Robert has had within the past five years.

He doesn't know what that means for him. Especially considering that his definition of 'relationship' now seems to mean casual sex and an occasional bed (or, on a particularly memorable occasion, couch) to sleep in. Unfortunately, Flambae is still ridiculously obnoxious, but it's starting to grow on Robert. He finds himself liking his stupid arrogance and his hair-trigger temper and the way he's kind of inconsiderate about everything and uncompromisingly loud.

Maybe it's something like Stockholm syndrome.

The day before they return to the SDN, Robert spends his morning sprawled lazily in Flambae's bed, contemplating the merits of getting up. After the first time, Flambae's inclination to kick him out as fast as possible has wavered - something about losing battles, he claims. Shoulders pressed together, one of Robert's legs thrown over Flambae's, it feels strangely domestic, consideration of his own self worth aside.

Flambae, of course, has to disrupt it.

"Stop making that face."

"What?" Robert asks, contemplative trance broken.

"Whatever you're doing." He says, waving at all of Robert and jostling him. "You look stupid."

"Just thinking." Robert sighs.

"That's very brave of you, Robbo, but it looks like it hurts. Do something else."

"Alright, fuck you." Robert says mildly, digging his heel into the soft part of Flambae's leg.

"Bitch," Flambae snipes back, shoving him off of the bed. He lands with a thump and sighs again, louder.

Staring at the ceiling, Robert feels something bubbling over.

"How do you do it?" He asks impulsively. "Everything that you've done. How do you move past it and just… not care?"

Flambae rolls over, peering down at him from the bed.

"Firstly," he starts, holding up his index finger. Robert stares at the stumps on his hand where other fingers should be, and wonders at the way life throws its curveballs. "I'm a hero now. Model citizen. Totally redeemed." He holds up another finger. "Secondly, I've never tried to kill anyone, Robbo. Not, like, directly. You kind of lost your shit up there." Contemplatively, he adds, "It was probably the hottest thing I've ever seen you do. Low bar, though."

"Helpful." Robert says, drumming his knuckles on the wooden floor. It's embarrassing how transparent he must be, for Flambae to understand the root of his question immediately.

"You'll live." Flambae says unsympathetically, rolling back over to his side to slide out of the bed. (His side, Robert thinks. They have designated sides, now. He's in deep.) "It's not like you actually killed anyone. Attempted doesn't hold up in court."

"Have you ever been to court?" Robert asks curiously, bemused. "That's one hundred percent a crime."

"I didn't know you were a lawyer." Flambae says snidely, waving a dismissive hand. "The point is, you'll be fine." And then, begrudgingly, "You're also, you know, Mecha Man. I'm sure you've rescued enough kittens from trees and whatever-the-fuck to make up for going psycho."

Robert snorts, draping one arm over his eyes. "Thanks. Have you ever considered a career in motivational speaking?"

"It would be waste of my talents." Flambae says easily.

"Speaking of careers," Robert says, sitting up and receiving a t-shirt to the face for his troubles. "Is this something we're going to talk about? I think we'll probably get some shit from the team."

"I already told Alice," Flambae says casually. Makes sense. Robert has seen how close he and Prism are, so it isn't unexpected. He'll be sure to watch out for her. "I mean, other than it being crazy embarrassing for me, I don't really care who knows. I'm not going to go around and tell everyone, though."

"Glad you said it." Robert says. He's not ashamed, per se, but that doesn't mean its something he wants to announce. Especially considering their lack of… definition. Robert likes that it's undefined.

The rest of the morning passes lazily. They eat Flambae's bougie cereal and snipe at each other pettily until Flambae remembers that he's meant to be babysitting his niece, and tells Robert to get lost.

Before he goes home, Robert visits Royd to check on his progress with the suit.

It hasn't been a major priority, considering everything else that's needed rebuilt, so he isn't surprised to see the state it's still in. Even so, he already itches to be back. He's had his hands on the controls, been encased in that metal shell, tall and soaring and as familiar as his own reflection. It's the most uncomplicated part of Robert's life, which sounds considerably sadder than it actually is.

Royd, cheerful as ever, doesn't really let him do anything with it; he entertains Robert's suggestions for a while, before shooing him off to enact his own vision on the repairs, which Robert doesn't really want to be in the room for. He's seen the way Royd looks at his tools; what happens in the workshop isn't something he's willing to witness. He allows himself to be herded out, and finally goes home.

He feeds Beef, takes him for a lap of the block that involves a lot of pole sniffing, and finally sits down in his chair. Yawns, broadly. He's running on maybe three, four, hours of sleep. A nap won't hurt.

When he wakes up again, it's dark out, and his neck aches from the unnatural angle he's been sleeping at.

He stares out through the glass doors of his balcony for a while, aimless and bleary, before forcing himself to creakily stand and rifle through his cupboards for any food.

Stale white bread it is. "Meal of kings," Robert says to himself, tearing off a corner to throw to Beef.

He sits back in his chair, picking unenthusiastically at the edge of a slice. A truck rumbles past outside, casting a brief sliver of light into the room and illuminating the solitary, unplugged lamp in the corner, courtesy of their latecomer.

"You think we should add one more?" Robert asks Beef, throwing him another corner. Beef stares at him with blank adoration. "Good idea, buddy."

He sets the half-loaf down and stands, staring at it critically. His jaw throbs faintly at the recollection of it's delivery.

It's an ugly, plain thing, almost entirely nondescript but for the cheap green paint. Robert sets it on the counter, feeling awfully metaphorical. Another moment's contemplation. Robert switches it on.

"Beef," he says, "I think I'm finally going crazy."

Beef doesn't respond. He does, however, steal the rest of Robert's bread.

Perhaps unreasonably, Robert hopes for a calm return to work. It starts out promising, at least.

He gets to his desk. He starts up his computer. He sets Beef down, and admires the general lack of rubble. Stares at Flambae distantly as he strolls past, caught in distracted conversation.

"You're being obvious." Chase says judgmentally from behind him. Oddly enough, he's dispatching today, too. For once, the amount of available heroes outnumbers the amount of dispatchers.

“Do you think it's a sign of some deeper issue?” Robert muses, eyes tracing the deep v of his ridiculous suit and ducking the swipe of Chase's hand.

“Brain damage, probably.” Chase nods. Not entirely impossible.

Robert goes to the break room, makes his coffee in one of the generic mugs lining the cupboards, and his luck runs out.

"Ow," Robert says calmly as Prism shoves him against a wall and holds him in place by his shirt. "Good morning to you, too."

"Robert," she says, staring at him critically. "What are you doing?"

Robert blinks at her. "Well," he says, "I was trying to get a coffee, but-"

"Not what are you doing right now," she says impatiently. "What are you doing? With Flambae? Don't you have your, whatever, with Invisigal? 'Cause I don't fuck with cheaters, Robert." And, somehow, she sparkles intimidatingly.

Robert blinks again, adjusting. Squints a little against the light.

“Are you giving me a shovel talk?” Robert asks. “Is that what's happening right now?”

“I'm not giving you shit,” Prism scoffs, shaking him by the collar a little. “Flambae could char your skinny ass in seconds and we both know it.”

“So the point of this is…?”

“The point is that you need to get your shit together first, Rob-ert.” She enunciates. “I am not going to be spending my time listening to him whine about how you looked at Invisigal for too long, or let Miss Blazer flirt all over you. I have better things to be doing. You get me?” She asks, jabbing him directly on one of the still healing fist shaped bruises on his chest.

“I'm sorry,” Robert says dryly. “I'll try to get my womanising tendencies under control.”

Prism leans closer, sparkling even more ferociously.

"Look," Robert says, deciding that blindness isn't something he's desperate to experience. "I don't have anything with Visi. We're friends, I think. But it isn't something."

She eyes him distrustfully, not letting go.

"And, you know, Flambae and I are… we haven't, uh, defined anything." He coughs awkwardly. "But I'm not sleeping around. Not that it'd be any of your business if I was." He adds.

Her face creases judgmentally, but she lets go of his shirt. "You're so lame." Prism sighs, wiping imaginary dirt from her gloves. "You passed, anyway."

"Passed what?" Robert asks, rubbing at his head where it connected with the wall.

"You're not like, a total dirtbag. But you're also not already all clingy. Good enough." She shrugs.

"Glad to hear." Robert says warily.

"You should be. You wouldn't like what I'd do next, if you didn't. And then we'd be down a pretty decent dispatcher." She says, patting his shoulder. "See you!" She turns, takes his cup of coffee from the counter, and leaves.

Wearily, Robert opens the cupboard again.

The high number of heroes makes sense now. There's considerably more downtime without the influence of the Red Ring, so a lot of them are left without much to really do. Robert highly doubts that the Red Ring will stay down for long, but they're certainly laying low while their chain of command is splintered. It leaves a solid few empty patches throughout the day, which allows Robert to pause and stretch his legs.

He takes a long, circuitous walk through the building, looking at the re-plastered walls and the uncracked windows. For less than three weeks, it's a pretty good job.

He's passing by the changing rooms when, suddenly, an invisible hand grabs him and yanks him in. Instinctively, Robert moves to defend himself, lashing out - and stops at the last second as Invisigal materialises cheerily in front of him.

"Hey," she grins, pressing into his personal space.

"Jesus," Robert breathes, lowering his fists. "Can't you say 'hi' like a normal person?"

"Thought I'd come visit you." She says. Her arm is still in a sling, but she's looking peppy. "How's the first day back?"

"Fine," Robert says. "A little boring. So far, only a few robberies. And a cat in a tree." He'd sent Flambae to that one, amusing only himself.

"Cats in trees." Invisigal says. "I'm really missing out."

"When are you coming back?" Robert asks.

"Once I heal." Invisigal says, making an aborted movement that was probably intended to be a shrug. "Doc said that I'll be getting my stitches out soon."

"That's good." The moment stretches. Robert thinks about her betrayal and redemption in quick succession and the dried blood on the shirt he's long since gotten rid of.

"You know," Invisigal says, "I still have one working hand." She raises her eyebrows meaningfully, grinning wider, and leans even closer.

Robert puts his hands out, careful to avoid jostling her.

"I'm kind of," he says, holding her at an arms length, "I have a thing. With. Someone else." He grits out, grimacing at himself.

"Who?" She asks, suspicious and reeling back. Then, immediately, resigned, "Oh. Blazer."

"Uh." Robert coughs. "Not quite. Um. Flambae?" He says, pitched like a question. Then, feeling guilty, he says more solidly, "Flambae."

Invisigal blinks. Leans back. Stares at him, eyebrows furrowed.

"Really?" She asks.

"Really." Robert confirms.

She looks at him more intently; up, down, up again.

“Well,” she says, after an uncomfortable pause, forcing mild cheer into her voice. “I guess it makes sense that you're gay. I mean, it's probably the only way you could not be into this,” she says, gesturing to herself.

“I'm not gay,” Robert interjects.

“I guess I'll have to cast my eyes to other, straighter pastures,” Visi sighs, pulling entirely out of Robert's space and brushing invisible lint from his shirt.

Robert sighs. "You do that." He says. Then, teasing, "I hear Waterboy is on the market."

She punches him solidly in the arm.

"If you're gay, no way he's straight." She scoffs. Then, contemplatively, “You think Blazer digs chicks?”

"Not gay." Robert says. And, tilting his head, "I actually have no idea." Invisigal reaches out and pats his cheek condescendingly.

"If your thing with Flambae ends, call me." She winks. "Or, you know, even if it doesn't."

"Thank you." Robert says. "Next time I'm considering infidelity, you'll be first on my list."

She grins again. Then, she leans forward quickly and kisses Robert solidly on the mouth.

"Last one." She says, then disappears.

Robert waits until he's reasonably sure that she's left, and wipes his mouth.

"Good luck, Mandy." He mutters to himself.

Flambae is relatively easy to find. The gym is otherwise empty at this hour, which Robert is glad for. He has talking to do.

“What did you say to Prism?” Robert asks, leaning over the top of the bar where Flambae is benching more than Robert's weight, infuriatingly easily. He's curious. Honestly. Not irritated at all.

“I have no idea what you mean.” Flambae says innocently. “I say many things. Be more specific?”

Maybe Shroud really did scramble my brains, Robert thinks. The sound of air whistling through the gap in Flambae’s teeth is stupid and aggressively mockable. It shouldn't ignite such a scratchy fondness in his chest. At the same time, he sort of wants to knock another tooth out. It's complicated.

"Well," Robert says, "she threatened to kill me, I think. Maybe. And she stole my coffee."

"Oh," Flambae says dismissively, "That. She does that to everyone I hook up with more than once, you know? It's cool. I get to set her boyfriends' cars on fire."

"Impressive." Robert says, staring down at him. There are three faint red lines along the bottom of his jaw, lightly raised. Flambae scowls when he catches him looking.

"That cat was a fucking devil," he starts, sitting up. Helplessly, Robert laughs.

"The cat got you?" He interrupts, grinning. "Wow. I didn't know Mister Marshmallow had it in him to take down a Z-Teamer. You been slacking off these past two weeks?"

"Shut the fuck up." Flambae snaps, shoving Robert. "I'd like to see you fucking try and catch that thing uninjured. Not all of us can hide behind a big metal robot, Mecha Man."

"Okay, Chad." Robert grins.

Flambae scoffs angrily and returns to his reps. "You're such a bitch."

Comfortable silence settles in, and Robert leans against the wall. He checks his phone, briefly distracted, and finds a series of GIFs from Invisigal, largely following a theme of aggressively stereotypical gay pride. 'Get it, girl!' He reads in floating rainbow letters.

He pauses, squinting at Flambae.

“Hey," He calls. "You know there's nothing going on between me and Invisigal, right? Or Blazer. Well,” he amends, “Visi did kiss me. A few times, actually. And I kissed Blazer once. She got me drunk, though." Jesus, Robert thinks as he hears himself. Maybe Prism was right. "Anyway. Otherwise, nothing going on.”

“I know,” Flambae scoffs. “You're definitely not hot enough to have a side chick. You should be worried about where I'm spending my free time, Robbo, not the other way around.”

“Sure.” Robert nods, stretching out to kick his ankle. “Just felt like telling you.”

“Who's superpower is saying obvious shit now, huh?” Flambae mutters. "Man, my standards have gone down. Heroes suck."

Robert snorts, then looks down as his phone beeps.

"Thanks." He shoves it back in his pocket, then hooks a thumb toward the exit. "I have to get back now." He says, leaning over Flambae again. "I'll warn you if Mister Marshmallow escapes any time soon."

Flambae sits up, scowling in the way that Robert has come to recognise as mostly performative - he loves complaining. Robert glances around, then takes his chance and darts in, kissing him quickly.

Flambae catches him by the collar as he tries to pull away, looking unhappy.

"I can't believe I like you." He says, disgusted. "You suck so much." He pulls Robert further forward, unbothered by the lack of space.

Robert ends up awkwardly braced against the wall behind them, one knee on the bench to balance himself. "You should come over later." Flambae says, hand firmly twisted in the collar of Robert's SDN shirt. "I finally got my car fixed after Phenomaman fucking sat on it. I'll give you a ride?"

Robert recognises where the next sentence is going before it even starts.

"You aren't Invisigal," He says, "So don't say it."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Flambae says, faux-innocent, "So juvenile, Robert. My standards are so low, honestly. You're lucky."

"You really know how to make a girl feel special." Robert says, staring down at him as he pries his shirt loose. "See you later, jackass."

Afterwards, Robert certainly isn't late back to his computer because he had to hide in the bathroom and wait for any work-inappropriate reactions to subside. Never a problem he's faced.

"I'm the fucking best," Flambae says over the comm, interrupting a useless conversation between Sonar and Coupé about the merits of flight. Boredom is getting to them all. "Third time today I've given my autograph. People fucking love me."

"Third?" Malevola asks. "You can do better than that. I'm on, like, five."

"I haven't given any." Punch Up grumbles. "Why the fuck are you getting them all?"

"Maybe they just can't see you." Invisigal says over her stolen comm. Who she took it from, Robert isn't sure. "Not everyone thinks to look down."

"Shut up, slacker."

"Oh, yeah?" Flambae challenges over the top of them. "I've been asked on like, four dates. What's your count, huh?"

"I removed the left hand of the last man who attempted to touch me." Coupé says unprompted.

"I don't need to keep score." Malevola says, tone teasing.

"Can we keep the line clear?" Robert asks tiredly.

"I'm not keeping score," Flambae says indignantly, taking the bait. "Just stating facts. Facts about how many people want me."

"Dude," Golem interrupts solemnly. "Not cool. Aren't you dating Robert?"

"What?" Sonar coughs over the line.

"Uh," Robert says.

"I've seen them making out like, a million times." Golem says, just as monotone.

The line goes silent. Prism clears her throat awkwardly, and Robert removes his headset for a moment, massaging his forehead in consternation. Galen stares at him from his cubicle, then slowly rotates his chair back around. Robert puts the headset back on.

"Shit," Visi whistles, falsely surprised. "That's totally crazy." There's a short pause, where Robert braces himself for whatever's next. "Do you have videos?"

Fuck it, Robert thinks. Maybe it had been overly hopeful to think they'd last the day without everyone knowing. And - well, dating isn't quite right, but he isn't getting into that. Not here. "Mountains of them." He says on a sigh. "We're starting a porn empire. Eighty bucks each."

"Eighty? Mighty high opinion of yourself, Robby," Punch-Up cuts in, unshakeable.

"It isn't Robert they'd be paying to see." Flambae says.

"Are you serious?" Malevola asks. "Like, you and Robert? Robert and you?"

"What's so hard to believe?" Flambae asks smugly. "I'm irresistible." He says, rolling his R's.

Robert mutes his comm and folds his hands across his stomach, leaning back in the chair.

“Chase,” he calls contemplatively across the cubicle. “Would you help me fake my own death? If it came down to it.”

"No." Chase says. "You made your own bed. Lie in it."

"I'm going to put you in a one star nursing home." Robert says. "Where they only ever play bingo and feed you mush."

"You deserve this." Chase says.

"Okay," Robert says, "I think that's everything." He slides the last stack of paperwork over to Blazer, shaking the cramps out of his hand.

"Thanks, Robert." She says distractedly, nibbling on the end of her pen. She's a lot less blonde, now, but still just as blazing, even in office-wear with dark bags under her eyes. He's barely seen her over these past few weeks other than sitting in the same room in silence and filling out form after form, only stopping for coffee.

"You should get some rest." Robert reminds her, standing up and shrugging his jacket on. "You've been non-stop for almost a month. Take it easy, Mandy."

She looks up at him and smiles. "I'll see what I can do." She says. "Oh, Robert? One last thing."

She pulls out another form, grinning, with the subsection of the employee handbook highlighted in the top corner.

SDN Employee Handbook, Page 12:

Personal relationships between colleagues are permitted, provided they are conducted in a professional manner and do not interfere with work performance. All employees are expected to maintain professional conduct at all times in the workplace and avoid behavior that may cause difficulty, embarrassment, or discomfort to others.

Robert sighs. "Very funny." He says, leaning over the desk to skim through the form, signing his name in the empty boxes.

"I just thought you'd like something easy to do before you leave." She says innocently. "What's simpler than signing your name?"

Juvenilely, Robert sticks his tongue out and sets the pen back on the desk. "I was going to tell you. Eventually."

"I know everything that happens in this building, Robert. Nothing hides from me." She says seriously, then grins again. "I'm just screwing with you. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Catch you later, Mandy." He says. Then, pausing against the doorframe, "Uh. Watch out for any invasive and highly inappropriate behaviour from Visi, by the way. She's… testing the waters."

"What?" Blazer asks, brow furrowing. "Right. Okay?" She looks less perturbed than expected, though. Silently, Robert wishes both of them luck for entirely different reasons.

"Gotta go." Robert says, waving goodbye. "My ride is waiting."

Flambae's still-slightly-dented car starts up as Robert slides into the passenger seat, making an unhealthy noise that Flambae swears is normal.

"You're so slow," he complains, peeling away from the curb. "Next time I'll leave you here."

"Next time?" Robert asks innocently. "You mean you're planning on driving me around more often?"

"If you died tomorrow, I wouldn't care." Flambae says easily.

"It's nice to feel wanted." Robert replies, reaching forward to flick on the radio.

Tinny music fills the car, and Robert reclines into the plush seat. It's much more comfortable than his one at home.