Chapter Text
I can't fucking help it. I have to see this guy. This washed-up Mecha Man that everyone won't shut up about. The dispatcher who's supposedly going to lead the Z-Team. Lead me.
I need to see how fucked up he is after blowing up all those months ago.
I slip into the conference room and settle onto one of the empty chairs against the wall, letting invisibility wrap around me like armor. My leg bounces impatiently. Every second feels like an hour.
Come on, come on. Let's get this over with.
The door opens and Blondie—all put-together and professional in that way that makes me want to mess up her hair—shoves him inside.
He's smaller than I expected. Just some guy in a Mecha Man costume. He doesn’t fill the room with presence; no easy charisma, no aura of power that makes you want to stand up straighter. His movements aren’t sharp or quick, either. He moves like someone weighed down, every step deliberate but somehow heavy, as if he’s dragging invisible burdens the rest of us can’t see. Shoulders rounded, posture closed—he looks like a man used to bracing for impact, not delivering it.
Apparently, having your life's work blown to fucking pieces will do that to you.
Oh, this is hard to watch.
For a second, I wonder what it would be like to see him without the mask, without the costume—would he disappear into a crowd entirely? Would he look younger, older, sadder than this? But right now, he’s just... there. Not larger than life. Not powerful. Just human, and so much more tired than anyone wants their hero to be.
"Take your clothes off." Blondie shoots without any warning.
I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Oh fuck, this is already better than I thought it would be.
"Uh, what's happening right now?" His voice cracks a little. Adorable. Like a lost puppy.
"We don't want too many people knowing you're Mecha Man," Blondie explains, all business. "A lot of our dispatchers are former heroes, but it's better if you keep your identity a secret. We've had incidents in the past."
She hands him this sad blue SDN button-up. The kind that screams "I peaked in high school but now I work in middle management."
"Here… I remembered you being bigger."
Ha. Burn. Blondie decided to be ruthless today, I guess.
Like this fucking guy already didn't have enough.
"I was a little drunk," she continues, as if it could explain what she just said. "Listen, it's going to be great."
He pulls off his mask, and I lean forward without meaning to.
Oh.
Okay. He's... actually kind of hot?
Not in an obvious, superhero-billboard way. Not chiseled and perfect. In that understated, sneaky way where you don't notice at first—but then you can't stop noticing. Where every little detail adds up until you're staring and you don't know when you started.
Brown hair that needs a cut. Dark brows. Strong jawline, stubble. Freckles scattered across his cheeks like someone flicked paint at him.
He's young, too—younger than I thought he'd be. Not some grizzled, battle-worn veteran with decades of stories. He can't be more than thirty. Maybe not even that. There's still something soft about his face, something that hasn't been completely hardened by all the shit he's been through.
A baby-faced man candy with a broken mech suit. Interesting.
"I've never felt silly wearing this," he says quietly, staring at the mask.
There's something vulnerable in his voice that makes my stomach do this stupid little flip that I try to ignore. Like he's admitting something he shouldn't. Like that mask meant something to him.
Get it together, Visi.
"Until now?" Blondie prompts.
"Yeah, I was trying to imply that with the silence."
Funny. He's damn funny. Fuck.
"It worked. Get dressed. I have somebody I need you to meet."
He walks over to the chairs—dangerously close to where I’m sitting—and places the uniform right on the one next to me. So close I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. So close, that I can really see him, now that he's not wearing his mask. So close I could smell him. It would probably be something simple. Not cologne, just... him. Some soap. A little bit of sweat. Nothing fancy.
Why am I wondering what he smells like? What the fuck is wrong with me?
Then he starts unzipping his suit. The fabric undersuit he wears in that mech armor of his.
"Oh, sorry. Should I turn around or what do you… uh should I close my eyes maybe? If that makes you more comfortable?" Blondie asks nervously.
"It's fine. I don't mind."
Oh, I don't mind either. Don't mind at all.
He unzips down to just above his utility belt. Blondie's trying so hard not to stare. I'm not trying at all.
"Okay." she says, trying for casual.
He glances back at her as he fidgets with the belt buckle. "I mean, don't stare me straight in the eyes or anything, cuz that would be odd."
"Oh, yeah. No, it's…" she turns around. "There."
The belt hits the floor. Then he's peeling off the suit and—
Oh fuck.
Every coherent thought in my brain just flatlines.
His torso is a fucking masterpiece of damage. Scars everywhere. A nasty raised one cutting across his ribs that makes me want to trace it with my fingers, ask him how bad it hurt, if he screamed. Another on his shoulder, thick and brutal, the kind that doesn't heal right. Some cuts and scrapes along his abs—and yeah, he's got abs. Not roided-out superhero abs, just lean, earned muscle from actually using his body.
Fuck, he's hot.
Fresh bruises bloom across his chest. Purple-yellow disasters that are still healing. Recent. He's been out there recently getting the shit kicked out of him.
Each scar tells a story. Each bruise is proof he kept going even when he should have stopped.
How many of these scars are from the crash? From Mecha Man blowing up?
He's standing there in just his underwear and I cannot stop staring. At the way his hip bones jut out a little. At his bare thighs, all lean muscle and bruised skin. At the line of his collarbone. At that scar that runs from his shoulder blade around toward his chest.
I want to put my mouth on that scar. I want to know what it tastes like. I want—
Stop. Just fucking stop.
What the duck's wrong with you?
No surgical mods for strength or speed. No augments, which wouldn't surprise anyone. Just natural, earned damage from throwing himself at danger over and over again.
Holy fuck. This guy's the real deal.
He survived that fucking crash.
And he walks and talks like four month coma just fucking happens like a cold or some shit.
My eyes trace every line, every mark. The curve of his shoulders. The definition in his arms—not gym muscles, but the kind you get from actually doing something. From hauling yourself out of wreckage. From fighting when you should be running.
He's kind of hot. He's actually really fucking hot.
The thought hits me hard and I hate it. Hate that I'm sitting here invisible, staring at this guy like some creep. Hate that my heart's doing this stupid flutter thing.
This guy kept suiting up. Kept going back out there.
Something twists in my chest. Respect, maybe. Or something worse.
He pulls on the pants, buckles the belt. "It doesn't look like it, but I am flexing every muscle in my body right now."
I have to press my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
He's ridiculous. He's earnest and ridiculous and I want to climb him like a tree.
This is so fucking bad.
"Really?"
Blondie's tone could cut glass.
"Okay. Well, you didn't have to say it like that."
I'm watching the muscles in his back move as he shifts his weight. Watching the way those bruises disappear under the waistband of his pants. Wondering what the rest of him looks like. Wondering if there are more scars I haven't seen yet.
Fuck, he's fine. Stop it, Visi. He's going to be your boss. Do not think he's fine.
There are so many reasons why this is fucked up.
But I am thinking it. Thinking about those freckles. About running my fingers along that scar on his ribs. About what his skin would feel like under my hands.
Fucking get it together.
"I want to say again, I'm sorry about last night." Blondie's voice drops, gets softer. "I regret the way I conducted myself. It was a mistake. A complicated mistake. I can uh go into the details of those complications with you later."
Oh, drama. Wait—did they...? But Blondie—
A spike of something hot and ugly shoots through my chest. Jealousy. That's jealousy.
What the fuck, Visi?
"Look, we were both a little tipsy," he says. "Got lost in the moment. You know, it's totally understandable. It was a nice night. Nothing more than that."
They did something. Of course they did. Look at him. Who could say no to that?
I watch the tension between them, the careful distance. Blondie wants him. Definitely wants him. And he's doing that thing guys do when they're trying to be respectful but also hoping she'll change her mind.
Join the club, Blazer. Actually no, fuck off! You have your phenomamal dickhead of a boyfriend, leave this hot mess to me.
This has to be the most pathetic thing I've thought all week.
"Yeah, I'd like to keep things professional." she tries to keep her tone even.
"Right. That's why you brought me to this conference room to strip down in front of you. Profesh."
He tosses his Mecha Man costume toward an empty chair—except it's not empty because I'm sitting right fucking there.
The fabric drapes directly over my invisible head. Still warm from his body heat. Probably smelling like him—sweat and something soapy, something masculine that makes my stomach flip.
Shit shit SHIT—
"Are you serious?" Blondie's sounds up. She knows I'm here.
I scramble up, heart pounding, and bolt for the door—
But my face connects with the glass.
FUCK.
Pain explodes across my face and I hit the floor hard, the suit tangling around me. For a second I just lie there, stunned, gasping for air, wondering if it's possible to die of embarrassment.
Of all the times to run into a door. In front of HIM.
Blondie rips the fabric off me and I flicker back into visibility because apparently today is the day the universe decided I look great eating shit in front of the hot guy I was just mentally undressing even though it shouldn't be fucking happening.
She hands him the suit and he drapes it over his folded arms, hiding those abs I was just staring at.
Great. Perfect. This is fine.
"Who locks a conference room?" I mutter, sitting up. My inhaler. Where's my—there. I fish it out of my pocket, taking a hit because my breathing is uneven, because of so many fucking reasons, and I'm pissed and embarrassed and trying not to look at him looking at me.
His eyes are on me now. Really on me. Dark and assessing, taking me in slowly, deliberately.
Seeing me, really fucking seeing me, for the first time.
Fuck, why is that hot? Is everything he does hot?
Might as well commit to the bit.
"So, uh, you two fuck or what?" I quip.
"We kissed, but it was very innocent," he says with slight amusement in his deep voice.
Just kissed. Okay. That's... that's good. No, hold up! Why is that good?
"Like cheek innocent or tip of your dick innocent?" I press further.
He doesn't even flinch, his handsome face is a perfect mask.
"Visi, stop." Blondie's voice has that warning edge. "First of all, we did not kiss. You kissed me. Second of all, it's none of your freaking business."
She's protesting too much. Definitely wanted it.
"Well, she cussed. Must have been a good one." I can’t help the smirk slowly blooming on my face.
I stand up, crossing my arms, and let myself really look at him now that I'm visible. At the scars. At the bruises. At the way he's trying to hide behind his bunched-up suit like it'll protect him from my eyes. At his dark eyes still fixed on me.
Stop staring, Visi. You're being obvious.
But I can't help it. That scar on his collarbone catches the light and I want to trace it with my fingers. Want to know the story. Want to know everything about him, which is absolutely insane because I met him thirty seconds ago.
This shouldn't be happening.
It can't be happening.
Still I want to catalog every single mark on his body. Want to map them with my hands, my mouth. Want to know which ones hurt and which ones he doesn't even notice anymore.
Why the fuck am I like this?
Blondie shifts into her professional voice. "Robert, this is Invisigal. She is part of the Phoenix program—"
Robert. His name is Robert. It sounds so serious.
"—We take former super villains such as herself and rehabilitate them to re-enter society to use their powers for—"
That scar on his collarbone catches the light again and I lose the thread of what she's saying. I'm imagining running my tongue along it, feeling the raised tissue, making him gasp—
The fuck?
"Are those my earrings?" Blondie points to my ear. I sigh.
"Well, they look better on me."
I still give them back to her.
"Invisigal, this is Robert. He'll be your team's dispatcher."
Right. Time to establish the pecking order. Can't let him know I think he's hot. Can't let him know I was just mentally cataloging every scar on his body.
"A washed-up dad bod superhero with no superpowers. Can't wait."
The words come out sharp and mean, the way I need them to. Even though what I really want to say is you're kind of hot in a broken way, and I can't stop looking at you. I know I shouldn't, but I still can't stop.
"His identity, all of this, that's staying between us," Blondie continues. "He's still Mecha Man, but that can't get out. And if it does, I'll know who it came from."
"You think I want to tell people our dispatcher is a fucking loser?"
But even as I say it, my eyes keep drifting back. To those scars. To the quiet strength in the way he holds himself—not weak, not broken, just... steady. Someone who's learned to absorb damage and keep standing. Someone who kept showing up even when his body begged him to stop.
Someone who earned every single one of those scars.
That's hot. That's so fucking hot, and I hate myself for thinking it.
Then he speaks, and his voice changes. Gets firmer. More certain. More... commanding.
"Having superpowers doesn't automatically make you a superhero. You're born with one, you have to earn the other."
The words hit me right in the chest. Right in the place where I keep all my doubts about whether I deserve this second chance.
Fuck. He's right. And he's hot. This is a bad combo.
"Well, I'm wet," I hear myself say, because apparently we're doing this now. "I see why you like him. Look at that drip. What's that look? Best Buy Fight Club? Fucking hot."
Oh my god, shut up, Visi. Shut UP.
But I can't take it back. Can't unsee the way his eyebrows raise slightly. Can't unfeel the heat pooling in my stomach.
I turn and walk out before I can make it worse. Before I can stare at that collarbone scar any longer. Before I can do something really stupid like ask him how he got it. Or tell him I think he's brave. Or admit that I've been imagining what his hands would feel like on my skin.
This is going to be a problem.
He's a washed-up hero in a broken suit his daddy built. Hand-me-down armor and a legacy he couldn't protect.
A hot washed-up hero with scars I want to trace with my tongue.
With abs I want to drag my nails down.
With a quiet strength that makes me want to see what it takes to make him break.
Fuck.
This is absolutely going to be a problem.
That scar on his collarbone is already burned into my memory. I already know I'm going to spend way too much time thinking about how he got it. About what kind of person keeps throwing themselves at danger without powers, without backup, without any goddamn sense of self-preservation.
The kind of person you could fall for, if you're not careful.
I walk faster, trying to outrun the thought.
But it follows me anyway.