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The kid was young and stupid with a grin that reeked of mistaken invincibility. Robert had been like that. Lost half his ear to it, too. A kid dumb enough to get caught in the crossfire. Dumb like Robert was, but without a suit to shield him. For once, cheap whiskey flowing down his raw throat doesn’t manage to dull his senses, turn everything numb and hazy so he can finally get out of his own head. It’s not enough to distract from the incessant buzz of his phone, either. He slips his phone from the pocket of his jacket, the screen flashing brightly to display a series of texts and a missed call. All Mandy.
"Thought we got them all," Robert breathes out. The admission is born from the looseness of his tongue brought on by the whiskey. Shot glasses clatter against the sticky countertops as the TV blares a gossipy news channel reporting on Blonde Blazer's noticeable absence at SDN's most recent press conference. Her PR statement addressing the city and recent attacks illuminates the screen alongside an outdated image of Blazer.
"Couple of those bastards are bound to slip through the cracks." Chase shrugs like things are that simple, but they both know they aren’t.
"Still, I should've caught it," Robert admits, fingers curling around the smudged glass and threatening to crack it.
"This isn't on you, kid," Chase says, more seriously. Robert hates it when he gets like that because then he knows it means something.
"I just froze. I watched that kid–"
"You've seen a lot of fuckin' shit, that doesn't mean something like this won't fuck you up just the same."
"It shouldn't, though. I can't let this shit get to me on the field, especially when I'm leading the team." Robert stares down into the swirl of dark brown liquid that trembles as his grip on the glass tightens. “Maybe I should go back to full-time dispatching.”
Chase raises a white bushy eyebrow, and suddenly, Robert feels stupid about how dramatic he’s being.
“You're not the suit, Robert,” Chase says firmly. “You're a fuckin' human, and you're gonna feel shit and fuck shit up out there, same as any of those other useless fuckers."
Robert shakes his head as he leans his forehead against his open palms. Whiskey settles in the depths of his stomach. Warm, but it churns uneasily as Robert closes his eyes and all he can see is that kid again.
"Go home, kid," Chase sighs, shaking his head like he has the wisdom to match his gray hair and the crows' feet creasing his skin. "Talk to Blazer."
Robert shakes his head again, dragging cracked, rough hands down his face. The skin there stretches uncomfortably beneath his palms.
"Really should talk to a therapist, but god knows you ain't never fuckin' doing that," Chase jokes, but none of it is untrue. Once throaty, choked laughter subsides, he says, more seriously, "She's good for you."
"I know," Robert sighs with his palms pressed against his eyes.
—
They are supposed to leave work at the door; that is Mandy's one rule. Neither of them really follows it.
Robert wears it like it is sewn into his damn flesh, just there beneath pumping blood and thrumming veins. It's in his split lip and strained, bloodshot eyes. She carries it better, even if it dulls her lips to a worried frown and drags her shoulders to a slump, the weight of everything keeping them down. She'll thumb through the reports cluttering her bedside table while Robert takes a call at 3 in the morning when he thinks she's asleep.
She wants him to see the therapist provided by SDN. He says he goes every week. Most weeks he does, but sometimes he's hunched over the sticky counter of The Sardine instead.
Maybe it's not so different from her saying she's going to yoga when she's really training at the gym until her muscles give beneath a weight, just to feel secure and maybe even powerful now that she's been stripped of the muscles and height of Blazer. He smells the adrenaline and sweat on her when he fucks her and feels the tension as his hands cradle her lower back, but he doesn’t mention it.
He comes home to simplicity and normalcy. Soft, feminine humming filters through the space, only disrupted by a clang and hiss of, "Shoot!"
Robert feels sick.
"Hey," his throat works dryly around the simple word like it's a struggle, mostly because it is. Somehow, it's made worse by the smell of a home-cooked meal and the devastating image of her standing in his kitchen, clad in fluffy socks and an old gym t-shirt of his. A modicum of something normal that doesn't match his peeling walls and tiny kitchenette. She makes it all feel less stifling; she has a habit of that.
She perks up in time with Beef, who's momentarily roused from his nap at her feet. His black snout twitches in search of food before he accepts defeat and plops his chin back against tiled flooring, wholly tuckered out from begging for half-cooked food.
"You're late," she says, not an accusation, just an observation. He feels like he's in trouble, like he's been caught red-handed. His muscles stiffen for a moment before she dips her chin back to the sizzling pan and flips a grilled cheese sandwich that's golden and crispy at the top. Normal and collected like he doesn't have purple and yellow marring the skin surrounding his eye.
The sizzle of butter and the smell of warm bread tinge the air, mingling with that strange and stubborn mothball smell. She fills the apartment up nicely, sticking out among the chipped walls and barren interior, but somehow making it feel so lived-in. Bits of her linger here with him, like the spare toothbrush in the bathroom and the drawer she'd begun keeping makeup wipes and spare sweats in.
"I know," he breathes lowly, hands awkwardly hanging at his sides. Keys still dangle from his fingers, the ring balanced on the crevices of his index and middle fingers. The flash of metal reflects the shredded skin along his knuckles and the dried blood buried in the crevices of sliced flesh, wounds fresh and festering. "Went out with the team after work." A lie. "Crypto Night," he supplies even though she didn't ask. Another lie.
She hums in acknowledgement, accepting the lie because she refuses to push and force. He likes that about her.
Her feet pad against the flooring as she effortlessly slips the backpack from his shoulder and hooks his keys into her own fingers. Robert lets it happen, standing there motionless as his shoulders finally slump. The weight of everything keeps them sunken. His belongings plop onto the counter as she forces some normalcy into him.
"I made dinner. I know it's simple, but it's better than Twinkies and lukewarm coffee." She tries. "And you did only have cheese and bread." He sees it, that worry that she won't voice because they're still toeing a thin line between being together casually and being together seriously enough that she can call him on his bullshit. Serious bullshit like why he smells like whiskey and less serious bullshit like why his diet consists of coffee and vending machine snacks.
"There's a bottle of mustard in there, too," he argues weakly, and that earns a distinctly playful scoff from her.
"Not really hungry," he says. "Just gonna rinse off and head to bed."
"Okay," she says, hands twisting the faded fabric of his t-shirt. Her lips part with a prying question at the edge of her tongue before they settle back into a firm line, thinking better of herself. "I'll pack it up for tomorrow then."
Robert nods, scratching at his partially marred ear awkwardly as the disappointment briefly drops her lips and softens the wideness of her stark eyes. An evening of dinner, a talked-over show, and cuddling that'd probably lead to good, tender sex that is tinged with just a bit of sleepiness slips away as Robert heads for the bathroom.
Everything comes mechanically. The handle creaks as the shower head spews a pathetic stream of lukewarm water down. The incessant tapping of droplets against the tile makes his teeth grind. His aching limbs protest as he strips his shirt off, pants and boxers joining it on the floor with a dull thud.
It’s too hot, but not enough. The stream scalds flesh till it reddens to something unpleasant, scorching scarred skin as the water pressure irritates fresh bruises. His forehead rests against the chilling tile of the shower, marred by pink mold and cracks. His eyes shut as water comes down around him, soaking his hair and trickling down his face. The creak of the door startles him, then the light and familiar pad of feet against off-white tiled flooring soothes any worries. A gentle plop and a muttered curse come as she narrowly trips in her hurried attempt to strip off her clothes.
The glass door of the shower slides open, letting in a cool draft that distracts him from the stinging burn on his sides. He cracks one eye, and through a haze of wafting steam and running water is Mandy. Slightly flushed and ruffled with her hair sagging in a half-undone bun, she stands plainly before him.
“You decent?” She asks as she leans casually against the shower door, bare to him but Robert’s eyes refuse to leave her face. Despite himself, Robert laughs under his breath. It's strained and dry, hardly echoing throughout the stall. He wordlessly moves to carve room for her in the extremely limited confines of his one-person shower. She naturally fills the space beside him and all but molds herself against his back. The warmth of her bleeds into him and hums through his limbs. His brain fogs and goes light, but maybe that’s just the steam of the shower curling up around them.
The pointed curve of her chin nestles against his shoulder. He sinks back against her, scarred back meeting her front, but his shoulders are still tight and the crick in his back is acting up again.
“Chase called,” she says, painfully soft to match the hesitant featherlight skim of her fingertips along the knobs of his spine. His muscles coil beneath her touch, jutting beneath thin, scarred flesh. The showerhead pours down between them, creating rivulets down the plain of his back. “Told me what happened.”
“Narc,” Robert breathes out in a huff of a laugh, it dims midway through to something pathetic and sad. He braces himself against the wall. Clammy palm meets the chilled tile. The dirt caked beneath his fingernails matches the mold caked between the tiles.
“He cares,” she corrects gently. Robert feels worse. He stares down at the pool of sudsy water collecting at their feet, willing away the tears that prick his eyes. “And so do I.” The simple admission makes him sick all over. He can picture her perfectly, staring down at him with admiration and hope as she floated above the billboard that night they first met. She’d promised to save him with the hopes that he’d go on to save others. Instead of being out on the fields, defending the city and its people, he’s partially hunched under his shitty showerhead that spews mostly clear water. He’s got tears threatening the edge of his lash line and old anger still festering like a poorly-stitched wound.
“I should’ve done it,” he says suddenly. His jaw tenses as the muscles flex in time with the grit of his teeth. “I should’ve killed him.” Shroud flashes in his mind again, the image one of swollen eyes crinkling to match a toothless smile that trickled blood.
“I think you would’ve regretted either.” She says, truthfully. Always truthful, always seeing right past his mask of some slipping congealed semblance of metal, sarcasm, and self-deprecation.
“It wouldn’t change anything either.” Her voice is tight with something he can’t place, maybe conviction mingled with somberness she usually hides. “There’d still be Red Ring lingering around to hurt people regardless of whether he was behind bars or six feet under.” Her lips brush his shoulder as she speaks, making him shiver despite the cruel heat that surges a flush to his face.
Robert shakes his head. “If he got out again, it’d be my fault. He’d come after me and you and the entire team, let alone all of Torrance.”
“Then we do it all again,” she decides like it’s that simple. “We fight and we rebuild, and we do it over and over again.” A tired sigh fans against his skin, but she quickly covers it by placing a tender kiss on his shoulder. The touch is featherlight, a mere brush of her lips that leaves a tingling in their wake. Bare bodies brush innocently as she reaches past him to turn the knob of the shower to lukewarm. The spray of water weakens with the dip in temperature. Droplets skid down the curve of muscles and the sore spots along his body from the Mech and a few drunken encounters.
“Today doesn’t fall on you,” she says, voice barely surpassing the incessant echo of dripping water. Robert eases his head back to feel the droplets on his face. Her hand finds his bicep, hesitantly clamping around it and urging him to turn around. “The kid is fine, just needs a few days to recover.”
“Mandy,” he says, voice wavering. “Please.” He can’t look at her because he’s scared he’ll fall apart, but she gives him the room to like she did when Chase had a ventilator puffing forced breaths into his frail body. All he can see is a freckled face with rounded cheeks that still clung to the early years of boyhood. It’s a strange, warped mirror of himself and every person he’s failed to save.
“Robert,” she says firmly, but never forcefully. He listens because he’s never been good at telling her no. He couldn’t do it when she’d offered him a job that sounded less exciting than accounting, or when she asked him to console her alien ex-boyfriend post-break-up. Sluggishly, Robert turns so the water sprays against his back. The sight of Mandy stripped of her suit and amulet to the naked humanity of Mandy grounds him more than it should. Her damp hair falls flat against her scalp as the ends curl and dribble excess water. Her makeup has smudged to create a faded black ring under her eyes. Water catches in her lashes before she slowly blinks them away. She cocks her head in a silent question that is furthered by the pleading wideness of her eyes.
“I don’t know that my dad would be proud,” Robert says carefully, words even and plain like his relationship with his father was simple. “I don’t know if he would if I killed Shroud or not. I guess it’s hard to say if you never really knew someone.”
She softens at the admission, her palm lifting between them to cradle his face. Days-old stubble pricks her skin as her thumb rubs along the curve of his jaw. Robert's fingers latch loosely around her wrist, keeping her there with him. She makes no move to retreat from him as his eyes flutter shut and a low exhale puffs from his lips.
Get up. The stiff, rough voice of Robert "Robbie" Robertson II reverberates in Robert's skull as everything slows.
“I’m proud of you,” she says, so firm and sure that it’s hard not to believe her. “And I know Chase is, and the entire team, even if they won’t say it.”
That’s what does it. Robert all but folds himself against her, burying his face in the hollow of her neck as a raw, almost silent sob carves its way up his throat. The force of it wracks his shoulders and makes him tremble against her stable form. Her hand winds into the roots of his soaked auburn hair, gently carding through the cropped locks. He grips her like a lifeline he hasn’t earned, greedy hands sinking into her sides as he suffocates himself in her chest. She stays planted firmly upright despite how her fingertips are beginning to prune and shrivel. When Robert’s muscles coil and he attempts to get up, she keeps him anchored there with her beneath the running water in his shitty apartment’s shittier shower.