Chapter Text
The guy down the hall from you was an odd duck.
His door, just down from yours, opened and closed at unusual hours. You were pretty sure you saw a demon walk through it once with a menagerie of strange people carrying party supplies. It wasn't your business, though, and he never really caused disturbances, but...
You were also pretty sure he was building a robot in there, once. More than pretty sure. Some huge guy showed up and helped him cart it out in pieces. It wasn't until you saw the breaking news, chock full of aerial footage, that you put two and two together. His lengthy disappearance coincided with Mecha Man's rumored death-but-actually-a-coma, and you recognized some of the heroes on TV as the mysterious party-goers.
He was hardly subtle. If he was trying to hide it, he was terrible at it.
Your neighbor was a superhero.
Not just that, but, one of the famous ones.
Still, though.
Not your business.
It wasn't your business when you saw him almost literally dragging himself to his door, or when you saw him limping up the stairs. Not your business when you could hear him arguing with his girlfriend. Definitely not your business when you heard their make-up sex.
You didn't make it your business, either, the night she left him. The night you heard his muffled crying through the too-thin walls you shared. Your heart went out to the guy, but. You didn't know him. Maybe once, he nodded at you as you passed him, but that was it.
It wasn't your place.
You were never one to idolize, so parasocial attachments were clear and well out of your habits. You lived next door to Mecha Man, and he was really just a regular guy in the end. The only thing you found yourself thinking about was how regular he was. Surely he'd have a mansion, right? Not one of these piss-poor units. And yet, there he was. Day after day. A regular Joe, as far as anyone else was concerned.
You weren't interested in rubbing elbows with talent or power. His secret identity didn't make you want to run into him in the laundry room, it didn't leave you wanting to strike up conversation with him. You figured, if you were a superhero, you'd want some peace while you were home. So you gave him that, curiosity be damned.
You were just trying to get by. Same as everyone else. Same as, dare you say it, him. Always vaguely curious, but far too polite.
Until tonight.
It's raining when you get home, and you spot him hunching his way up the stairs in that odd way that tells you he's had a rough go. The man is drenched. His car is missing. You hazard a guess that he's walked home drunk, and pop your umbrella open, prepared to once again mind your goddamn business.
But as you take the last step, closing and shaking out your umbrella as thunder rumbles above, you draw in a gasp when you see him fail twice to put his key in the lock before thumping into his door. He slides down it with a choked grunt and falls limp right then and there, a wheezing whine leaving him.
"Whoa—hey!"
You figure he's just hammered. And that's an easy enough thing to handle. Open his door for him, help him inside, lock the knob before you leave, good deed done. He probably wouldn't even remember you did it.
Then you see the blood. Both nostrils flowing, his lip split and swollen, dark streaks down his sopping tee shirt. "Jesus, dude, what—"
You kneel. His eyes can't focus on you. One is puffy and already turning purple, a blown vessel in the sclera. Rainwater flies from his lips when he exhales roughly, trying to stand up, mumbling something about how he's fine.
"No, you're not okay. Stay still. Give me those."
You don't even have to fight him. His fingers barely have a hold on his keys, and you unlock his door in a rush, swinging it open.
One of the roundest dogs you've ever seen runs to greet him, then stops dead with a confused cock of its head. You pocket his keys and come back down to him, lifting his arm gently. "Come on. Easy. Careful."
You have no idea where else he's hurt, or how bad. Fully prepared to call this man an ambulance, you ease him to his feet and shuffle him inside. Most of your shirt is soggy by the time you sit him in the nearest kitchen chair, and you toss his keys on his counter before flicking the light on.
He flinches and squints.
"Wh're you?" he mumbles.
"I've been your neighbor for like two years." You give him your name for the first time and peel his bomber jacket open. The wet shirt clings to a hardened body that's still probably seen better days. "Here. Lean forward."
You didn't think you'd be spending your night undressing your estranged neighbor that moonlights as a mech pilot. The jacket slaps to the floor. His dog noses your leg, observing you with a question in his cute little eyes, tail wagging softly.
"M'Rob—" He coughs, then moans with a wince, hand flying to his ribs. "Robert." It comes out quiet and wheezing, his face contorted in pain.
"Can...can I?" You pinch the hem of his shirt between two fingers.
He leans back, defeated, uncaring. As close to a sure, whatever as you're going to get, most likely. You gently pull it away, rolling it up. His stomach is tense, his breathing is shallow, and he is fucking decorated with scars.
A deep, angry contusion spreads across his ribs.
Robert hisses when you ease your fingers against it, and he grips your wrist with an icy cold, clammy hand. His eyes finally can focus, and the stare he gives you sends a bolt through you. "H-hey. I'm just. They might be broken. You probably need to go to the hospital."
"S'fine," he gruffs. Still not letting go. "Th'hell are you anyway, a nurse?"
You laugh through your nose. "Sort of. Vet tech."
You give up on checking his ribs, and he releases you. You stare at his busted lip, the swelling in his eye. The way he shivers. And you sigh. You can't leave him like this. "Do you have a first aid kit?"
Robert gives you this deadpan look.
"Of course you don't." You puff. "Be right back."
Five minutes ransacking your own apartment for supplies later, you walk back through his door with one of your fuzzy towels and your very extensive first aid kit. You could probably remove a bullet with this thing, but you'd rather be over-prepared than under.
He frowns at you as you towel off his hair and peel his shirt off as gently as you can, and it's not like he's annoyed. It's more like...he doesn't understand why you'd do all this. Why anyone would. Like he's used to nearly dying in dark corners or waking up on floors whenever his body's done suffering.
You pat his face dry, trying not to hurt him, but it's hard to avoid. The smallest whine crawls out of his throat. You go about cleaning up his cuts, putting a stop to his bloody nose, applying antibiotic cream. You ultimately decide your tube of glue wouldn't help him much. It's mostly swelling. So much swelling. Everything has scabbed or stopped flowing.
He doesn't smell like he's drunk. Robert might just be ass-whooped. Though, fuck knows how or why. "You haven't been drinking, have you?"
"Nnhwhy?"
"Because you could do with some painkillers, but I'm not giving you any if you're hammered."
"Had one beer. Honest."
The stuff you had wasn't necessarily dangerous if he was lying. You gamble on his honesty.
You tap two doses of ibuprofen into your palm and turn to find a glass, but Robert grabs your wrist again. Staring up at you, he takes them between his fingers and just swallows them dry. He blinks slow, leaves his eyes shut for a while, then breathes as deep as he dares to before letting it out. "Why're you..."
You drape the towel over him. "I couldn't leave you on the damn floor. I'm not an asshole."
It's generous to call what he does a laugh, but it's the closest answer. "Thanks...y'don't have to do more."
"Yeah, well. The thing is, if I leave you here and then, four days from now there's a bad smell coming through my vents, and I find out it's because you fell out of this chair and broke your neck, I'll feel really shitty forever. So, respectfully, I'm making sure you get to bed."
Now he's managed a laugh.
You pull him to his feet, carefully avoiding his dog. "Does he need to eat?"
"Hnm. Yeah. I can..."
"Just tell me where his food is. Come on."
"Cupboard above the sink. He can open the bottom ones."
You glance at the chubby little guy. You believe Robert on that, at least. Together, you shuffle towards his bedroom. His jeans, heavy and drenched, pose an issue. You kind of hope he's blitzed, because then he won't remember any of this, and it won't be awkward going forward.
Because he sucks at undoing his belt. Whether his hands are too cold from the rain, or he has a concussion, or he's had too many drinks (perhaps all three), he just can't do it. You're holding him up from behind; Robert leans on you, truly unable to stand on his own for long.
His bed is on the fucking floor. No frame. Not even a box spring. Jesus Christ, his back must be in either terrible shape, or impossible to injure.
Knowing he's going to get sick if you dump him into bed with wet clothes on, not to mention mess up his sheets, you make the adult, mature, executive decision.
"He—what—" Robert weakly tries to smack your hands away.
"I'm not looking, just helping. You need these off. Just helping."
He relents.
Belt. Button. And thank fuck, the zipper comes down just because you pulled on his jeans in the right way. You slip your thumbs under both his waistbands and drop everything in one go, then help him wrap the towel around his waist.
All while staring at the far wall like you're trying to find faces in it.
Mission Don't See Robert's Dick Or Ass is a success.
"All right. Just step out of these and..."
He drops down and crawls across the pitiful excuse for a bed with a soft groan. You pull his socks off, and you gather the trail of evidence as you walk back to the kitchen. His dog checks him over, tail wagging, nosing him everywhere, and Robert pats him with the motor skills of a dead cat.
He's probably just exhausted.
Maybe drunker than he's admitting.
But...
Nah. You need to check.
By the time you reach his bedroom again, Robert has oriented himself on a pillow, his arm over his eyes. "Hey," you say.
"Hrmng."
"One more thing. I really need to look at your eyes."
"Whhmm."
"I know. It sucks. But if you have a concussion I really do need to get you to the ER, man. Can't be responsible for your death. Come on. Just one look."
You step over a few piles of clothes and approach the edge of his mattress, and he whines, dropping his arm away. His head lolls towards you and he opens his eyes. "Sorry about this," you say, turning your phone's flashlight on.
"Ffffhuuuckn..."
He squints.
His pupils do what they're supposed to.
"All right. Your brain's fine. Well. Relatively."
"Hmmhm."
You pull the covers over him. He returns his arm to its original place with an unintelligible murmur.
You head to the kitchen and consider making him something for the morning. A nice sandwich waiting for him in the fridge would do him some good. But you discover this man barely has anything at all. Plenty of treats and a well-stocked food cupboard for his dog, but there's an expired pack of cold cuts in the fridge and a box of cereal on his counter.
And that's it.
You look at the dog. "How is he alive?"
He stops panting and you swear the dog shrugs.
After giving the cutie some attention, you find that the dog's name is Beef. He's already in love with you over some ear rubs. You kiss his tiny forehead and give him a scoop of food, then gather Robert's wet clothes in your arms. "Hey, Beef."
The dog looks to you.
"If he stops breathing, bark real loud, okay?"
He wags his tail.
You were going to do laundry tonight anyway, so you do the somewhat questionable thing and take Robert's keys with you before heading downstairs with your shit. You work the blood out of his clothes. Clean up his bomber jacket the best you can because it's dry-clean only, so you pretty much just dry it off and dab the stains out, then hang it up while you wait for everything to finish. It's dry-ish by the end of it, and you figure, good enough.
Then, for what you hope is the final time you do this, you're back in his apartment, placing his clean, folded outfit on the kitchen chair.
It will be more than kind of funny if he doesn't remember you. He will always wonder why the fuck his clothes were on that chair.
You put his keys on top of the pile, give Beef a few good scratches, then lock his doorknob before pulling it shut behind you.
Weird, weird night.
Robert lied through his teeth. He was hammered. But also wracked with pain, something he was used to, normally. But the booze didn't help the state of him, last night. And when he woke up with your towel still around his waist, feeling much better, he felt a strong urge to walk off the nearest cliff. His neighbor not only had to see him several kinds of fucked up, she undressed him and fucking tucked him in.
Mortifying.
And yet.
He was also profoundly touched by how professional you were about the whole thing. You even fed Beef. And when he came out to the kitchen stark naked to find his clothes clean and stacked, his jacket hung up on the back of the chair, he knew he had to make this up to you.
Your towel had blood stains on it; probably ruined. And it spent the night getting acquainted with his whole ass and genitals. He was unsure if you'd want it back. He could at least return the kit, obviously, and offer to replace that heavenly towel. He didn't know they made them that soft.
You wonder if you're doing this because you know Robert is Mecha Man, if you're just a nice person, or if it's because you feel bad for him, coming to the conclusion that all three could be true. You wrap tin foil over a heaping breakfast bowl, debating how to go about this.
If you leave it outside his door, he might just kick it across the hall on accident. Or his dog will immediately get into it. If you knock and personally hand it to him, well, that might be weird. But would it be weirder than systematically undressing a guy you barely knew? Somehow, this felt more intimate. You weren't just trying to make sure he didn't die overnight, now.
You were taking care of him.
But the best hangover cure really was greasy food. And you had a layered mess of home fries cooked in bacon grease, cheesy scrambled eggs, and chopped thick cut bacon clutched in your hands. And it wasn't like you didn't have one for yourself. No. It wasn't weird. You were being a good neighbor.
Before you can head over, though, there's a knock on your door.
You squint through the peephole.
Guess he remembered. Robert's standing there, your towel folded over his arm, and he appears to be muttering to himself. Is he practicing what he's going to say?
You attempt to hide your amusement and ease it open. "Oh, wow," you say. "Swelling is way better but. Woof. That eye."
Robert moves to rub it, and you grab his hand. "No, no, don't do that. Jesus, man. Come in here."
"It'll go away on it's own," he returns. "You can't fix that."
"I know, but I can fix your hangover." You waggle the bowl at him. "I was about to deliver this to you."
Again, that look. Like he'd never fathom it. Why were you doing any of it? He's somewhere between confused and...you don't know if there's a word for it. It's the same way a rescue dog looks at their new owner, though, and you can practically hear the sad music to go along with his black-and-white infomercial where some once-famous folk singer tells you you can feed him for only 50 cents a day.
"Why?"
An unusually strong urge to hug him crawls into your nerves.
"Because you got fucked up last night, in several ways, and the only thing in your kitchen was dog food and moldy salami."
Robert's brows perk up, just slightly, and he laughs through a soft smile. "Fair enough."
The weird thing is he doesn't feel like a stranger. Maybe because you'd been, without knowing, seeing him on the news all the time for years and years, saving people and suffering for them. More than maybe. You didn't know Robert, but you knew Mecha Man, and he was someone quite trustworthy.
"I, uh. Sorry about your towel." He holds it out. Smeared in dried blood, still a little damp. "I can get you a new one. Seems expensive." Robert thumbs the fabric a little.
You take it from him with a little laugh and spread it out in your sink, applying the age-old trick of a cold water soak with a capful of peroxide. "Terry cloth is cheap these days. Plus, this'll come out. I'm really good at getting blood out of stuff."
Robert frowns for a second, then catches up. "Oh, ha. Yeah."
You realize the unintentional period joke and choke back a laugh. "I mean, that too but, I was talking about my job. Vet tech, remember?"
Robert smirks. "How much of it translates to humans?" He runs his tongue over the scab on his lip. "Did pretty good."
"I'd say maybe 40%," you wager. "The main difference is you usually don't need to put a person in a headlock to take care of a wound."
"Ah, you just didn't find me at my worst."
You snort and turn the water off, letting the submerged towel be. You'll run another load of laundry later, or maybe just hand-wash it and throw it over your balcony railing. It was shaping up to be a nice day.
As he sank into one of your chairs, it felt like he'd always been over for breakfast. The cup of coffee you poured him felt like the thousandth. And the way he dug into your cooking — ravenous, barely even chewing — it couldn't possibly surprise you, because as far as your brain was concerned, you'd seen him do this countless times before.
You wondered if he did have powers, because you're certain this wasn't from your end. Robert just had a way of seamlessly belonging. He wasn't awkward. He walked in like he'd been over for breakfast every single day. You figured it was probably one of his many skills acquired in all his years as Mecha Man.
"Not too fast, dude," you caution, preparing a forkful of your own. "You don't want to throw up, do you?"
He slows down. Leans back. Closes his eyes for a moment and winces.
"Ribs still hurt?"
He nods.
"Can I at least get you to an urgent care? There's a decent one down the block."
Robert shakes his head. "Not broken." His brows notch upwards a tad. "Probably."
You chuff. "The hell happened to you, anyway?"
He looks to you for a moment, then he stares into his coffee. "Just working through some things."
A forkful of your own bowl blesses your tongue, and you take the silence to enjoy your cooking for a moment before eyeing him with your best that-doesn't-seem-healthy look. "Uh-huh. Was 'Things' the name of the other guy?"
Robert actually chokes a little, then he groan-laughs, holding his ribs. "Fuck. Don't do that—"
You laugh out an apology, debating if you should tell him that you know. Because, yes, you prefer to mind your business; but now that he's here, you'd love to know what he got into last night. "Noticed your car was gone. Want a ride getting it back?"
He rolls a shoulder, taking another heaping bite of his meal before answering. "I think I've interrupted your life enough. It's a short walk."
You're not going to argue with the man. Your mothering of him was coming to a close, you had a feeling; maybe he'd nod at you more knowingly as you passed in the hall, from now on, but once Robert left your apartment, he probably wouldn't be back again.
You laugh inwardly. Like a stray cat. A long time ago, in your first year here, you managed to wrangle an injured Tom cat into your bathroom. He only let you touch him because he was on the verge of death. You stabilized him, brought him to work the next day, and had him right as rain by the end of the week. He purred like a thunderstorm while you gave him probably the first pets he'd ever experienced, kneading his heating pad, drooling, even.
You entertained keeping him. But you decided to leave it up to him. He'd been outside his whole life, sporting those big chunky cheeks. Ear-tipped and unable to fill the neighborhood with even more cats, you let him out of the carrier after you parked and told yourself: if he follows me upstairs, he's my cat now.
You never saw that Tom again.
You gave Robert your number with no expectations.
And when you opened your door for him, it felt like the day you opened that carrier.
Just another good deed done, another wild soul let back into the world.