Chapter Text
Robert knows it's going to be a bad day before he even opens his eyes. He shouldn't be awake yet, the alarm on his phone hasn't gone off. It's the pain that woke Robert.
His back hurts. Not the kind of everyday pain he's used to, the kind he has on good days. This isn't the kind of pain that lets its self be ignored. It's insistent and burning, demanding that Robert acknowledge its existence. Robert feels like someone's grabbed his spine right where it connects to his skull and tried to pull it out of his body through the back of his neck. The pain radiates down into his legs and out into his shoulders. Every nerve in Roberts body screams at him to not move, to not even breath too deeply or everything will get worse.
A low groan leaves Roberts lips entirely against his will. He should be happy that at least his wrists and knees don't hurt more than they usually do, but Robert knows that'll change once he starts moving.
He doesn't want to move, but he has to. On days like these, he used to only move for Beef or end of the world level catastrophes. Once he's got some adrenalin going, Robert can usually function under any amount of discomfort his own body throws at him. But now he has a job too, one he can't just not turn up to.
Robert sits up a little straighter, still unable to get himself to open his eyes. Every bone in his spine and those directly connected to it seems to twist and writhe with the movement, triggering Roberts gag reflex at the sudden wave of nausea.
Barely able to think straight, Robert considers calling in sick. He's never missed a shift yet, as long as this doesn't become a habit he should be fine.
But Z-Team's been showing so much progress lately, and Robert can't risk compromising that. It's not that Robert doesn't trust Blond Blazer or Chase with his team, nor is he big headed enough to believe their improvements are all thanks to his involvement, but Robert knows them after working with them for months, knows how they function and how to handle possible issues.
It's also only been a few days since Flambae showed up at work again since he was “sick” after Robert came clean about being Mecha Man. They haven't talked about it, Flambae never directly reacting to anything Robert says to him over comms, but the last thing Robert wants his team to think is that he'll stop showing up to work if any of them have an issue with him. That'll undermine the trust he's built with them and likely lower their still rather low opinion of him further.
None of those things make getting up any easier.
Robert isn't sure how much time has passed when his alarm goes off. Even that doesn't get him going immediately, at least not until the repetitive ringing noise grates on his nerves bad enough to make him want to scream.
Not letting himself think too much about it, Robert pushes himself upright using the unstable lawn chair. It's only his years of practice with this that keep Robert from collapsing or throwing up as his vision whites out for a moment.
“Fuck,” Robert groans, grabbing at the lawn chair's armrest hard enough to make his knuckles crack. The longer he lingers, the less he'll want to keep moving, Robert knows that. He still has to wait for the pain to quiet down at least a little, at least until he's certain he won't pass out. If Robert falls now, there's no way he's getting back up again.
His alarm keeps going, keeps driving Robert crazy, but he can't get himself to do anything about it just yet. Either the noise or Robert woke Beef up, who's at Roberts feet, wagging his tail furiously and likely wondering why he hasn't been pet yet. Robert gives the dog an apologetic look. He can't imagine living without Beef, but it never feels good when Beef has to suffer thanks to Robert's failings.
Whilst Robert puts off dealing with everything just yet, leaning on the chair in a way that keeps his back as steady as possible, Robert plans ahead. First, he needs pain meds, or nothing will get done. They won't help a lot in the long run, not when Robert's body is acting up as it is, but it's not like he has other options. Showering will have to be skipped for now. As nice as the thought of hot water is, standing still is so much worse than walking and Robert isn't confident he won't just give in to the warmth and collapse on the shower floor. Get dressed, get his phone off the floor, feed Beef, get to work; he can manage that.
Pushing any thought of hesitation out of his mind, Robert strides towards the bathroom quickly and confidently. That does end with him throwing up bile into the sink as he clutches at the porcelain like his life depends on it, but he stays upright.
Robert lets the tap run to clean the sink. He's learnt to keep any pain medication at a height that doesn't require him to lift his arms too far. After swallowing the pills dry, Robert even finds it within himself to brush his teeth. Not to lean down to rinse his mouth though, so he will have to live with the intense flavour of mint in his mouth for the foreseeable future.
Walking back into the main room of his apartment goes a little better. At least Robert doesn't throw up again. Getting dressed is a different matter. He has little trouble with his SDN shirt, even if he leaves it unbuttoned a little lower than he usually would. The pants are more of of a problem, but Robert's come up with a system for that too. It involves pressing his back up against the wall and a lot of fumbling until he has his legs in the pants.
There's no way in hell Robert can bend down to grab his phone of the floor, so he kick it towards the kitchen counter. Beef is delighted by the device skidding across the floor, chasing after it to sniff it only to lose interest quickly. By grabbing the edge of the kitchen counter, Robert can crouch without bending his back. He sighs once the irritating sound of his alarm is finally off, placing the device securely in his pocket.
Whilst Robert is already crouching, he takes a moment to pet Beef. For efficiencies sake, Robert clips the leash on his collar too. Thankfully Beef has no issues with having it on longer than normal.
Leash in hand, Robert slowly pulls himself back into a standing position. The action is accompanied with quite a bit of colourful swearing, flashes of white hot pain racing along Roberts back. It takes a moment for him to get moving again.
Robert had the foresight to keep Beef's food somewhere easy to reach too. What's less easy to reach is his bowl. Aiming at the metal dish as best he can, Robert tips Beef's breakfast into it from a good meeter away. Kibble is sent flying all over the floor.
“Shit,” Robert huffs, “sorry, bud.” Beef shows no distaste for having to eat off the floor, happily going after the pieces of food. A knot still forms in Roberts stomach at the sight. No good dog owner would screw up feeding their pet this badly.
Getting to the office is bad, of course it is, but the painkillers kick in at some point, dousing the burn somewhat. Roberts still beyond thankful for the elevator in the building. Usually he'd pick Beef up for the ride up, worried someone will step on him. Despite the small size of him, everyone's very cautious of Beef, which makes Roberts life a little easier.
Somehow, Robert isn't late when he sinks into his office chair. It's unfair how much more comfortable it is than the lawn chair he sleeps in, though the slight bit of more cushioning does little for the pain wracking his body.
"You look like shit, kid." Chase's voice startles Robert, making him turn in his direction a little too fast. He only just manages to bite back the noise threatening to leave his mouth, even if he still grimaces.
"Thank you for that observation," Robert sighs. Turning to his computer, Robert tries his best not to think too hard about the way Chase's eyebrows draw together as he leans over the partition wall between them.
"Rough night?" He asks.
Robert hums in response. "You can call it that." He catches Chase shake his head in the corner of his field of view.
Chase mutters something about Roberts apartment that Robert doesn't feel like commenting on. "Stay there, I'm getting you coffee and a snack." Robert would try and protest if he had the energy to do so.
Taking a moment to coo over Beef, Chase heads off to the break room with the determination of a man on a vital mission. It makes Roberts skin crawl, knowing he likely couldn't get himself coffee from the break room. He thanks Chase quietly when he places a pack of Twinkie's and a cup of coffee on Roberts desk. Robert hopes Chase doesn't know just how big of a favour he did Robert.
Eating and drinking something does make Robert feel a little more like a person rather than a walking bundle of raw nerves.
Considering how badly the day had started, the first shift could have gone a lot worse. Visi immediately jokes about Robert being hungover when he greets the team, others quickly hopping on the line to join. Robert makes no move to defend himself, them believing he'd drunk heavily the previous day being better than them knowing he's barely holding on to a thread thanks to his own weakness.
"Could have told us you were going out," Malevola says on the group line. "We'd have went with you."
"I'll keep that in mind," Robert answers a little too quickly. That'll likely be classified as part of his supposed hangover.
Robert does slip up a couple times on shift, trying to send someone that's already busy after job or giving out directions too slowly. He also doesn't listen to most of the chatter on the line, even if he finds the sound of Z-Team talking surprisingly comforting.
The pain can't be ignored like it can on good days, but it becomes a whole lot less present as Robert does his job. That keeps him from falling apart as he works, but turns out to be a double edged sword by the time their lunch break rolls around.
Robert had been so focused, he didn't notice just how bad his body's gotten. Every joint seems to have locked up, burning spreading from his spine having devolved further, becoming sharper, like heavily caustic chemicals are being injected directly into his bone marrow. The nausea is back too, worse than in the morning, watery saliva already collecting in his mouth.
It's a certainty that he's going to be sick and Robert refuses to do so in a crowded office.
He's up before he really registers what's happening, moving towards the bathroom quickly. Unable to focus on anything but not throwing up or passing out on his way there, Robert barely notices the people he bumps into on the way. The next thing he's aware of are his knees slamming into the tiled floor, just managing to lean across the toilet bowl before the contents of his stomach are violently expelled.
The impact with the floor has involuntary tears spilling across his face as he heaves. The burning in his throat barely registers in the face of the waves of agony washing over Robert continuously. He can't do anything, can't think or breath or keep his body from shaking like a fucking leaf.
Seconds or hours could have passed by the time Robert can see straight again, regretting every choice that lead him to this moment, from getting up in the morning to surviving the explosion that broke his body into the patchwork of pain it is today.
Robert gets the distant feeling that he should be disgusted, kneeling on the floor of a public bathroom, face rested on the rim of the toilet. He really can't find the strength to feel anything but exhaustion and pain, nor can he find it in himself to care.
Maybe he'll just stay here forever, Robert thinks. He can't imagine trying to get up or managing it though second shift, even if all he has to do is sit there. That disgusts Robert more than where he's currently sitting. He didn't used to be this weak.
Even before the explosion that put him in a four month coma Roberts body had issues. He can't remember when the pain started, nor what a time before it felt like. But when Robert was still actively Mecha Man, he could force himself to function. Even on the worst of days, Robert could get himself up and in the suit if he was needed.
But now, he's too weak to even sit at a desk and click buttons.
Voices startle Robert. Of course he wouldn't be alone in here forever, it's a public bathroom. He hadn't really thought of that when the nausea forced him to abruptly leave his desk. Then again, Robert hadn't really thought of anything at the time.
Pushing himself upright with grit teeth, Robert glances in the direction of the open cubicle door. If he gets that closed quickly, no one will see him. He can keep quiet until he's alone again, unbothered by co-workers. Then he can consider what he'll do next.
Robert turns abruptly, jarring every bone and muscle in his scarred body, almost blacking out in the process. He gets one leg up, sole of his shoe pressed against the tiled floor. All Robert has to do is use it to push himself up off the floor, then he can grab the cubicle door and swing it shut.
He never even gets to try. A furry, clawed hand slams onto the cubicle wall, accompanied by a familiar laugh.
"Hair of the dog, Bobert," Sonar announces loudly. At least it sounds like his voice should be loud. It seems almost distant as Robert tries to focus his blurry vision on the man standing in front of him. "If you get this fucked up, you gotta keep drinking the next day. Everybody knows that."
Robert doesn't say anything, not yet. He needs to think of something good to say, but his sluggish brain isn't suggesting anything useful. Sonar isn't alone, Punch Up is standing close behind him, looking like he's saying something. Robert can't make it out past the blood rushing in his ears.
Judging by the orange and black blur behind them, Flambae is here too. Robert is in no state to try and navigate the complicated dynamic between the two of them at the moment. If he's lucky though, seeing Robert's pathetic and seemingly extremely hungover might get Flambae to go back to loudly mocking him. At least that would be communication, as opposed to the cold shoulder Flambae's been giving Robert.
He's been quiet for far too long, Robert knows that. He has to say something, then get out of there as quickly as possible. Get up and just keep walking. Robert can fully compose himself once he's back at the desk.
"You going for a communal piss?" Robert asks, not sure if the words leave his mouth. Then he gets up, and immediately pitches forwards, vision going dark.