Work Text:
I.
“Thanks again, Robbie–”
Pinky breaks off with another wet sniffle, turns her head so that he won’t see her dabbing at her eyes suspiciously, and Robbie hunches in on himself until his forehead is almost touching the sewing machine.
He doesn’t know what to say, hasn’t since he spotted her outside the hatch oscillating nervously, red-nosed and clutching a balled up jumper to her chest protectively.
“–I r-really appreciate it.” Honestly, he’s just glad she’s calmed down. The experience of having her pop out of the hatch in the middle of his living room and immediately start bawling her eyes out had surely taken ten years off of his life; this is Sportaflop’s territory, not his.
(Except she came to him, held her jumper out and blubbered about the very obvious rip nearly separating the left sleeve from the torso and pressed it into his hands and Robbie tries to forget the lump of something tender and protective that’d formed in the back of his throat along with the panic.)
“Well, don’t think too much of it.” He huffs as dismissive as he can over the sound of the sewing machine doing it’s work, the apathy dripping from his words in stark contrast to the concentration furrowing his brow, and for a moment Robbie swears he can hear her laugh.
His forehead bumps against the sewing machine and he feels his eyes cross with how forcefully he’s refusing to look at her out of his peripheral vision.
The jumper had ripped neatly along the seam; easily repaired, nothing to get so worked up over. He doesn’t realise he’s said that out loud until he’s straightening with a crack and handing the garment over and he catches the look on her face, desperate relief mixed with something quieter, something sad, and he really wishes he hadn’t when she runs her fingers over the mended seam gently and says,
“..It’s from my parents, for my birthday,” with a forced shrug.
Then she grabs for his hand and squeezes briefly, holds on for just a moment when he tries to automatically flinch away, and when she says,
“Thank you, Robbie,” she smiles.
Robbie thinks that might be okay.
II.
Robbie finds the kid sitting on a park bench at 10pm, knees pulled up to his chest and face illuminated by some handheld device that’s beeping and blaring obnoxious, 8-bit music every few seconds.
(Pixel, he reminds himself fiercely. Pixel. He’s been getting better at remembering lately; they’ve been bothering him more lately, all of them.)
So, Robbie finds the kid curled up on a park bench, nobody else anywhere in sight, and he sighs.
“What’re you doing, kid?”
Pixel jumps at the sound of his voice, head shooting up and eyes wide, disoriented by the sudden change of light. For a moment Robbie thinks he might hop the back of the bench entirely, but after a moment the kid seems to recognise him.
“Robbie, oh. You startled me!” He says cheerfully, flicks a switch on the side of his device that powers it down, and with a shake of his head he chuckles to himself softly.
Robbie stares at him, lips thin and eyes tired, and slowly (for emphasis) rolls his eyes in the direction of a flickering street light.
Pixel just blinks back at him, smile dimming slightly in incomprehension, and again Robbie heaves a sigh.
“It’s late. What’re you doing?” Even as he asks Robbie finds himself thinking that he doesn’t even really care. What business is it of his what the kid’s doing? Out on his own in the middle of the night?
He’s always been a good liar. It’s handy, being able to tell himself it’s just laziness as he flops down onto the bench beside the kid bonelessly.
“Oh. Can’t sleep.” Pixel says with a shrug; from where he’s draped his head awkwardly over the back of the bench, Robbie cracks an eye and regards the kid out of the corner.
“You don’t sleep well either, do you Robbie?” He asks, face pensive, staring straight ahead.
Robbie grunts.
“It’s lonely, sometimes.” The kid says softly; Robbie stares for a long moment and slowly sits up, clears his throat.
He doesn’t know what to do with that. He wants to do something. He doesn’t know what to do with that, either.
“..What’s that?” Robbie gestures to the handheld resting in Pixel’s lap, and he thinks that maybe he’s done something right when the kid’s face lights up like the Forth of July.
“Super Power Lizards 2! I think I’m nearly at the end–”
Robbie thinks he regrets asking when the kid starts talking rapid-fire right in his ear.
“–and if you want to solve this one puzzle you have to go online and–”
He doesn’t have it in him to tell the kid to stop talking, though. He tells himself it’s just exhaustion.
“–here, do you wanna try?”
Robbie mentally checks back in to find the kid shoving the handheld into his hands and staring at him all bright and hopeful, and he sort of wants to run. But then he remembers the tone, It’s lonely, sometimes, and he thinks to himself that yeah, it is.
But it’s a little less lonely with the kid hovering and chattering excitedly and taking his hands every few seconds to position his fingers clumsily on the controls.
III.
“It’s not my fault.”
Trixie says it so fiercely. There’s no conviction.
They’re in the ER waiting room, and Robbie’s not entirely sure when his life turned into this. Standing in the ER, watching as the Mayor tries to soothe his niece while she in turn hugs Ziggy close; watching Stingy stand close by, prim and proper and markedly pale; watching Pixel over at the reception counter, speaking softly.
“It’s not my fault,” Trixie says again at his side, to no one in particular; her tiny hands are balled into fists. She’s trying not to cry.
It is her fault. Objectively. Robbie doesn’t have the specifics, doesn’t care to; he’d got enough when he’d come upon the scene, five screaming children grabbing at him and babbling and yanking him this way and that.
They’d been playing in the field, Sportacus and the kids, tee-ball or baseball or croquet for all he cares, something with a bat. Trixie had been mucking around, messing with everyone’s safety gear, being irresponsible (this accusation he gets from Stephanie; he thinks it’s entirely true). Something had happened, and Sportacus had been on the receiving end of an aluminum bat flung at the side of his head.
Robbie had come upon five terrified children shrieking at the tops of their lungs and Sportacus on the ground, bleeding and drifting in and out of consciousness.
“I didn’t mean to,” Robbie hears her say quietly, so quietly, and in response he rolls his eyes.
“Of course you didn’t. Everybody knows that.” He huffs and watches out of the corner of his eye as Trixie cuts him a look that’s more incredulous than anything and something cold and hard settles in his chest.
He wonders how often she’s told she’s to blame. He decides he doesn’t want to know.
“‘Everybody makes mistakes’. Isn’t that what Sportafl–” he cuts himself off when he remembers the sight of Sportacus sprawled in the grass, eyes rolling blindly skyward. He swallows around the lump in his throat and continues–
“Doesn’t he say that only about fifteen times a day?” He drawls as sarcastically as he can manage. He’s not comfortable with the way that Trixie stares, like she’s hanging on his every word.
He’s not comfortable with the way she shrinks back against the wall when Sportacus finally emerges, all bright grins and a shiny new plaster just barely peaking out at his temple from beneath his hat (because of course he doesn’t want to upset the kids any more, and that makes Robbie want to roll his eyes, but fondly.)
He’s not comfortable with the way that Trixie hangs back when the rest of the kids rush over, shoulders drawn up and eyes averted. He’s not comfortable, so he pushes off of the wall first and motions for her to follow with an impatient roll of the shoulder, a brisk,
“Come on then.”
And he’s not exactly comfortable when she latches on to his hand tightly, but not enough to do anything about it.
IV.
“Just- let me take a look at it, kid?”
Sometimes Robbie really hates Sportacus.
“It’s mine.”
Like right now. Robbie hates his concern for these kids, hates that it seems contagious. He hates Sportacus for insisting on dragging him out of his bunker to socialise more, and for encouraging the kids to do the same (Robbie refuses to accept that he wasn’t involved), he hates having to admit to himself that he likes it. He hates the stupid, tiny quirk to the elf’s mouth he gets when he’s worried, the way his brow wrinkles when he doesn’t know how to make everything better, and Robbie especially hates that there isn’t much he wouldn’t do to take it away.
“Yeah, I get that, kid, I’m asking to take a look at it.”
He hates Sportacus for coming to him, practically wringing his hands, saying Robbie, you play instruments, right? There’s something wrong with Stingy’s saxaphone, but I don’t know how to help.
But mostly he hates whatever caused this kid’s serious case of resource guarding.
Most of the kids had just started music class, which of course meant showing off to Sportacus their newly borrowed instruments. Which of course meant that Stingy had to show off his own personal saxaphone, which there was evidently something wrong with and had set off this whole headache of a day.
Robbie was at the point where he’d almost rather listen to Ziggy play the recorder.
“Okay. Fine.” He pinches the bridge of his nose against the oncoming headache and takes a few steady breaths, opens one eye to glare at the kid in front of him, hugging his saxaphone to his chest.
“How about you play it for me then?”
Stingy pulls a face, looks at him like he’s particularly dim. Says,
“But there’s something wrong with it,” and Robbie feels like he’s on the verge of having an aneurysm.
“Work with me here, kid.” He hisses through clenched teeth; Stingy blessedly relents.
It’s a broken reed. Easy fix, and Robbie isn’t sure if he’s relieved or one step closer to that sweet, sweet aneurysm.
Definitely the latter when he points this out and Stingy once again gets that Trouble Child Look on his face.
“But I want to play now.” Stingy says, and Robbie, feels his teeth grind together.
“So get another reed. Surely you ha- you don’t have a replacement, do you?” Stingy shakes his head, no, and Robbie kind of wants to die. Because it’s Sunday, of course it’s Sunday, and the only music shop in town is closed on Sundays. And the kid wants to play, and he’ll be disappointed if he can’t, and as much of a headache as he is, Robbie doesn’t really want that.
He doesn’t want Sportacus to be disappointed, either.
And he has plenty of replacements in the bunker.
He sighs.
“Okay. Look, I have plenty, give me the saxaphone and I’ll be right ba–”
“But it’s min–”
“Kid.”
They stare at one another for about a solid minute, Stingy’s face scrunched up and his knuckles white on the saxaphone; Robbie with an eye twitching, the muscle in his jaw working tensely.
And then Stingy grabs hold of his hand.
“You promise?”
It’s not quite a handshake, but it’s masquerading as one; Stingy doesn’t withdraw even after a few awkward moments, he holds tight, and Robbie can feel his hand trembling. And it’s annoying, yeah, and he’s bad at this, but the kid’s not having a great time either. So he says, a lot more gently than he intends,
“Promise.”
It’s less like being handed the saxaphone, and more like Stingy launching it at his chest as fast as he can while he has the nerve.
Robbie doesn’t think he’s ever run quite so fast in his life.
V.
It was a stupid idea. Really stupid idea. Robbie’s had a lot of stupid ideas in his time, but oh boy, this one took the cake.
Haunted house. Haunted house. Robbie, we’re going to a haunted house, would you like to come? No, no, a thousand times no. The answer should’ve been no. Robbie had thought no and, halfway through thinking the word no, had heard himself stuttering out a yes.
Haunted house.
The animatronics were tacky, he told himself. In the light of day they’d look like child’s play compared to something he could cook up in an evening, and the whole thing was just a lot of noise and poor lighting and terrible, terrible rubber masks.
He’d jumped into Sportacus’s arms about three times in the first minute; the man had a hand resting at the small of his back as they moved, Stephanie and Ziggy holding hands and taking the lead, and at any other time Robbie would’ve thought about that (not too hard) and how nice it felt, much like he might’ve spared a moment to grumble at Sportacus about the naivety of leaving Pixel and Trixie in the back where mischief was sure to abound, but right now it felt like he was on the verge of a panic attack.
“You’re alright, Robbie?” He was pretty sure that Sportacus had leaned in close to speak quiet and comforting, right in his ear, for about the seventh time but he couldn’t really hear anything over the sound of his own heart beating in his ears and–
Something hissed. Wasn’t even a jump scare, just hydraulics resetting somewhere, and Robbie lept about a foot in the air for the umpteenth time. Tried to back up blindly, right into Sportacus, about as immovable as a brick wall for all the good it’d do him and Sportacus was saying his name again, softly, and there was a strong, warm hand on his shoulder, and their little group had come to a stop and Stephanie was looking at him with Concern but it didn’t matter, he needed to get out and–
A small, pudgy hand closed around his flailing wrist, and Robbie froze.
“It’s alright, Robbie.” Ziggy peered up at him in the low light. He’d been afraid too, clinging to Stephanie moments ago, startling easily but being coaxed into laughing enjoyment by her enthusiasm; now he was looking up at Robbie and smiling.
“There’s nothing to fear! SportaCandy is here!” He crowed triumphantly, tugging on Robbie’s wrist.
Robbie was still terrified. He didn’t have a heart to do anything but shuffle along and bear it, though.
And that was okay.
VI.
“You did so well, Robbie.”
It’s late. 10pm, or thereabouts; they’re in a tent that’s honestly too small for two grown men, Sportacus laying across from him in a sleeping back with one ear out for the kids in the next tent over.
Camping. A proper camping trip this time, with hiking gear (that Robbie’s sure they didn’t need) and rudimentary rock climbing (that Robbie sat out by way of complaining until Sportacus sighed and hefted him up and carried him the whole way) and s’mores by the fire. Camping, another in a long list of very poor ideas Robbie’s had over the years, except not once has it occurred to him that he should’ve said no.
“The kids loved your ghost stories. Did you see Pixel’s face?” It’s 10pm and Sportacus is still awake; he has been for the last few hours, listening carefully for any disturbance next door, any sign the kids aren’t sleeping peacefully. It’s 10pm and he’s still awake so he’s drowzy, and it colours everything. His eyelids droop heavily and his voice is low and soft and Robbie thinks that he’d be blushing even if the man wasn’t smiling at him so fondly and murmuring praise between heartbeats.
“And we’d have been lost without your s’more making expertise,” Sportacus smiles, and Robbie wonders (not for the first time) how well elves see in the dark. If Sportacus can see him flush red to his ears and work his jaw, unsure of what to do with this thing that’s made its home in his chest and feels a lot like love.
“The kids had a really nice time. We all did. We would’ve missed you if you hadn’t come. I’m so glad,” the way Sportacus smiles when he says it, almost convinces Robbie that it might be okay. That maybe it is okay. That maybe whatever this thing is settling in behind his ribs, maybe Sportacus feels it too.
And because it’s dark, and Robbie doesn’t know if Sportacus can see, and Sportacus is whispering praise, Robbie feels bold.
It’d be so easy to bridge the space and hold his hand. It’s right there, Sportacus laying on his back with his sleeping bag unzipped, arms stretched out comfortably. It’s right there, Robbie can see the outline of him in the dark, and for a moment he wonders if that’s intentional. It’d be so easy.
He does.
And something snaps outside.
A twig, probably. Nothing important, certainly nothing important, not when Sportacus’s crystal stays so silent in its housing.
But then the kids are awake. Shrieking, the sound of their tent being unzipped, collapsing, and before Sportacus can even sit up they’re tumbling in to their tent in their sleeping bags, one over the other, shouting about monsters.
Robbie startles when they burst in, because of course he does. He’s out of his sleeping bag in moments, clinging to Sportacus and quickly joined by the children. Except the kids are grasping at him too, Ziggy wrapped around his shin and Stephanie holding tight to his wrist, and Robbie’s not sure how he feels about that.
It feels like love, he thinks, as Sportacus slowly calms everyone down.
They refuse to leave, even after Sportacus ventures into the campsite to prove that there’s no people-eating monster from one of Robbie’s stories lurking in the night. They refuse to leave, and the tent was already too small for two grown men.
Robbie isn’t sure how he feels when the kids settle down to sleep at long last between the two of them; he feels a lot like Trixie is kicking him in the ribs in her fitful sleep, and he feels like it’s not entirely unintentional. He feels crowded, claustrophobic.
He feels good, when he regards the children sleeping peacefully, the occasional mumble and soft snore. He feels good as he looks across and sees Sportacus sleeping heavily, Pixel tucked against his side.
And he feels right when he sees the man’s hand outstretched above the children’s heads, casually, and he reaches across to tangle their fingers together.
And he feels perfect when Sportacus stirs and blinks at him blearily and murmurs him name, when Sportacus squeezes his hand and mumbles happily and drifts off to sleep once again.