Chapter Text
The storm outside the STN Center had been raging against the windows since sundown, pelting the glass like someone insisting on being let inside. It came down in sheets—heavy, relentless, and loud enough that most people in the building had already packed up for the night. The few who remained spoke in hushed tones, as if raising their voices might provoke the storm further. Lightning flickered across the skyline, briefly illuminating the rows of cubicles like a camera flash catching an unflattering candid.
Robert Robertson barely heard any of it.
Noise, chaos, weather—none of it ever managed to distract him once he was locked into helping the Z-Team. His focus tunneled so sharply that the outside world became little more than a faint suggestion. He sat at his cluttered station, hunched forward, elbows on the desk, eyes scanning the data feed crawling across his monitors.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, buzzing in that tired, near-death way only old office bulbs could. Their dull yellow cast stretched over every surface, flattening color and sharpening shadows. The bulletin boards surrounding him looked even more cluttered than usual, littered with overlapping notes, red push pins, blue strings, half-erased timestamps, and hastily scribbled coordinates. The city’s troubles mapped like exposed veins—tangled, pulsing, impossible to ignore.
Robert reached for his coffee—lukewarm now, almost cold—and took a long sip.
He grimaced immediately.
Even for him, this batch was terrible. Something between burnt mud and battery acid. The kind of taste that lingered out of spite.
He set the cup down, defeated.
Then the radio crackled.
Not the steady hum of monitors. Not the flicker of scanners picking up dispatch chatter.
His radio—set aside and nearly forgotten under a stack of incident reports—spoke first in static, and then in a low, simmering voice.
“Bitch? You alive over there?”
Robert didn’t smile, but something in him loosened—something tight, something coiled, something he refused to name. His shoulders dropped the barest inch.
“Flambae,” he said. “You’re early.”
“Please. I’m always right on time. You’re just too slow to notice.”
His voice—Flambae’s—carried heat even through the compression of radio transmission. Warm, teasing, playful. The kind of voice that could coax color back into faded walls. The kind of voice that sounded like it was too bright for the world it lived in.
Robert sometimes wondered whether he sounded like that intentionally…
or whether he existed that way.
Naturally incandescent.
Flambae wasn’t technically part of Z-Team anymore—no longer just a voice in Robert’s ear on missions, no longer stationed beside him cracking jokes through the comms. Things had changed. Departments shuffled. Assignments reassigned. Responsibilities redistributed. Robert thought Flambae hated it, though he’d never said so. He didn’t need to. Robert could hear things between his words. Always had.
Robert leaned back in his chair, stretching the tension from his shoulders. “Didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.”
“Yeah, well… I didn’t expect to be stuck on standby listening to Prism argue with Punch Up. Life is full of disappointments.”
Robert huffed. “Sounds riveting.”
“Be quiet, bitch.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re basically the biggest bitch ever, Asshole.”
This time Robert did smile—small, involuntary, dangerous.
Because he could hear it.
The grin in Flambae’s voice.
The warmth behind the insults.
The softness buried under the fire.
He hated that he could hear it.
Hated that Flambae had that kind of hold on him—enough that his heartbeat dared to sync with the rhythm of his speech.
He didn’t know that on the other side of the city, Flambae pressed a hand to his own chest at the exact same moment, confused by the tiny flutter he blamed on the cold draft of the hallway.
He’d been blaming random things for months.
The temperature.
The weather.
His boots.
Coffee.
Dust in the vent.
Anything but Robert.
Never Robert.
—
“So,” Flambae said after a moment, letting the teasing burn out like a dying ember. His tone lowered, smoothed, steadying. “You’re working late again.”
Robert glanced at the sprawling board of notes. “Heroes aren't going to help themselves.”
“At this point,” Flambae muttered, “I wouldn’t be shocked if you just dropped dead from how much overtime you’ve done.”
Robert blinked. Flambae rarely let worry slip through. He covered concern in sarcasm, wrapped affection in barbed humor, layered genuine care under four inches of fireproof attitude. But that hint—the quiet plea beneath the mockery, the “please don’t burn yourself out” he’d never say aloud—was obvious enough to Robert.
“God, you’re insufferable,” Robert murmured.
Flambae exhaled, the radio making it sound like a soft crackle of static. “You could at least lie and say you’ll sleep sometime today, Asshole. Or is that chair still keeping you up?”
Robert stood from the chair, bones complaining, stretching his stiff shoulders with a low groan. “You didn’t call to lecture me about my needs. What’s going on?”
There was a pause.
Just a second too long.
Flambae wasn’t usually hesitant.
“I… had a feeling,” he finally said.
“A feeling.”
“Yeah, yeah, the type of feeling when I think you should stay in the office just for a second more.”
Robert froze.
His eyes flicked to the doorway.
To the windows.
To the shadows shifting faintly beneath the flickering lights.
He turned back to his computer, brow furrowing. “Are you inviting me to your place?”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, choking.
Then—
“Shut up. I’ll be there in a minute…” Flambae grumbled, trying—failing—to act like his heart didn’t do a somersault when Robert asked him anything even slightly suggestive.
Not to him.
Not after all these years.
Not after he’d told himself again and again that Robert was just a partner, just a coworker, just another voice in the storm.
But then again.
Feelings didn’t listen to logic.
Or experience.
Or denial.
And Flambae had been denying things for a long, long time.
—
Robert didn’t leave the office right away.
He told Chase—casually, of course, as if it were nothing—that he’d be “stepping out,” and that Chase could watch Beef for the night. Chase agreed immediately, and with a grin too wide to be innocent.
“You tired, old man?” Chase teased.
“Something like that,” Robert muttered.
But he wasn’t tired.
Not even close.
He was nervous.
Nervous, of all things, about going to Flambae’s house.
|
Rain hammered against the windows, turning the glass into a warped reflection of lightning. Thunder rattled the ceiling. The emergency lights hummed, casting long shadows between abandoned desks.
The STN Center always felt too big and too empty at night, like the ghosts of old missions lingered in every corridor.
Robert rubbed his hands together for warmth.
He paced.
He checked the clock.
Three minutes.
Four.
Five.
Then—
Headlights swept across the front windows, bright even through sheets of rain. The rumble of an engine cut through the storm.
Robert felt something inside him jolt.
He moved toward the front entrance, heart thumping against his ribs in a way he refused to examine.
He pressed the button to release the locks. The heavy door clicked open, letting a blast of cold air rush in.
And there, through the downpour, stood Flambae’s expensive-looking car idling by the main steps.
Flambae himself stepped out into the storm, hood thrown up, rain soaking his shirt in seconds. He stalked up the steps with that same reckless confidence he carried into every fight.
“Robert!” he called through the wind.
“You didn’t have to come in person,” Robert shouted back.
“Like hell I didn’t! Now move before you rust!”
He jogged the rest of the distance, grabbed Robert’s wrist, and pulled him into the rain before Robert could argue.
The touch burned—warm, firm, insistent.
The storm roared.
Lightning flashed.
Water drenched them both instantly.
But Flambae didn’t let go.
“Took you long enough,” Robert muttered.
“Shut up, bitch. Get in the car.”
|
Inside, the windows fogged instantly. The heater blasted warm air that smelled faintly like cinnamon gum and burnt wires—pure Flambae.
Flambae brushed wet hair from his forehead, pushing long hair back with a frustrated huff.
He didn’t look at Robert at first.
It took him a moment before he muttered, almost too quietly:
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
Robert blinked. “I was still inside the building—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Flambae gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.
A beat passed.
The air thickened.
When he finally turned his head, rainwater dripped from his jawline. His eyes—dark and sharp—looked more tired than Robert had ever seen them.
“Just… let me drive you,” Flambae said.
“To my place.”
Robert’s breath hitched.
“Is that an order?” he asked softly.
Flambae scoffed, cheeks flushing. “Don’t get excited. I’m not— this isn’t— it’s just safer, okay?”
“Safer.”
“Yes, safer,” Flambae snapped. “God, you’re impossible.”
Robert leaned back in his seat, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"I’m not the one who drove through a storm because of a ‘feeling.’”
Flambae’s glare was instant, sharp, and defensive.
But underneath it—buried deep, trembling—was fear.
And something else.
Warm.
Dangerous.
He yanked the gear shift.
“Shut up. I’m taking you home.”
“Yours or mine?”
Flambae choked.
Actually choked.
“Bitch—!”
Robert raised an eyebrow. “You said ‘my place’ earlier.”
“That was— that—” Flambae dragged a hand down his face. “You’re the worst.”
But he didn’t correct himself.
He didn’t say no.
He didn’t say Robert was wrong.
He just pulled out of the parking lot, tires splashing through puddles, eyes fixed on the road with a determination that looked a lot like concern wearing anger as a disguise.
The storm swallowed the car as it drove off into the night.
Robert watched the blur of rain against the window, feeling something unfamiliar settle into his chest.
Something small.
Something warm.
Something terrifying.
And beside him, hands tight on the wheel, jaw set, heart racing, Flambae refused to look his way- because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hide a damn thing.
“So,” he announced, “you… uh… look less corpse-ish than usual.”
Robert blinked. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
A beat.
“…I think.”
“Right.”
“I’m being nice, asshole.”
“You’re failing.”
Flambae gripped the wheel a little tighter, shoulders stiffening.
“Okay, fine—uh—your coat is… good. It’s… coat-shaped. Fits you. In a way that is… not hideous.”
Robert stared ahead, biting back a laugh. “You’re unbelievably nice tonight.”
“Oh, shut the hell up,” Flambae groaned, shrinking down in his seat as he continued. “I’m trying to— I’m trying to be— you know.”
“Affectionate?”
“No.”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
He immediately grimaced.
“But not in, like, a stupid way.”
“You’re calling this not stupid?”
“Robert, if you don’t stop talking I’m turning this car around and dropping you in a puddle.”
Another long stretch of silence followed—this one warm, despite everything.
Flambae drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He kept glancing sideways at Robert, always at the wrong times—too early, too late, too obvious. Every time he got caught, he pretended he wasn’t looking, usually by squinting at something nonexistent on the dash.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
Then—trying again—
“So, uh… did you… eat today?”
Robert blinked. “Are you asking if I had dinner?”
“No, I’m asking if you inhaled coffee fumes and called it nutrition again.”
“I ate.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You always lie about food.”
Robert gave him a level look. “You don’t need to check on me.”
“Uh, yeah, I kind of do,” Flambae muttered, staring stubbornly at the road. “Because if you pass out in my car, I’ll have to explain that to Prism, and I’m not dealing with that lecture.”
“It’s always about convenience with you.”
“No, it’s about avoiding paperwork,” he insisted—too fast, too defensive.
Then softer:
“And… okay, maybe a little about you. But don’t make it weird.”
“You’re the one making it weird.”
Flambae made a strangled noise. “I’m trying, bitch!”
Robert’s mouth tilted into a smile he didn’t bother hiding this time.
The car slowed at a red light, rain streaking down the windshield like melting glass.Reflections shimmered across Flambae’s cheekbones—neon pinks, deep violets, the kind of colors that always seemed to follow him wherever he went.
He finally spoke again, voice quiet.
“I just… figured you shouldn’t walk home in this weather.”
A pause.
“And I wanted to see you.”
Robert turned, eyes widening slightly.
Flambae froze, realizing what he’d said, then immediately tried to salvage it with flailing verbal panic.
“I mean—not, like, see you see you— I see you all the time—well, not ALL all the time, but like—uh—professionally? Sometimes. Occasionally professionally. Not that I keep track of when—”
“Flambae.”
“I mean, I don’t have a list or anything—”
“Flambae.”
He snapped his mouth shut.
The light turned green.
Flambae drove on, face burning red all the way to his ears.
Robert watched him quietly, that strange warmth returning to his chest.
The ride continued in quiet embarrassment—Flambae’s failed affection hanging thick in the air, awkward and genuine in equal measure.
Robert didn’t mind it.
Not even a little.
|
Flambae lived in a high-rise with flickering hallway lights that buzzed like they were trying to whisper secrets. The carpet was an ugly maroon, the kind that probably hadn’t been replaced since the building was born. Robert followed behind him, watching the way Flambae walked a little too fast—as if trying to outrun his own embarrassment.
He stopped at his door, fumbled with his keys, dropped them, swore under his breath, picked them up, nearly dropped them again, and then finally managed to unlock the door like it was a boss fight.
The door swung open.
Flambae stepped aside. “Okay. So. Welcome to my—uh—house. Apartment. Thing.”
Robert walked in.
And immediately stopped.
Flambae’s apartment looked exactly like what someone would expect from him, and also completely unlike it.
There were neon LED strips trailing along the ceiling in a cool reddish colors. Posters of musicians and heroes plastered the walls. A half-finished bag of chips sat on the coffee table beside a stack of miscellaneous gadgets. A sweatshirt hung off the back of the couch. The whole place smelled faintly of caramelized sugar and ozone—like burnt marshmallows on a power line.
But it was clean.
Organized, even.
Lived in, but cared for.
Robert turned to look at him.
Flambae’s arms were crossed defensively, chin raised like he expected judgment.
“Say anything and you’re walking home,” he warned.
Flambae blinked. “Nice?”
“Yes. Warm.”
“Warm?”
His voice cracked.
“I—I mean, of course it’s warm, I live here, obviously, I pay for the heating—”
“Not that kind of warm.”
Flambae froze.
Just stood there.
Like his brain blue-screened.
Robert walked toward the couch, looking around with quiet curiosity. Flambae trailed behind him like a nervous cat unsure of whether to be proud or mortified.
Robert pointed at a framed photo on a shelf. “Is this you and Punch Up?”
“NO.”
Beat.
“Yes.”
“You two look younger.”
“We were. That’s literally how time works.”
Robert let out the smallest exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
Flambae, realizing he had caused that sound, straightened his hoodie like it was suddenly too tight. He tried to sit on the arm of the couch, missed by an inch, and had to grab the cushion to avoid sliding off.
Robert stared. “Are you okay?”
Robert stared. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Flambae snapped. “…The couch moved.”
“The couch did not move.”
“You weren’t watching it. Anything could’ve happened.”
Robert shook his head and sat down.
Which was somehow worse for Flambae.
He stood there, arms hanging rigid at his sides, unsure if he should sit next to him, across from him, on the floor, in another room, or on the ceiling.
Robert looked up at him. “Are you going to sit?”
Flambae choked on absolutely nothing.
“Sit? Yeah—yeah, totally, I sit all the time, I’m a professional sitter—”
He walked around the couch, tripped slightly on the rug (which did not move), caught himself, pretended it was intentional, and finally sank down beside Robert with all the grace of a collapsing building.
The cushion dipped, bringing them slightly closer.
Too close.
Flambae stared at the TV—off.
Robert stared at Flambae—practically vibrating with tension.
Seconds passed.
Flambae cleared his throat. “So… you… want water? Or—uh—fancy water? Or something food-shaped?”
“Food-shaped?”
“I don’t know what you eat at night,” he admitted, flustered. “Toast? Sand? Things?”
Robert’s lips twitched. “I’m fine.”
“Right. Good. Cool. Awesome.”
They sat in silence.
Rain pattered on the window.
The LEDs buzzed softly.
Robert shifted just slightly—barely—and Flambae reacted like he’d been shot.
“What was that? Why’d you move?”
“Because I’m sitting.”
“Don’t sit at me like that.”
“At you?”
“Yes. Directly. People don’t sit directly.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re too close.”
“You invited me here.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually come!”
Robert stared at him.
Flambae realized what he said.
Then buried his face in his hands.
“Oh my God. I should’ve stayed in the car.”
Robert watched him quietly, trying very hard not to smile.
“You’re acting strange tonight,” he said softly.
Flambae’s voice came out muffled through his fingers.
“No, I’m acting completely normal. I am the most normal person I know. I am—uh—perfectly, totally, 100%— fine.”
He peeked through his hands.
Robert was still watching him.
Not judging.
Not mocking.
Just… soft.
Something about that made Flambae’s chest feel too small.
He dropped his hands. “Okay. Maybe I’m not fine.”
“What’s going on, Flambae?”
“Nothing,” he blurted. “It’s totally nothing, it’s just—YOU—being here—”
He winced.
“Shit. That sounds creepy. I don’t mean it creepy. I just—uh—my brain is throwing itself down the stairs.”
Robert let out a quiet, helpless laugh.
Flambae snapped his head toward him. “Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m not.”
“You are literally laughing right now!”
Robert smothered it, but the smile was still there.
Flambae slumped backward, defeated.
“I’m trying to not be an asshole,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “And I suck at it.”
Robert’s smile softened further. “You don’t suck at it.”
“I do. Look at me.”
“I am.”
Flambae tensed.
Then went perfectly still.
Then sucked in a tiny breath.
Robert hadn’t meant it to sound like that—soft, sincere, almost intimate.
But it did.
And Flambae felt it like a spark directly to the heart.
He scrambled for something—anything—to break the tension.
But then again.
The way Robert was just... staring at him and how close they were..