Chapter Text
“It looks like Flambae’s the lucky winner.”
Blonde Blazer’s voice is usually a sound that Robert would place in his batch of good connotations; she speaks softly, warmly, politely. He’s never truly been left disgruntled or unnerved by anything she’s said aloud to him; it was one of the reasons he liked talking to her so much, one of the reasons why they made such good friends.
But in this moment, as he’s lounging before her in one of her office chairs, her words have never before sparked such a cold, rippling feeling of dread in his chest — a sharp, icy stake to the heart that has it thrumming rapidly against his ribs.
“You’re joking, right?” Robert asks in return, tone ever consistently low and cynical.
Blonde Blazer regards him with an apologetic twist of features. “It was a random draw, Robert. What do you want me to tell you?”
He shrugs, expressionless. “That you’re joking.”
“I’m afraid I’m really not.” The blonde chuckles warily, but her amused features quickly return to something sympathetic, brows furrowed and lips pursed. “Look, it’s just one night. We’ve booked the hotel for Saturday, the convention is Sunday, and then you’re on your way back to Torrence in no time.”
“Blazer, this is an informative event.” Robert leans forward, placing his elbows on the surface of the desk and folding his arms. “You really think Flambae is going to take anything in at all? Let alone educate the rest of the Z-Team on what he learns?”
“Well,” she says, shrugging, “you’re a good mentor, I’m sure you can encourage him to be more productive for the sake of his team.”
Robert deadpans. “We’re talking about Flambae here.”
“I know, but I do think he’s shown considerable progress.” Blazer’s tone is hopeful as she leans back in her chair. “He hasn’t punched you since the whole Mecha Man reveal, and I think that’s something to be celebrated!”
Robert pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, my face is definitely thankful for that, but this is motivational speeches and a bunch of ass-kissing heroes — and Flambae isn’t exactly the type to sit down and take notes.”
“Maybe he can be.” Blazer tilts her head, that warm yet timid smile pulling at her lips in a way that always softens Robert’s hard exterior. “You never know. You’ve already gotten the team this far.”
“We’re talking about the same guy here, yeah? The same guy that fucks with the microwave in the breakroom because he thinks its funny to burn Sonar’s food and have the whole place smelling like dead rat?”
Blonde Blazer’s positive demeanor falls to something flat and frustrated. “Okay, fair point. But there’s nothing I can do, Robert.”
Robert sighs, lifting both hands to cover his face. “Can’t we just rig it, or something?”
Blazer frowns and her lips curl downward. “Then we’re not giving him a chance at all.” The woman stands, looming over the desk. “We can’t write him off before he can even prove us wrong.”
She steps around the desk, moving to lean against it in the space beside him, and he rises from his slouched position atop its surface to meet her gaze.
Her eyes are soft as she adds, “You should know that better than anyone.”
Robert knows she’s right. It’d be the epitome of unfair; random was random, and if the universe wanted him a pile of ash by Sunday then so be it.
“Alright,” Robert says, nodding begrudgingly. “Fine.”
She chews on her bottom lip a moment. “I’ve also already told him.”
He drops his head back into his hands and lets out an excessively long groan. “Of course, you did.”
He feels her hand drop onto his shoulder to give it a brief squeeze, before she follows the movement up with a soft, encouraging pat.
“For now, though,” she says, “I need you back in the field. It’s only Thursday after all.”
“Which means it’s that much closer.” His words are muffled by his palms.
“Somehow I just knew you were a glass half empty kind of guy.”
He lifts his head, catches her eye, and smiles wearily at the amusement dancing within their bright, blue hue. With another long-suffering sigh, he stands, walking languidly to the door of her office as she moves to return to her seat behind the desk. He grabs for the handle just as he hears her chair squeak as she sits.
“Just so you know,” Robert says from the doorway, looking back into the office and facing her once more, “I’d rather have gotten literally anyone else.”
“I know, Robert.” Blazer smiles, close-lipped and thin, before she shakes her head and drops her eyes to her paperwork.
B.Y.H.B, ‘Be Your Heroic Best’ had been explained to Robert, by Blazer of course, as a convention led by retired heroes, and heroes in their prime, with the sole purpose of teaching what they’ve learned in the field to better educate the upcoming, heroic youth. It was a two day event, Saturday and Sunday, and the SDN was willing to pay, round trip, for someone from the Phoenix Program to attend — with a chaperone of course.
When Robert had volunteered to do so with a member of the Z-Team, he hadn’t really thought the entire process through. Or, at least, he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider the reality he was currently experiencing: a reality in which he shared a weekend with a raging fireball who vividly hated his guts.
When the opportunity had been mentioned, his mind had supplied him with the idea of a challenging but mediocre weekend in any other context — ideally he’d be assigned Waterboy but some of the others would likely be manageable. And less so for the actual convention itself, but for the room-sharing bit of the excursion.
He’d gone down the list — considering.
Waterboy would mean well in all circumstances — sure, he might leave a trail of general moist-ness in his wake, but at least he was low stress, polite, and less focused on causing absolute mayhem. A night in a hotel with Coupé would most likely consist of her curled on her bed with her tablet in hand, reading whatever fantasy smut she was into; Prism was probably used to out of town conventions, so he can imagine she’d be modestly well-behaved for the most part; Punch-Up would likely raid the room’s minibar and leave Robert with the extra fees, but he could just put those on the trip’s company tab; he could see Sonar actually taking notes, maybe chatting up some of the more infamous heroes and cooking up some kind of fraud scheme — the worst he might have to deal with is sharing a room with a giant bat or cocaine in their shared bathroom. Even Invisigal, Malevola and Golem seemed manageable; Visi would probably fuck with the other hotel guests far too much, gather some kind of insane gossip between superheroes and ignore the very concept of ‘too much information’ when it came to whatever she shared with him in return. He likes to think Malevola would behave for the most part, and he knows Golem would, if not for his sheer size.
Flambae, though? Flambae not only has beef (and not the cute, canine kind) with him, but he’s also a walking candlestick with a massive anger management problem. Their relationship had been rocky from the start, fingers and eyebrows aside, and is, presumably, even rockier now with his recent revelation. The man hadn’t necessarily spoken to him much since; Robert doesn’t count snide commentary during dispatching — that’s always been a given.
As he puts down his headset for the day, he ponders over the weekend swiftly approaching with a hand to his temple; he desperately tries to rub the migraine away, willing himself some sort of healing power but, of course, the universe is hardly so giving. The lights start to dim around him, other dispatchers and office workers stepping away from their desks, grabbing their things and heading home for the evening. He hears telltale clicks, the shuffling of bags, the soft thump of footsteps; the lull of the office falling asleep is something he enjoys nowadays, and it remains one of the sole reasons why he stays so late sometimes. That and because his apartment is depressing as fuck, but what can you do.
The streetlights shine through the office windows, scattering across the walls of his cubicle, and he sighs into the silence rapidly forming around him. The light of the computer screen illuminates his space in its odd, sea-green glow, and he notes the headshots of his team still sitting at the bottom of the dispatching layout.
Beside him, Beef snuffles where he’s asleep in his bed, rotund body half-curled in a ball, and leg kicking as he dreams.
Robert smiles down at him and thinks deeper for a moment. When he considers the decision as a whole, it looks different than the stress and dread he’s currently experiencing. At the end of the day, he cares about the Z-Team exponentially — that’s why he’d said yes. At first, he didn’t consider the night out of town, the close proximity, the shared spaces — not really. Because, ultimately, he just wanted to offer because he could. Because he cares, really cares. Because he likes them all. And he thinks they always deserve someone who wants to look out for them simply because they want to — no ulterior motives, no unbalance.
And that extends to Flambae too.
He clings to that thought and shuts his eyes, turning it over and over in his head as he spins in his chair, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
It’s complex, the way he feels about the ex-villain. There’s a chemistry there, undoubtedly, though it’s a kind that Robert has struggled to find the purpose of, the reason behind. He feels guilt but it dances alongside righteous justice. Guilt for taking his fingers, a muted satisfaction for taking his eyebrows. When he’s around, Robert’s gut flips upside down — his shoulders tense, he holds his breath — but aside from all of that, he chats with the man with ease. He meets his insults, he bites back when he has to, he deflects the best he can; there’s a rhythm to their interactions, a melodic pattern that Robert has come to enjoy, much to his own chagrin.
Something about it just feels right sometimes.
He wonders if there is any universe where the two of them get along, where they don’t fight, where they don't meet in violence, where their interactions are warm and light-hearted. He can’t picture it, can’t fathom it.
“I hear you and I are going on a little field trip, Mecha Bitch.”
The sharp, accented voice scalds him, shocking his eyes open and his body straight in his chair. He lets out a hushed curse beneath his breath, wiping a hand down his face, before he turns and takes in the being in front of him.
Flambae stands, toned body decorated in its usual get-up, the glimmering flames of his suit oddly discolored in the light of Robert’s computer. Even though his body is glowing in its usual, fiery passion, he still holds an amber hue to him, an aura that hovers around his musculature and sets him apart from the average human. Robert meets the glow of tangerine eyes and holds his gaze; there’s a mischievous tinge to the way Flambae is regarding him, one Robert is used to, but the lack of an amused smirk or snarky sneer is what unnerves him more than usual.
“You heard right.” Robert sighs and keeps his tone as light as he can, though it still carries its low, monotone charm. “Congratulations on winning the random draw.”
The man before him scoffs, arms crossed over his chest. “It doesn’t surprise me — I win most things.”
“Of course,” Robert says, shutting his eyes a moment to will himself a modicum of sanity, “how could I forget?”
“You are the lucky one, really.” He hears Flambae say, tone confident. “Spending an entire night in my presence? That is an experience most people need a reservation for.”
“How many days in advance?” Robert asks, pinching the bridge of his nose — something he’s done far too much of today.
“At least a week. I’m a busy man.”
Robert snorts to himself. “I bet.”
He finally lifts his gaze to Flambae, only to find that he’s very clearly in the middle of giving him a rather sizable once over; Robert feels his cheeks heat in humiliation. He can hardly imagine how he looks right now, half-awake, shirt a fraction more unbuttoned than usual, his hair a mess from how consistently he’d been running frustrated hands through it — as if he needed to give Flambae more ammo to tease him with.
When the amber orange of his eyes meet the deep brown of Robert’s, Flambae barrels onward, uncrossing his arms to place his hands on his hips instead.
“Blazer said you are taking a train.”
Robert blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess — probably. It’s out of town.” He shrugs. “Five hours or so. Better than having to drive it.”
Flambae scoffs. “Because you cannot fly.”
“No,” Robert says, flashing the walking flamethrower a close-lipped smile. “No, I can’t, Flambae. Thank you for the reminder.”
“I will meet you there then.” Flambae arches a brow. “There is no way I’m sitting in a tiny rectangle with you for that long.”
“You’re going to be spending a whole night in a tiny rectangle with me.” Robert frowns, confused.
“Yes,” Flambae says, tone patronizing, “and one experience doing so is more than enough, thank you.”
Fair enough. Robert sighs, rubs his palms over his face and stands, grabbing for his bag. Beef flinches awake at the sound, yawning and stretching in his bed before glancing up at him expectantly.
As he faces Flambae, he hardly matches the man’s demeanor. Flambae’s hulking frame towers over him in both height and mere size, toned arms the size of both Robert’s thighs combined. He stares up at the dark shadow of his stubble and the angular shape of his face, features hard and sculpted — he’s practically a walking Adonis, and Robert wouldn’t be afraid to tell the guy if he didn’t already announce it so much himself.
“If you don’t want to go, I’m sure you can talk to Blazer about forfeiting your win to someone else on the team.” Robert shifts the strap of his bag on his shoulder.
“Forfeiting?” The man rears back, affronted. “Absolutely not.” Flambae takes a step closer, inching his way into Robert’s space, chin jutting forwards. “Just because you’re being a scared, little bitch about it, doesn’t mean I will be.”
“That’s not why I—” Robert sighs. “You know what? Nevermind.” He glances down at the chubby chihuahua at his feet before he flashes the man before him a final stern look. “I gotta get Beef home. I’ll see you bright and early for work tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
Flambae merely makes a dismissive noise and watches him leave, arms back to being crossed over his chest and face drawn in his typical scowl. He looks displeased, frustrated.
Robert’s going to wake up Sunday morning with all of his hair roasted off — he’s convinced of it.
…
Friday morning’s shift of dispatching consists of a menagerie of complaints, immature whining, and teasing remarks from the Z-Team. Flambae is a topic of interest, the rest of the group mentioning the event this week, laughing at the idea of the ex-villain being lectured by an extensive array of retired heroes. Per usual, Flambae bites back with his own insults, or shuts down the conversation with rapid-fire one-liners.
Robert doesn’t blame their amusement. He doesn’t necessarily want to sit in front of a group of righteous do-gooders who were born with their powers intact and their mission in life clear before them. He’ll be more of an outcast than Flambae.
Aside from the high-energy mockery and satire, each member of the team pulls their weight on every call that morning, making quick work of any criminals and solving any inconsequential issues Robert sends them on. They still moan about fixing malfunctioning bidets or delivering coffee to high profile clients but Robert’s more than used to it, aware that no matter how much they whine they still listen in the end. And, to be fair, if someone had asked him to walk their dog when he’d been flying around in his mech suit, he’d probably complain about it too.
In the blink of an eye, they’ve made it to lunchtime and he finds himself setting his headset down on the desk after a quick message of ‘see you back here in thirty.’ There’s hoots and hollers on the other end, Visi making a joke about Robert fetching himself a twink and Sonar showing interest thereafter, but he doesn’t comment. He moves instead to reach into his bag for a few dollars before he stands and makes his way to the breakroom.
As he takes the short walk, navigates a few corridors and dodges the larger scale employees meandering their way through the building, he eventually approaches its open door, only to hear the midst of a conversation from within.
“That’s a lot of privacy, baby.” Prism’s voice, with all its charm and character, is followed by the sound of a soda can clicking open and hissing.
“I am very aware.” Flambae snaps back but it’s followed by a deep sigh; there’s a truly exasperated edge to it that Robert doesn’t recognize.
“So,” Prism says in return, her tone far more hushed, “a perfect time to do what you’ve been wanting to do since you met the bitch.”
“Oh, of course.” Flambae scoffs, sarcastically. “Because I am sure that will go over so well.”
In an attempt not to eavesdrop, Robert doesn’t slow his gait; he simply turns into the room, walking in with purpose and heading directly for the vending machine beside the counter. Prism’s mouth is open to respond but stops, her eyes meeting Robert’s gaze for a moment. Flambae’s back is to him, a silky black ponytail curling down between his shoulder blades, and he’s leaning on the table, running a hand over the top of his head.
“I’m pretty sure he hates —”
“Hi, Robert!” Prism interrupts Flambae to smile at Robert instead, her teeth white and lips plush, glowing as bright as her visor.
He glances at Flambae, notes the tension that swiftly builds in his shoulders, and sighs, regarding Prism with a nod of his head.
“Hey. Good job this morning,” he says, as he turns away from the two of them, reaching into his pocket for his cash. He’s sure he sees Prism make a face at Flambae, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he stands in front of the vending machine and eyes the twinkies. In an attempt to avoid an ‘I told you so’ from Visi, however, he moves on, gaze darting over the rest of its contents in search of something that’ll be just as satisfying.
He hears footsteps and shuffling in the hall, familiar voices approaching the breakroom, but he pays it no mind as he tries to decide his lunch.
“Hey Bobert,” Sonar says as he strides into the room, moving directly for the fridge. His ears flicker as he pulls open the door, eyes scanning for whatever atrocity he’s brought along with him today. Robert sends him a simple nod back in response.
Malevola follows in behind him, smiling at the dispatcher as she grabs for a chair beside Prism, tail swishing back and forth like a cat. She slouches back with a satisfied sigh, red, muscular arms hugging the back of the chair.
The sound of Inivisigal’s telltale warping into sight emanates from beside the vending machine and he glances over, meeting her eyes. Her expression is amused, a brow arched challengingly, and Robert shakes his head, pressing a few buttons for a simple granola bar.
“So,” Visi utters, keeping her voice low, “I hear you and Flambae are going on a little vacay.”
“You say that like we’ve been planning this ourselves.” Robert clenches his jaw at the grating noise of the machine, knocking his granola bar to the bottom with a resolute thunk. “As you know, and everyone else knows, it was a random draw.”
“Unlucky.” Visi directs a faux pout his way. “I’ll be sure to store your ashes somewhere pretty.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Robert bends, grabbing his snack from behind the metal flap. As he straightens, he glances over his shoulder at the rest of the breakroom only to instantly meet Flambae’s eye, the man’s orange gaze locked onto his thin frame. The moment they interlock, the fiery ex-villain is turning back to reenter whatever conversation Prism is having with Malevola.
Robert blinks, frowns, and turns back to Invisigal.
“Well,” Visi says, shrugging, “you do sleep in a plastic chair. I’m sure spending a night anywhere else, with anyone else, is better than what you’re used to.”
“Thanks, Visi.” Robert shoots her a look, but warms when she smiles back.
Her eyes catch on the granola bar in his hand and she chuckles. “Choosing to suffer for the sake of pride.” She meets his gaze. “Maybe you and Flambae have more in common than I thought.”
Before he can respond, he hears the chatter quiet down behind him and a voice pipe up from the gathered group.
“Robby!” Malevola calls out, and when he turns, he sees her leaning over the table, an excited pattern to the swish of her tail. “I’m so jealous. I wanted to go on vacation with you.” Her lips pull forward into a sulk.
“It’s not a vacation.” Robert informs her, grip tightening around his snack. He feels like a broken record. “It’s an informative trip, a motivational lecture, and a one night stay in a three star hotel.”
The room is silent for a moment, everyone staring at him with arched brows. He doesn’t really comprehend the appeal of such a trip, at least for an ex-villain, but everyone is watching as though he’s oblivious of something, something glaringly obvious.
Ignoring him entirely, Prism drops her soda from her lips and smirks. “We should take a group trip sometime. Imagine what we could all get up to together.”
Malevola hums in agreement. “I say beach trip all the way.”
“You would.” Prism grins. “But I’m down. I look damn good in a bikini.”
“I bet you do,” Sonar says from the counter, a dreamy look in his eye as he stares at Prism across the breakroom. She snorts at him and rolls her eyes, but Robert sees her preen a bit under the praise.
“Ah, bad idea for me. I burn real easily.” Punch-Up’s voice sounds from the doorway as he stands beside it, extending a hand in a chivalrous gesture for Coop as she enters in after him.
“Why are we talking about the beach?” Coop asks, voice languid and sultry.
Malevola sighs, sitting back in her seat again. “We’re discussing our massive FOMO over Flambae getting to go on a solo trip with Robert.”
Coop tilts her head. “They’re going to the beach?”
“No,” Robert says, finally, “we’re going to Saint Pulse.”
“I mean,” Visi adds, smirking, “there is a beach near there.”
Robert drops his head back against the machine. “For the last time, it’s a convention.” He looks at everyone, meeting their eye-lines individually, his tone shifting to something stricter; he uses his voice typically reserved for directing the team over his headset. “A snotty, boring kind where people who think they’re better than you talk your ear off trying to give you advice and office tips that you’ll never listen to, let alone factor into your everyday work environment.”
Flambae has a fork in a box of some sort of leftover noodles, clearly coated in spice, and he wears a permanent frown, brows furrowing. He doesn’t add to the conversation, nor even seem a part of it at all, unnervingly silent, and Robert shifts a bit where he stands.
“Okay, okay. We get it.” Malevola lifts her hands in surrender. “I’m still jealous though.”
The rest of the team present hums in agreement, nodding their heads and fixing Robert with miffed expressions — as though he had any control over this whatsoever.
“You don’t exactly sound like you want to go.” Visi scoffs from his side, stepping around him to grab a chair and swing herself down into it. “Why’d you even volunteer?”
“It’s something to do.” Robert shrugs. “And I can’t remember the last time I was anywhere other than Torrence.” He pauses for a moment, considers his next words, and clears his throat. “And I like you guys, so.”
A few faces in the room soften, but most of them are smug, watching him with bright eyes and amused expressions.
“Plus I know you wouldn’t listen to anyone other than me,” Robert adds, “so I’m sparing some other poor fucker the misery.”
The team breaks into a chatter of protest, everyone speaking at the same time on behalf of their character; Punch-Up and Coop seem to agree rather than deny, and Robert ignores them all in favor of shifting his eyes to Flambae, the only member keeping their mouth shut.
He catches a fraction of the man’s face; he’s turning to look over his shoulder with the merest glance Robert’s way and his eyes are narrowed, one brow arched, judging and stern.
“Well.” Robert sighs and gestures at them all with his granola bar. “If that’s all, I’ll be at my desk. If you need anything, ask someone else.”
He gives everyone one last look that pleads for them to behave, before he turns and strides out the door and back into the corridor. He can hear voices behind him, conversations starting back up and comments following his retreating form. Stints of laughter and the screech of chairs moving are followed by the shuffling of shoes and the slamming of the microwave’s latch, shrill beeping ensuing thereafter.
As he takes his leave, disappearing further down the hall, he hears Visi’s voice above the idle chatter, oddly louder than the rest.
Her tone is full of snark, and he can practically picture the smirk lifting her features as she says, “Oh yeah. I’m putting fifty on you following through, Flambae.”