Chapter Text
When he stepped up to the mantle after his father died and the city needed a new hero, he became Mecha Man. Then, after years of fighting and wasting away his inheritance to upkeep that tin can, he gets blown up and sent into a coma. And maybe yeah, that might have left Robert Robertson III with chronic pain and constant creaks and new intolerances that he otherwise wouldn’t have if he didn’t have medication to combat said pain. What was worse, he was no longer Mecha Man. His suit sat wasting away in a corner to get repaired.
And every day for the next who knows how long, he was stuck with ex-supervillains who couldn’t hear over their own ass. Don’t get Robert wrong; he was incredibly grateful to Blonde Blazer and Chase for this opportunity to get his life back on track while still helping (he hoped) people.
It wasn’t a job that was necessarily hard physically, as it was mentally—but given that there were days where his anti-inflammatory meds didn’t work and he’s sporting a massive headache because, of course, the side effects still worked—working with ex-supervillains who were betting on him made him wonder if being Mecha Man was much easier.
“Hey Bob-Bob.” And in came one of his annoyances with his usual strut into the breakroom as Rober was opening a bag of twinkies. While Robert had his concerns about the hothead, he surprisingly did his job. Well? Maybe not. But he finished them with complaints in between, and that’s all that mattered. At this point.
“Hi, Flambae,” Robert said, unsure of what the man wanted today. There was usually an insult at the end of his ‘Bob-Bob.’
Instead, the man’s fiery eyes looked him over until they landed on the twinkie in his hand. “You’re going to eat that?” There was a slight whistle as he said that with a grimace.
Robert looked down and back up again, shrugging. “Might be why it’s in my hand.”
“Okay, smartass, no one asked you.”
“You just did.”
Robert could see Flambae’s eyebrows resisting the urge to furrow. The man had all but complained on the comms about needing to prevent wrinkles at the young age of thirty. And Robert had been kind enough to refrain from evoking his wrath by reminding him that he was closer to forty than thirty. But then Prism had to open her mouth and say, “Bitch, aren’t you like thirty-eight? You’re past thirty.”
Thus ensued a bet to see how long Flambae could go without using the muscles on his face. It seemed to Robert that he was already failing on day one. He felt the corner of his lip twitch and pointed between his forehead, and he could’ve sworn he saw the other’s eye twitch. “Wouldn’t want a wrinkle to form at your. . . young age of forty?”
Flambae’s lips pursed as he stalked over to him. “Even if I had a wrinkle on my perfect face, I’d still look a hell of a lot younger than you, bitch.”
True. The years that being a hero had put a toll on his body and his skin’s elasticity. Most of his body was scarred, though, so at least some parts of him were pulled taut. Deciding to cut this conversation short, he leveled a look at Flambae. “Did you need something, or did you come here to get a twinkie?”
“I came here—fuck. Why did I come here?” He looked annoyed at Robert for making him forget. “Whatever, you shouldn’t eat those. No wonder your ass is flat.” Flambae turned around and sauntered his way out, but not before calling Waterboy “Wetfartboy.”
“That’s-That not my name.” Waterboy’s fist curled by his side.
“It’s alright, Waterboy, Flambae’s just got. . . well, what doesn’t he have?” Robert took a bite of his twinkie. Finally. “Don’t let that prima-donna get to you.”
Waterboy’s shoulders slouch as they usually do, making his way to the vending machine. “I-I just don’t get it—understand.”
“I don’t think there are many people who get Flambae.” Robert stood up, taking pity on the young man and patting him on the shoulder. “You want the last one?” He held up the other twinkie.
Waterboy reached a hand to grab it and smiled. “I ap-appreciate—thank you.”
Robert offered him a smile. Waterboy always did bring his mood up. Maybe because he saw the boyish wonder in his eyes whenever he talked about heroes. It reminded him that he was like that once. Lord knows he thought the world of Track Star. Obviously, his dad, but it turned more into an obligation and a heavy pressure to live up to him. So, it was refreshing to see life in someone’s eyes that didn’t quite occupy his. “No problem. See you around.”
Today was a good day.
The stiffness in his neck didn’t bother him as much as it usually did, and his headache was only noticeable if he blinked. Or was his eyes just hurting? Because if so, he really couldn’t handle another part of his body deteriorating anymore. He’ll have nothing left at that point: he already didn’t have his suit, his pay was shit, he had no bed except for his plastic chair, and going to the doctor for yet another one of his problems just didn’t sound feasible.
But yes, it was still a good day.
City damages were kept to a. . . well it wasn’t as bad as last week. No civilians were hurt by them, and they somewhat listened to him this time. They still did their own thing and are shit at working together. But it was progress. He could take that. The first couple of weeks had been hell trying to get them to listen to him, so he was going to take any win that he could.
“You heading home?” Chase’s head popped up from his cubicle as Robert was making his way. He hadn’t even realized that the day was ending, and the first meal of his day was one twinkie.
Robert closed his eyes and sighed. He could’ve had two if he didn’t give it to Waterboy. Whatever, it was fine.
“Yeah, I think I am. I didn’t realize it was already time to head out.”
Chase laughed. “Work will do that to you.”
It was more like he didn’t know what was worse, staying at work or going home to an empty house. He didn’t even have heating, and the nights were getting colder and longer.
Robert said his goodbyes and grabbed his things, Beef following behind. Once he was out, he rolled his shoulders and groaned. He hadn’t realized how stiff they were. Was he tensing the whole time? “Ugh.” The team stressed him out too much.
At this rate, he wasn’t going to get better.
But who was he kidding, this was some permanent shit.