Chapter Text
After-hours at the villain’s bar felt damp and warm, even more so than usual. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and stale beer. The neon lights buzzed overhead, casting a kaleidoscope of colors that dance across the faces of patrons who lingered in low-key conversations.
Tucked away in a corner was Robert Robertson, the latest dispatcher to join SDN. A normie without any powers, Robert was an actual good guy with high standards and a brutal professionalism that could make even the most jaded villains sit up and take notice. Basically, someone who didn’t belong in the nonsense of this place… Or so Sonar had thought a few hours ago.
The Z-Team had rolled in earlier, subjecting the bar to their usual blend of ruckus and chaos the whole evening. As midnight approached, they departed in staggered succession, some stumbling, some carried by their taller friends, until only Sonar and Robert remained in their corner booth. When Sonar suggested one last drink, he’d expected a dry refusal. To his surprise, Robert's face softened into something genuine. “Sure, why not?” he’d said, the words flowing with an ease Sonar had never witnessed from the typically uptight dispatcher.
Robert's jacket was off, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His forearms caught the neon glow as he nursed his drink. He laughed easily, the sound a warm melody that drew Sonar in. The dispatcher's usual rigid posture had softened, calm, and unguarded. It was too magnetic to resist.
Robert leaned forward, a mix of disbelief and amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’re seriously telling me you didn’t notice until you were already in Blazer’s office?”
Sonar shrugged, trying to play it cool but failing miserably. “I told you, I don’t exactly have control over my powers. Also, I was high.”
“Too high to realize your dick was hanging out?” Robert shot back, unable to hide a smirk.
Sonar sighed dramatically, running a hand through his fur. “What was I supposed to do? One second I’m full bat, the next I’m not. Unfortunate biology. Besides… I think Blazer kinda liked what she saw.”
“Somehow, I highly doubt that.” Robert replied, the smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth as he crossed his arms.
Sonar couldn't help but snicker. “…Yeah. You’re probably right.”
Robert snorted into his glass, the sound bubbling up unbidden as he took a slow sip of whiskey, his shoulders shook with barely contained mirth. Sonar flashed his fangs with a cheeky grin, just to be annoying, before taking a sip.
“I genuinely don’t understand how you’re not fired yet. You’ve committed, what, a dozen HR violations just by existing?” Robert's amusement sparkled in his eyes.
“It’s my rizz,” Sonar drawled, leaning back with a theatrical flair, but then quickly added, “Also, I now carry an extra pair of really stretchy pants. Always.”
“Good.” Robert laughed, the sound booming and infectious, his head thrown back as he nearly choked on his drink. Sonar looked way too pleased with himself, relishing the moment.
As Robert took another sip of his drink, Sonar stole a discreet glance. Perhaps it’s the whiskeys and the laughter flowing freely or the neon lights softening his usually sharp features. But something about him looked impossibly endearing tonight. Sonar found himself staring longer than intended, surprised by his own interest. He rarely found other men attractive, especially not alphas.
Then it hit him, cutting through his thoughts like a knife. A scent. Sweet and warm, unmistakable in its nature. The fragrance was bleeding from Robert, impossible to ignore now that Sonar had caught it.
He turned sharply. Robert blinked at him, unaware of the thunderous realization that had just struck Sonar.
“You’re… an omega,” Sonar said, the words falling heavily between them, loaded with the gravity of the truth.
Robert shrugged, feigning casualness, but Sonar could see the flicker behind his eyes. “Yeah.”
The silence stretched, thick and palpable, as Sonar struggled to process the implications.
“You don’t feel like—”
“An omega?” The words fell with deliberate, almost practiced indifference. Robert sipped his drink, slow and measured, holding Sonar’s gaze just a moment longer than necessary.
Sonar’s mouth was open with a half-formed protest, but he realized he didn’t know how to finish. “I know,” Robert said, sparing him the trouble. “I get that a lot. I wasn’t lying when I said I used to be a hero. I’m used to fighting above my weight. I can take care of myself.”
He didn’t say it like a boast. The words came out with quiet certainty, a matter-of-fact account of his experiences. And Sonar believed him, which annoyed him in a way he couldn’t articulate. He should have noticed. He should have known. Robert never lost his cool. He never got rattled. He never got pushed. And Sonar had chalked it up to professionalism, or maybe to that infuriatingly tight ass, but now… he understood.
Robert gave another tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Sonar felt the urge to punch a wall on his behalf. The sudden urge to be violent surprised him. It wasn’t the usual flare of territorial posturing or the performative aggression he’d learned in juvenile holding cells, but something more personal. Protective. Sonar didn’t like that realization one bit.
His gaze began to dart around, scanning the bar instinctively. The neon seemed too bright now, the air thick with pheromones he’d always ignored. This was the first time he saw the room for what it is; a den of big, stupid fucks capable of smelling blood at a hundred yards. Everyone in the bar had to have noticed. Had to have smelled it.
Robert caught Sonar’s subtle shift in posture, tilting his head with a playful smirk. “You’re doing the alpha thing.”
“What alpha thing?” Sonar tried to sound casual, but it came out defensive.
“The thing where you suddenly want to protect me, or hide me, or maybe climb over the table and mark me. Or all three.” Robert said with a sly grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Well, duh,” Sonar tried to laugh it off, but even he could detect the brittle edge to his own amusement. “Dude, if I can smell it, then every fucker in this dump can also.”
Robert’s eyebrow twitched upward at that. He swirled the last of his drink, watching the amber liquid catch the blue and fuchsia of the cheap neon. “Good point,” he conceded with a sigh. “Is it that bad?”
Sonar shot him a look that told him everything. “Guess I went a little overboard,” he muttered into his glass before knocking back everything in one smooth motion. He stood, running a hand through his hair.
“We should get out of here before some idiot decides to pick a fight.”
They pushed away from the sanctuary of their booth. Sonar felt the shift immediately; eyes tracking their movement, conversation ebbing and flowing around them, predatory attention spiking from the regulars. The Z-Team’s earlier presence had smoothed the crowd’s appetite for drama, but the sweet, spicy undercurrent radiating from Robert was irresistible. Sonar found himself moving closer, as if his mere proximity could buffer Robert from the worst of it.
They threaded their way through the labyrinth of sticky tables and sagging barstools, forced to squeeze past a particularly rowdy knot of off-duty bouncers. Sonar kept his head on a swivel, reading the room the way a security might scan for hidden threats.
They almost made it to the door. Almost.
Blocking their exit was a wall of muscle and bad intentions. A large alpha, hair shaved so close to the scalp that the underlying scars were visible, stepped out from the shadows cast by the flickering arcade machine. His grin was all hunger and teeth.
“Well, well,” he drawled, voice loud enough to carry over the ambient din. “Didn’t think a pretty little thing like you would be slumming here.” His attention was focused on Robert, but the challenge was clearly directed at both of them.
“I’m not interested,” Robert said, tone as cold as a mortuary slab.
But the Alpha only grinned wider, sniffing the air, his tongue flicking over his teeth in a gesture designed to provoke.
“Wasn’t really asking,” He stepped forward, crowding Robert’s personal space.
Three more figures peeled away from the bar, drawn by the scent of confrontation. The room’s attention zeroed in, the audience assembling for the inevitable. Sonar felt the heat of Robert’s body beside his, the dispatcher standing rigid but unafraid.
“Back off,” Sonar said, pitching his voice low and dangerous. He stepped between Robert and the alpha, using every inch of his frame to block the attack vector. “Seriously, man. Find someone else to impress.”
The alpha’s eyes narrowed, pupils dilating. “You think you’re something special, freak?” The word hung in the air, heavy with all the old venom Sonar knew too well. “You’re just another failed experiment. Should’ve put you down with the rest.”
Robert moved, almost imperceptibly, but Sonar caught it. A subtle shift of balance, knee bent, left hand flexing. He was ready to fight. Suddenly, Sonar felt the urge to put on a show.
“Last warning,” Robert said, his voice like gravel. “Walk away.”
The alpha laughed, a phlegmy, barking sound. “Or what?”
Robert didn’t answer. So instead, Sonar did what he did best. “Hey,” he said, staring straight into the Alpha’s eyes, “don’t take this the wrong way, but your face looks like it was assembled from spare parts. Did they not have enough left for your brain?” Sonar smiled, baring his fangs.
The punch came fast and mean, a meaty fist aimed squarely at Sonar’s jaw. He barely had time to process the fist before it collided, white pain exploding in his face. He tasted copper, hit the ground hard, and rolled instinctively, expecting a follow-up.
He needn’t have bothered.
Robert moved before Sonar’s ass even hit the sticky floor. There was a blur, a sharp report of bone on bone, and suddenly the alpha’s arm was twisted behind his back with an unnatural torque. Robert slammed him into the wall, pinning him there with calm, surgical precision. His friends hesitated, then froze, uncertain.
“Now be smart or I’ll break your arm,” Robert said, voice low and unadorned by drama but terrifying in its sincerity.
Sonar, dazed, watched the poor bastard’s expression cycle from rage to pain to outright fear. Robert’s hand tightened, and he whimpered. One of his friends started forward, but Robert shot him a look so cold it could have flash-frozen the guy’s balls. He stopped dead.
“You heard him,” Sonar managed, staggering to his feet. “We’re leaving. Try not to miss us too much.”
With that, Robert released the alpha, who crumpled to the floor, clutching his arm. The crowd parted, silent now, and Sonar realized that for the first time in his life, he was on the winning end of a bar fight without throwing a single punch.
Outside, the air was crisp and wet, the city lights smearing across the pavement from an earlier rain. Robert kept a brisk pace, not stopping until they were two blocks clear of the bar, well out of sight of any would-be pursuers.
When they finally stopped, Sonar leaned against the wall, heart hammering in his chest, adrenaline making his thoughts skip and stutter.
“You threatened to break his arm,” Sonar said, half in awe.
Robert shrugged, as if this were the most pedestrian thing he could possibly do. “He swung at you. Felt like it was a reasonable reaction.” he said, wearing a wry grin. “I told you, I can take care of myself.”
Sonar stared at him, the adrenaline ebbing, replaced by a growing warmth that he’s sure has nothing to do with the whiskey. He grinned back, unable to help himself.
“Thanks for trying to protect my honor. Didn’t need it. But I appreciate it,” Robert said, nudging Sonar with his shoulder. The contact lingered, electric.
Sonar opened his mouth to say something witty, but nothing came out. He was too busy staring at the shape of Robert’s smile, the way it transformed his whole face, honest and open and so fucking alive.
It was the moment Sonar fell.