Chapter Text
"Final question for tonight—uh …" The room erupts into shouts and flashes once again, the white light spearing through his vision from above and below and making all that is before him appear dark in stark juxtaposition. He searches for someone to choose until he spots a man dressed formally with a hand raised, a paper held adjacent to his face with the other. "You—yes, yes you in the back. The man in the black suit." Robert points at the person who straightens his posture, prompting quiet and attention among the crowd.
A clearing of his throat. "Jerry Pike, L.A. Chronicles," he introduces. His voice picks up an inquisitive tone as he asks, "Mecha Man, you arrested Flambae only a few years ago. You two went from years-long enemies to working together side-by-side with the SDN to battle crime and, notably, defeat Shroud. What do you have to say about that progression?"
Robert's face turns, and his eyes meet Flambae's, standing beside him in front of his respect podium. A few flashes fill the brief silence they share as Flambae gesticulates with his hand as if to say get-on-with-it, mouth skewed into a tired frown. Robert wonders whether the press conference is beginning to tire him much like their shifts at the SDN do, the hours required to maintain public appearance bearing on their shoulders as if hands from smarmy politicians seeking to form connections. Robert's face pins again onto the dark swell of the crowd and he answers smoothly, "Well, Jerry, time works in interesting ways. People change, situations shift, relationships evolve." His hand raises palm up toward Flambae as if displaying a testimonial of success, and he feels vaguely like a man presenting his trophy wife of sorts, "Flambae's changed a lot from that day—he's worked hard for years to produce that change in pursuit of improvement." He chooses to end his answer with words that are both wise and applicable to the general public, "And I'd like to add that his journey can ring true to a lot of people's experiences—you can change, whether that's yourself, your circumstances, your goals. You know what they say—don't knock it until you try it."
Robert cannot discern the man's expression well, though it seems he is pleased with his reply. "Lots of good advice in there, Mecha Man. Flambae, anything to add?"
Flambae's head snaps up from where it was drooping, as if he were nodding off. He shrugs, his hands rocking slightly, restless energy with no outlet. "Anything I say will sound stupid compared to him, so, like, what he said." He sounds in no way apologetic of the admission. "Yeah, not really a words guy."
The reporter nods. "The media's looking forward to every fight you two undertake. You make a real interesting pairing." Robert can vaguely see the outline of the thumbs-up he raises. "Keep up the good work."
A practiced, small smile springs to his lips like clockwork. "Thank you. Alright, since that's our last question, we thank you all for coming. Have a good night and get home safe," he bids, before he turns and begins to walk, Flambae hot on his heels, their departure setting alight a new ruckus among the assemblage.
Robert sighs, and turns the video of their press conference off with a press of his thumb against the power button of his phone. He pulls the cover higher over himself where he lays next to Flambae in their shared bed, the dim light in the room originating from the bedside lamp, amber and soft. The sound of his hair ruffling against the pillow beneath sounds in his ears as he turns his face to look at Flambae, who has in his hand a novel in Dari, the other cupping the back of his head. Robert stews in silence before he asks him, "What do you think the guy meant by interesting pairing?"
Flambae grunts, having been listening to the footage in increments. "Don't know." The book shuts closed, and he sets it on the nightstand beside his charging phone, rolling his body over to fully face Robert. "You did arrest me once."
Robert smiles. "Could be it."
Appearing distinctly unimpressed, Flambae mentions, "And you sliced off two of my fingers."
"Minor details," Robert jokes, which earns him a smack on his arm when he fails to flail away from the offending hand, chuckling at Flambae's expression.
Flambae sits up and reaches over again, this time to turn off the light, darkness pouring into the room the moment he does. He lays back down and shifts, an arm circling over Robert's back and tucking him closer. "Who cares what they're saying anyway," he mutters, closing his eyes. "Internet's always got shit on people to throw around."
His phone raising to his face, Robert unlocks it with a curiosity he is already aware is true. He has debated sharing this information, though he has been informed of it for some time.
Dryly, "The media thinks we're dating."
Flambae's eyes crack open. "… They do?" he asks drowsily.
"Or that we're friends-with-benefits. Something like that." He scoffs a chuckle. "Definitely more than just co-workers."
Though he can't see him through the haze of dark, Robert can imagine Flambae's visage, carved by the sharp cuts of his features, is ridden by thought and confusion. "Since when the fuck did they think that?"
"Not sure." Robert's finger reaches out, and he begins to trace lazy patterns into Flambae's skin as if staking his claim, his mouth hovering above his collarbone. "But you know what? They're wrong." His lips make contact with his skin and he murmurs against it, "We're not dating."
He can nearly hear Flambae's surprise at the statement, even when he tries to downplay it by questioning the state of their relationship with a jest, "Is this your fucked up way of breaking up with me—"
Robert's face lifts, and he presses his lips to Flambae's, effectively silencing him. The pressure is warm and soft, soothing a path of warmth from his chest to pool thick in his belly. Flambae's hand lifts to card through the coarse strands at the back of his head and push him forward, tilting the angle, the piercing eyes watching Robert flitting close. They pull apart enough for Robert to whisper against his parted mouth, his words hot gusts, "Mecha Man and Flambae aren't dating. Robert and Chad are, though." He finds his hand among the covers and squeezes.
To put his mind completely at ease, he adds, "And if news somehow breaks, then it's fine. A lot of heroes have made their relationships clear already."
Flambae huffs a small sound of amusement. "You think you have everything figured out, huh?"
Robert pecks his lips once before withdrawing down and onto his chest. "There's nothing to worry about is all I'm saying."
"I guess I'll believe you," is Flambae's muffled reply against his shoulder, smothering the skin there with kisses.
He smiles, as he always seems to when he is in Flambae's presence. "Thank you."
Flambae's next sentence finds the shell of his ear, groggy and slightly slurred, "Go the fuck to sleep."
Robert grins against a pectoral. "No 'I love you,' you cold sonuvabitch? What kind of a heartless boyfriend are you?" he chides.
"Bitch," Flambae grumbles, pinching Robert's side cruelly and eliciting a yelp. A few moments of silence pass before he murmurs, "Love you, Bobert."
Robert kisses his cheek. "Mm. Better. Love you too."
He trails behind Flambae into sleep shortly after, his rest tonight unperturbed by the thoughts that seem to follow him from the waking world and into sleep in the manifestation of dreams so vivid he wakes to a morning believing everything he loves to be stripped from him.
"You wanna grab a drink?" Flambae asks him after their successful apprehension of another villain.
Robert's answer to the question is how he finds himself tucked within Flambae's embrace, held in a bridal carry and flying over Torrance. The city flits below them in a whir of bleary strokes of colored light underneath a hum of traffic and activity, a mosaic that is both urban culture and a streak of art that stretches for miles. The wind whips voraciously against his face, his form-fitting suit under his bomber jacket, and combs through his hair to continue beyond their singular form in the sky. Flambae is a spurt of controlled flame behind him, a warm buffer against the cold of night air for which he finds himself grateful for as he lets one of the arms that was slung around his neck hang loose by his hip.
His volume is louder than it typically is as a result of their current state of affairs, "This is romantic."
He can feel Flambae's grip, the one around his back and ending at his shoulder, tighten briefly. "Glad you like it," he answers, a little louder as well.
"You see this everyday?" Robert asks, blinking red-rimmed eyes against the wind.
"Yeah. You jealous?"
"New topic, please," he requests.
"You didn't answer the question."
"You already know my answer."
Flambae adjusts his grip and scoffs, "You're such a little shit."
Robert grins in response. He allows his weight to be shifted slightly before he asks, "Which bar are we going to?"
"This one place for heroes, by the plaza."
Robert squints. "… I think I know where you're talking about."
Within a few minutes they arrive at the parking lot of the location, their speed slowing. Flambae lands gently, one foot descending onto the asphalt before the other does, the flames consuming his figure flickering before they die out and leave behind only wisps of smoke in their absence.
Walking forward and to the entrance, Robert grabs the door handle and pulls it before reaching forward to splay fingers against the glass window, holding the door ajar for Flambae. The soft whir of heating from the air ducts blows down on him softly upon entry, the carpet compressing beneath the weight of his boots. Flambae follows close, a looming presence that lingers behind him like his shadow.
The light within the establishment is sporadic, dimmer in far corners, sharper in the spaces where drinks are poured and the names of liquor bottles, illuminated and presented on shelves, stand bright like a beacon of hope to those desiring the chance to drown their sorrows with the bitter burn of ethanol. The space is sparsely filled, with a great number of patrons sat at the bar top and in watch of the skilled sway of the tender's hands as he concocts beloved acrid tastes, an amount noticably larger than the few groups and singles filling some of the booths. Robert recognizes a few of the heroes, some newer, some older, a collage of faces from both past and present. He has met a few of them personally, in particular those wielding over a decade's worth of experience under their belt, the incantations of their voices and the lines of their faces familiar and giving rise to memories that were born so long ago it felt as if they originated from a past life. There are many others he has spied only in photos or read about in headlines, those who have yet to experience the painfulness of inevitable failure, their expressions brighter and greatly untouched by the grim reality that a job which often produces the result of extending lives is forever accompanied by the possibility of ending them prematurely.
A floorboard creaks beneath his foot as he steps forward. A head from one of the booths rotates, yet he pays it no mind when a woman alters her direction and nears their way upon their presence made obvious. As she settles behind the hostess stand, he notices a hand, unattached to her body but rather floating by her chest as if a dismembered part of a corpse floating by the means of witchcraft, brandishes a notepad with scribbles and a black-ink pen. The hands that originate from her arms hold a phone that she spares a glance at, before she diverts her attention to the screen on the stand in front of her. Her nose ring catches the glint of the overhead light and illuminates, and her sepia skin, a reddish-brown, bathes in gold as she shifts forward under it. She sweeps a frizzy, braided pigtail over her shoulder, dark eyes lifting beneath a pair of square glasses. Brief acknowledgement flickers in her face, halting her movements, before she smiles. "I assume Mecha Man," her eyes land on him, "and Flambae," her eyes flit to him next, "would like a table for two?" Her tone is knowing and, dare he presume, amused.
Robert, despite himself, brandishes a similar expression in recognition of the insinuations delivered by the lilt in her voice. "You would be correct," he confirms as Flambae comes to stand beside him in silence. The two exchange a humorous look.
The woman taps the screen a few times, eyes focused on it even as she picks up two menus from a stack. "Right this way," she says, turning and beginning to walk. They are quick to follow her as she leads them down the rows of tables and seats them in a far corner by a window, placing the menus in front of the opposing seats that they are quick to take residence in.
"My name is Brianna and I will be serving you tonight," she says. "Could I get you started with any drinks?" Robert watches as the floating hand gives the notepad and pen to her other ones and, between one blink and the next, ripples transparent before it vanishes entirely.
Her question prompts them to study the menu, and Robert hums something low and thoughtful, eyes roving over the liquors. "I'll take a … Coors Light," he replies, setting the menu down.
Flambae sets it down right after him. "A hazy IPA for me."
She jots down their orders. "Any food?"
They peer at one another, questioning. Robert begins to shake his head, which initiates Flambae's answer, "We're fine, thanks."
Her pen clicks closed and she bows forward, collecting the menus. "Got it. Be back soon," she tells them before walking toward the direction of the bar.
Robert intertwines his fingers, the sides of his hands leaned against the edge of the table. He spares a brisk glance at the dark street beyond the window, rid of any signs of life, and turns his head back again to see that Flambae is watching him.
Flambae clears his throat. "I think you should improve your ability to put yourself first instead of running into whatever danger crawls out of Satan's ass crack first." Yet another criticism of his inability to stay dormant in the face of immense peril, Robert recognizes.
He snorts, shaking his head. "You would sound like my dad," a smile spreads slowly, "if he actually gave two shits about me back when he was alive."
"Your dad sounds like a douchebag," Flambae deadpans, the faintest crinkle in his brow present.
A shrug. "I don't disagree."
A faint skrrt skrrt sounds when Flambae scratches his stubble, eyes pinned to the table. They raise as he asks, "What about your mom?"
"My mom?"
Shrugging slightly, he elaborates, "You've never told me about her."
Robert rubs a knuckle over his brow, lips pressed thin. "I barely remember anything about her." His head begins to shake again. "I don't know where she is, whether she's dead or alive. Dad never bothered telling me." He frowns. "All I know is she's not in the picture and hasn't been for a long, long time."
Flambae hums. A finger scratches at the nape of his neck. "I'm … sorry," he says sincerely, lips downturned. "That you don't know much about her."
Robert frowns for a brief moment. Softly, "Don't be." He continues with something he has repeated to himself too many times to be nothing but a mantra to quiet his mind in the frequent times it loudens, "Just the way things are sometimes." The words emerge dejected. His hands sweep wide as he clarifies, "All my life I've been witnessing this—unfairness," his voice trembles on this word. "This—this horrible," his tone colors in irritation, "fucking unfairness." He's acutely aware of Flambae's eyes on him as he continues, "I've watched people die, watched people lose things bigger than themselves, hell I've had to break the news to children who were only half as young as I was when I—" he gulps, pauses, breaths emerging short through his nose, "—when I lost dad." His hands clench into fists, and he simply lets the wave of grieving wash over him slowly but surely because he knows there's no escaping it once it has crested and begun to fall. It is a terrible tide, one that always seems to find him even on the quietest of days or in the smallest of corners.
Flambae's mouth opens when at that moment Brianna visibly makes her return to their table. There is not only one but now two floating hands, both carrying a beer glass, the cans of alcohol within each of her other hands. The floating hands place each glass down in front of them respectively before she asks if they would like their beers poured. Upon their reply she makes quick work of cracking and emptying each can.
"Thank you," they both echo one after another when she is done.
She smiles and nods. "Enjoy," she replies, before turning and leaving them to their conversation again.
Robert lifts the beverage to his lips, glass meeting skin, tipping it back. The fizz of carbonation and the sweetness hinted within the swirl of bitterness hits his tongue, both taste and sensation following the cold trail of liquid to sit comfortably at the back of his throat. The glass is placed back down with a quiet thunk, the back of his hand raising to wipe across moist lips.
A palm bears down on his other hand. His head tilts up, and his sight is filled with Flambae peering at him with soft eyes.
"What I was going to say," he starts, a thumb tracing lightly over his skin, "is that I get it. It is fucking unfair." He tuts at the hardwood beneath both of their arms as if an intrusive addition to their party of two, offended by its very presence. "There's a lot of shit out there that's unfair, and a lot of shit that's happened to us or shit that we've done that eats us the fuck alive." He visibly swallows and murmurs in resignation, "I get it." The clink of glasses, the distant, incomprehensible words of conversation from surrounding tables fill the momentary lull in his words. He continues to speak, "I think the best thing any of us can do is just push." He looks up. "Y'know? Just fucking—" The hand missing fingers raises and makes an aborted jolting motion, as if he were a mime attempting to fight his way out of an invisible box, before it drops and once more covers Robert's. "Just push. Nothing else we can do. And, uh, hopefully as time goes on, the feeling inside eats us a little less," he murmurs, motioning at his chest before falling quiet.
Robert's head tilts as he fails to battle the mellow smile that begins to contort his features. "Chad," he whispers quietly enough he is sure other tables won't overhear the name.
The man in question raises his head. A faint rouge dusts his cheeks, his eyebrows scrunched.
Robert observes him a moment longer before he laughs, head dipping in between shaking shoulders before it lifts, the words leaving him in a wheeze, "God, you're so fucking cute."
Flambae's hand immediately rips away as if stung. "You—fuck, this is why I don't do emotional shit!" he expels heatedly, a contrast from the fond glare working Robert's face.
The shift in Robert's expression is devastating. "What? No, come on, I was joking. I like when you're emotional," he chuckles. "You get so embarrassed. It's cute."
A narrowing of his eyes. "I don't fucking do cute, Mecha Bitch," Flambae retorts, lightly kicking Robert's leg underneath the table which earns him another laugh.
"Give me your hand back," Robert demands, his hand opening and closing where it was left abandoned on the table between them.
"No," Flambae shoots snarkily, lip jutted out in a display of petulance.
"Asshole," Robert mutters, then reaches out quickly enough to grasp it Flambae has no choice but to let it happen.
A shake of his head. "You have like a hand kink or something?" Flambae mumbles, staring at their conjoined fingers, a burning red high on his ears. "Fucking weirdo. Fine," he concludes, feigning annoyance.
Robert grins smugly enough he's sure that it would have warranted him a beating only so long ago. "Yaaayyy," he drawls, voice pitched slightly higher than usual, and Flambae's expression scrunches into exasperation all over again.
Flambae's words are interrupted a second time when Robert manages to get his sentiment out first, "Thank you." A surprised blink is directed at him when he looks down at their hands and then up and into Flambae's eyes again. "Seriously. I appreciate you for being understanding. It's not easy to find that nowadays in this world."
A stunned look spreads over his features. "… You're welcome," is what is responded with, and Robert finds his smile gradually reflected back at him, shards of a mirror falling into place to make a whole.
They converse for a short period of time before a large shadow suddenly falls over the table, blocking the overhead light out. Both of their heads instantaneously lift to search for the source.
Tall and postured rigidly, a being stands before them, a twist between both creature and man. The skin of his cheeks, forehead, and neck are replaced by dull, dark scales which circle beady eyes, a ripple that follows him all the way down to his forearms and hands where they're revealed beneath rolled-up sleeves. His face is ragged and bears a share of jagged scars, his mouth thin. Robert recognizes him as one of the lower-grade heroes, his ability as low as his drive to help.
Robert has a sinking suspicion that he doesn't mean well long before the gravelly-deep words surface from his mouth, "You two been hearin' the rumors?"
For a moment he is unsure of what to say. He spares a glance at Flambae who stares at the man with enough intensity it would make anyone less determined immediately falter. Robert turns his head back at the same time the man elaborates, "Word is the SDN works with a buncha queers." His eyes travel between the two of them before they land on their intertwined hands with nothing short of pure disdain. "Looks like they were right."
Flambae's expression sours with such suddenness and vehemence it could curdle milk. He raps the knuckles of his free hand against the surface of the table, his tongue a bulging shape where it prods against the space below his bottom lip. The man's face is studied for another heartbeat before he questions harshly, "Do you fucking need something?"
The question appears to humor him. "Do I need somethin'? No, no. I think you two do, though." His eyes are still stuck on their hands.
A scoff. "We're the ones that need something? I think we're fucking good." The man makes a frown that communicates he doesn't believe that to be true. Flambae's displeasure heightens, evident when he asks, "My turn for questions: you small down there, fuck-face? Did your last bang only need two fingers for a handjob?"
The man's serene composure cracks, and his face cycles into an expression of contempt. "You've got a big fucking mouth on you for someone who got arrested within the last five years, no less by the guy you're with right now. Must feel nice to finally sit on the right side of the table, huh?" he goads.
Robert finds this to be his moment to step in. "Aren't you one of the 'heroes' whose got one of the lowest success rates? When's the last time you've actually caught someone?"
Eyebrows slanting in anger, the man poses, "How about a better question, one the media's been wonderin' about for a while—which one of you takes it up the ass?"
Beginning to rise, Flambae spits, "Watch your fucking mouth or I'll fucking break your face in—"
"Flambae." He stops in his tracks and looks to Robert, who holds his gaze steady before it shifts. His hand draws away from Flambae's to pick up his neglected beer where it sits in front of him, the ice beginning to melt, droplets of condensation hugging the exterior surface of the glass.
He looks into the liquid and swirls it placidly before raising his line of sight and directing it at the stranger. "I get it. You're bored, probably pent-up, searching for someone to tolerate you." A shrug. "The thing is," he continues, tone flat, "there's nobody out there that could take one good look at your face and tell themselves that spending a night with a sorry fuck like you is worth all the pain in the world and regret more agonizing than the hangover after getting shitfaced so hard they can't tell up from down."
He tips the alcohol back and swallows another mouthful, capturing the way the guy's face hardens as he stares down the mouth of his glass despite the way his vision of his face is distorted. He sets it back down and expresses the last of his thoughts, "Do us a favor: fuck off and try to find a hobby that doesn't involve harassment and will still get your dick hard since clearly no one is willing to help you in that small department."
There's a silence that settles, something that always seems to succeed his words, in particular the ones which hold the intentions of making people acutely and uncomfortably aware of themselves. Flambae stares at him with a quiet, astonished sort of pride, as if impressed anew by his rather crude and wide repetoire of vocabulary that he consistently utilizes astutely when the situation prompts as such, which it so often does. The man appears the epitome of enraged, his jaw tight where he grinds his molars together hard enough a vein bulges along his temple.
The man begins to chuckle, the sound hollow and humorless. He scrubs a hand down his face and shakes his head at something in the distance, smiling. He diverts his attention back onto Robert as he begins to say, "Real shame, that you're the person who got passed on your daddy's shiny blue toy." Something ugly in Robert twists at the mention of his father, a sensation that worsens as the man continues to talk. "He must feel real fuckin' disappointed up there—probably clawing at his own face everytime he's stuck watchin' his son, prancin' around like he's got the world beneath his feet while failing to hide the fact that deep down he's nothing but a deadbeat fa—"
Robert's next blink consists of a periphery of empty space where Flambae once sat, his figure instead now positioned in front of him where he is shooting a flaming fist out, entirely powerful and hardly restrained to the extent Robert can hear the man's nose break with an audible crack along with the sound of fire extinguishing. The impact sends him staggering back blindly and into a table, the legs of it rudely shoved against the hardwood floor, the sound of it like a dying gasp from something that's trying its best to hold on. When Flambae's fist lowers, Robert catches the spray of blood speckled over his reddened, shaking knuckles. It vaguely reminds him of an artist's finishing touch to a painting depicting beauty, rather than the blood that will follow a person's hands should they choose to direct their strength toward the decisions that cost seconds of thought, reward damages regretful enough they taste guilt on their tongue, and will take a passage of time as long as the rest of their life to undo if possible at all.
"Agh—fuck! You motherfucker—" the man sputters, his eyes only capable of just barely cracking open, mere slits of venom amongst the crumpled lines of his expression, as if accentuations of the reddened, burned surface of his face and the slides of blood down his nose and over his upper lip. Robert stares at his crushed face, at the result of violence—Chad's violence, his mind supplies—and can't help but experience a sense of emotion clawing down his throat like the choke of alcohol entirely too strong to be friendly.
"What the fuck happened?" His vision shifts, and he finds Brianna, who stares at the scene with such an incredible amount of shock he nearly considers the idea that it's artificial. He realizes that the bar has gone eerily silent, the realization that every single face within it is pointed in their direction and gauging the altercation following after and accompanying the slight sink of his heart.
Flambae does nothing but heave, the raspy sounds audible and loud. "This—this fucking bastard—" he starts, voice shaking, and a finger raises to point at him, "came over here, and fucking bothered us with—with …" he trails, chest rising and falling heavily with exertion that shouldn't be present in movement which should occur naturally.
Brianna stares at him, her upper teeth sunk into her bottom lip, off-put and considering. She looks to the man, who doesn't find it within himself to even deny it, his hand cupped over a bloody nose wrenched askew under eyes pinched shut. She inhales slowly and exhales deep. "Okay. Well, it doesn't look like there's any property damage," she mutters more to herself than anyone else. "I think it's obvious that I'm kicking you both out. Pay and then go. Don't let me find you here within the next few minutes or this will turn into a full-blown report," she states, curt. She turns and makes her way to the back again before emerging with two leather books, one of which she puts on Robert's table. Murmurs begin to fill the open space again, quieter and more tense than before.
Robert checks the bill and fumbles for his wallet within his jacket and pulls out a few wads of cash, some extra as a tip. He tucks the cash in the leather book and rises, wallet tucked away, his collar pulled more securely over the arch of his shoulders and the emblem on his chest.
A hero, one he doesn't recognize, comes to stand by him. He is of shorter height and yet structured in a way that is telling of a well-defined body, his strength evident in the lines of muscle veiled beneath casual attire. His hair is a scraggly, umber cascade down broad shoulders that match the tone of his eyes which fall onto the man. They land on Robert next and he asks with a voice deep, unfazed as if unfortunately familiar with the situation, "What exactly happened?"
Robert considers lying and chooses to be honest. "He was being a homophobic asshole," he responds, unwilling to gild the truth with a sugary lie that's easier to swallow.
The hero's face tightens in displeasure. "Ah." He catches sight of Flambae, who stares down at the blood on his hand. "I don't blame him, then." He pivots back toward Robert and tells him, "I'll get the bastard over there some napkins, maybe some ibuprofen and a bandage if I can find them. A drink or two if it'll make him pleasant to be around for a while. He's metahuman so the damage should heal up quick."
"Thank you, uh …" He squints as if the action will revive some obscured memory.
The guy's palm meets his arm, which he pats good-naturedly. "I'm Axel, came here from Illinois a few months back." He gestures to the axe perched on one of the stools at the bar. "Real clever, I know."
Robert hums a noise of acknowledgement. "How's L.A. treating you?"
His face brightens with a toothy smile. "Good—yeah, good."
"Good to hear." A beat. "You got powers?"
"I sure do. I swing that," he says, gesturing to the axe, "hope it hits my target, and it comes back to me when it travels long enough. Think of me as a knock-off Thor who happened to be a logger for the first twenty years of his adult life before he came to terms with the fact that cutting wood for a living barely covered anything outside of rent in this shit economy."
"Interesting. Nice to meet you," Robert responds, amused.
A smile. "Consider it reciprocated. See you, Mecha Man."
They exchange a polite nod before Robert notices Flambae hasn't yet moved, so he goes to land a hand on his rising and falling shoulder, a visual of the fluctuation of his breath.
"Come on," he requests simply, softly.
Flambae blinks hard, continuing to stare at the man who continues to wipe the blood from his face. His voice sounds strained when he says, "I don't—"
"It's okay," Robert interjects calmly. "It's fine. Let's go. We'll talk about it when we're home." A squeeze of his shoulder, and Flambae at last begins to move in the direction of the establishment's exit, Robert's steady pressure at his shoulder his guide and beacon alike.