Chapter Text
Robert lay on the shitty floor of the shitty bathroom in his shitty apartment, feeling the dull ache in the front of his head. He was pretty sure it was because the whiskey bottle laying next to him was empty—the first fingers of a hangover were starting to creep around his brain. He shifted on the floor, briefly trying to get more comfortable, but a wave of dizziness pinned him to the linoleum when he tried to move.
The pain was followed by a sense of relief, overlaid by his conscience whispering that it wasn’t good for him to want to feel like that. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He had spent the last few days—how many days?—since Shroud’s arrest finding solace in a bottle, spending most of the blurry time prone on the floor as if he could no longer support his own head on his shoulders. He couldn’t tell if he was trying to numb the pain, or trying to cause it.
He shifted again, ignoring the nausea tickling the back of his throat. He should have known this crash was coming. Things were too good, too normal for too long. Robert Robertson was never meant to live a normal life—not the first, not the second, and definitely not the third.
Moments of that final fight flashed through his mind. He groaned—he must finally be sobering up. He felt Shroud’s—no, Elliot’s hands clawing at his forearms in a grisly surrender while his pulpy head rocked back under his fist; he felt the firm press of Chase’s hands under his knees, holding him against his chest like when he was a kid and they were play-fighting in the yard; he felt the hands of his teammates lifting him up, tossing him while euphoria rang in his ears, making way for this depression.
He couldn’t remember feeling this bad since his dad died. Did he even feel this bad when his dad died? Did that make him a bad son?
He wished Beef was there for him to talk to. His stupid little face always made it easier to parse through his thoughts—not that he blamed Chase for taking him when he did.
Robert had been coerced into going out for celebratory drinks after they were cleared to leave the scene of the smoldering SDN building, and Chase had offered to watch Beef for a few days while Robert ostensibly got his shit together and healed up from the worst of his injuries. Robert had agreed, obviously—he’d rather Beef be at home with Chase than alone in the apartment waiting for Robert to stumble in, smelling like cheap alcohol and secondhand smoke. Secretly, Robert was also a little grateful that he wouldn’t have to brave the stairs in his building more times than strictly necessary, too. He had been cushioned in the Mecha Man suit for most of the fight, but he was still basically just one big bruise.
Drinks had been… nice. Normal. Better than normal, honestly. Without those Red Ring assholes, The Sardine was kind of… nice. Dirty, shitty, cheap. But… quiet. Familiar.
He had slid into a booth, content to just watch everyone else have fun. In the few hours he’d managed to prop himself up there, just about the whole team had tumbled in and out—keeping him company, bringing him drinks, squeezing his arm, patting him on the back, ruffling his hair. He’d ended up wearing Alice’s sunglasses at one point, watching Chad and Bruno do some kind of insane karaoke routine through the polarized lenses. He didn’t last long before the high of the day started to crash around him, the fuzziness of sleep nudging up against the alcohol in his brain. His shirt sleeve was wet where Herm had to keep hauling him upright in his seat.
When he’d yawned big enough to make his jaw pop, Herm and Mal had worked together to get him home, both of their hands solid and strong they steadied him to step through a portal. He stumbled a little on the other side, catching himself on the back of his ratty couch. Herm had waved at him, stuttering something that Robert didn’t quite catch as the portal in his living room zapped closed, leaving behind stale cigarette smoke and a little ash on the floor.
He’d stumbled to the bathroom, intending to at least brush the Admiral Nelson off his teeth, but when he saw the blood on his knuckles as he reached up to swipe at Alice’s stupid sunglasses still perched on his bruised nose, the day crashed around him, sweeping his knees out from under him.
He had sobbed until he puked, tears streaking through the grime that still coated his face. He couldn’t believe what an absolute pussy he had turned out to be when it mattered the most. All the time, the effort, the sacrifices his team had made for him, and he couldn’t even pull the trigger when his father’s killer was right in front of him. What kind of son couldn’t kill his dad’s killer? His hands were dirty—but they always were; that was nothing new. Now, though… his conscience was dirty, too.
He’d passed out on the bathroom floor, wrapped around the toilet, knuckles throbbing and head cushioned on a damp towel. In the morning, he had read Mandy’s texts alerting his team that they would have two weeks of paid leave in order to recover from their injuries before they would be expected to report to either help rebuild the Torrance location or fill in on other squads until construction was completed. His phone had slipped from his hands as he dry heaved into the toilet again, and he left it where it landed, not interested in hearing any more “good news.”
He had stumbled to the kitchen on legs as shaky as a fawn, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the cabinets until he found the liquor bottles that had been left in his apartment after the team’s last big get-together. He’d taken a shot directly from the bottle, immediately gagged it back up into the sink, and washed away the burning taste of bile with another gulp before returning to the cool tile of the bathroom floor.
During the brief periods in which he had been able to sit up, the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl had soothed the migraine that threatened to blur his vision. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness, drinking anything he could find in his kitchen to try to bring back whatever blissfully dreamless sleep he could eke out of a bottle.
Now, he had no idea what day it was. He was out of booze, and his body was protesting this spiral back into sobriety—or, at least, back to making memories. The worst part of being drunk, in Robert’s opinion, was when you started to stop being drunk. The room spun around him again, and he wasn’t sober enough to do anything to stop it.
There was a noise in his living room that his thoughts sluggishly tried to catch up with. "Just Beef,” his brain supplied, even while his Mecha Man instincts screamed that Beef wasn’t home, Beef isn’t here, you need to—
“Sir—boss—Robert?” Herm’s tentative stammer was so loud in the quiet apartment. “Maybe he’s ou—not home?”
“No, I can smell him.” Malevola’s voice was more decisive. “Check the bathroom.”
“What are you guys doing here?” Robert tried to ask; but all that actually came out was a soupy groan.
“Robert?” The light switch flicked on, and long legs appeared in front of his face. Robert tried to look up at the person attached to them, but as soon as he tipped his head back, his stomach seized and he thrust his head into the bowl of the toilet, gagging. “Oh, Robert.”
Robert barely registered the cool fingertips swiping his sweaty bangs from his forehead, the featherlight touch of a palm rubbing comfortingly over his back. His guts were revolting; he puked up whatever bile and alcohol was left in him, but the painful spasms refused to stop, leaving him dry heaving until he was sure his stomach was going to turn inside out and exit through his mouth.
Through it all, Herm never flinched, keeping up a steady stream of soft chatter. Robert had no idea what the kid was muttering, but he latched onto the sound of his voice, the feeling of his hand rubbing his back. Robert tried to swallow, tried to just breathe in.
By the time he had control of his body again, he distantly registered Herm’s arm around his chest, pulling him up and resting him against the side of the tub, wedging him there so he didn’t slump back to the floor. His other arm, so long, impossibly long, hit the handle to flush the toilet.
Robert was vaguely aware of Malevola wrinkling her nose in the doorway, taking his phone as Herm passed it up from where it still lay sandwiched between the toilet and the sink.
“No wonder you didn’t—weren’t answering, replying to anyone,” Herman said. “Thing’s dead—totally dead.”
Robert squeezed his eyes shut, letting Herm’s fretting wash over him.
“You need, um, probably to drink some water. Will you be okay if I, I’ll just be—”
With a rustle, Herm’s voice was gone, replaced by Malevola’s low murmurs from the other room. “I have no idea how he’s still alive if he drank all this.” The sound of bottles clanking together drowned out Herm’s reply. “No, you just—just try to get some water into him, keep him from choking on his own puke. I’ll get everyone else—” More clanking, and then the distinctive odor of another portal.
Herm’s soft footsteps sloshed back into the bathroom. “Okay, Robert. You’re gonna—I know you don’t want to, but—you gotta drink this.”
Robert cracked open his eyes, wincing at the brightness of the lights. “Off… the lights?” he mumbled, his voice wrecked.
Herm didn’t hesitate, just flipped off the light switch before squatting down in front of him, folding his legs nearly to his ears. “Can you hold this?” he asked, offering a plastic water bottle to Robert.
Robert tried his best to wrap his fingers around the plastic, succeeding only in squeezing it and spilling it over Herm’s hand, wetting the cuff of the well-worn hoodie he was wearing. “Sorry,” he wheezed out, focused hard on unclenching his fingers.
Herm shook his head. “I’m—Robert, I’m Waterboy. I’m literally, I’m always wet,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips from the ludicrous situation. He gently pried Robert’s fingers from the water bottle, holding it while Robert took a hesitant sip instead.
Robert was pretty sure he’d never tasted anything as good as cold water, making a disgruntled noise in his throat when Herm took the water away.
“Robert, you’re still wearing…” Herm reached out, touched the collar of Robert’s light blue button up. “You haven’t…? It’s been, um. Days. Like, three days.” His brow furrowed.
Robert felt his cheeks heat, his eyes sliding away to stare at the juncture of the wall. He resolutely swallowed back the bile building in the back of his throat. “I’m fine.” His words sounded hollow, even to himself, and he braced himself for whatever judgement Herm surely would give him.
Instead of sharp words, a pair of gangly arms wrapped around him. Robert froze as he was pulled into a hug, his face pressed into Herm’s chest. When one of Herm’s hands ghosted across his back again, the last of Robert’s strength gave out. He couldn’t hold back a strangled sob against the collar of Herm’s hoodie, his own hands clawing reflexively against Herm’s back.
“Oh, Robert,” Herm whispered for the second time that day. “You’re f—fine, Robert. It’s fine. I’m—I’m sorry, I don’t—I’m not sure what to do.” Herm’s bony chin dug into to top of Robert’s head, exacerbating the headache still pulsing just below the surface, but the pain was grounding.
“I fucked everything up,” Robert managed to choke out, the flow of tears mixing with the water dripping down his face from Herm’s chin. With his face hidden, he was finding honesty to be easier than he expected.
“You didn’t,” Herm said, and his tone jarred Robert—not reassuring, but confused.
“I did,” he said, almost defensively. “Everyone worked so hard, gave their all, and I—fuck, I had him there. I had him, but I couldn’t even kill him, Herm.”
“I don’t—I’m sorry, Robert, but I don’t think you ne—have to kill someone to beat them.”
Robert shook his head, dislodging Herm’s chin. “Mecha Man—” he began, ready to justify the idealized revenge fantasy that he’d clung to ever since he found himself alone in the world at the age of sixteen.
“You’re not Mecha Man,” Herm said softly. “Or—well, you are, sometimes, but… you’re Robert, too.”
Robert felt his stomach roil. “What if he gets out again.” His inflection left no room for it to be a question. “Last time, it was just—just me. I told myself I would find him, kill him or die trying, and that would be the end of it. But now, if gets out again… I don’t think I can live with myself if—” He broke off, swallowing back another sob. “There’s a target on all your backs this time.”
Herm lifted a shoulder, jostling Robert’s cheek. “We all knew what we were signing up for.”
The tears burned behind Robert’s eyelids. “You shouldn’t have to deal with my messes.”
Herm paused for a second, Robert’s panicky breathing the only sound in the bathroom. “I… would do it again. To help you.” Herm’s voice was low, hardly more than a rumble in Robert’s ear.
He heard Malevola’s portal again, could hear shuffling in the other room. Herm stretched out one impossibly long arm and shut the bathroom door, softly, quietly.
“Um. I think that everyone is going to start getting here. Like, right now. But you don’t have to—until you’re ready.” He grimaced. “I think Malevola probably told them… told them you’re not, um. Doing well.”
Robert let out a short, bitter laugh. “Understatement of the century.” He eased himself out of Herm’s grasp. Herm’s hands slipped from Robert’s back to rest in his own lap and he scooted back, leaning against the door on the other side of the bathroom.
“I meant it.”
Robert found Herm’s large, watery eyes in the near-perfect darkness. “Herm—”
“You’re my friend, Robert. I—at least, I thought—” Herm shook his head. “We’re friends. And friends help each other. Even if it—especially when it’s hard.”
Robert’s throat tightened again. “Thanks for being my friend, big guy.”
His words were punctuated with a soft knock on the bathroom door. “You okay in there, Robert?” The undercurrent of worry in Alice’s voice sent a jolt of guilt straight to the pit of Robert’s stomach. “And don’t lie. Skinny Prince will rat your ass out.”
Despite himself, Robert felt a light chuckle bubble up from his chest. “Yeah, Alice. I’m… well, I’m not fine, but. I’m here.”
Herm cleared his throat. “He looks like—sorry, Robert—he looks like shit.” He unfolded himself from the floor, cracking the door open and scooting out of the way for Alice to join them. She narrowed her eyes, taking in Robert’s disheveled appearance in the sliver of light streaming in from the main room.
“Girl, you look like ass. Worse than ass. You look like roadkill.” She folded her arms, her tone far too gentle for the bite of her words. “So, what’s the level?”
Robert looked at her questioningly.
“You know… Are we just, ‘lay here and rot in our own filth and let the world take us’ suicidal, or do we need to hide sharp objects?”
“I’m not suicidal,” Robert sniped, at exactly the same time that Herm muttered, “H—hide sharp objects.”
Herm did at least have the decency to look rueful; Robert decided he would forgive him, if only because the kid had held his hair back while he puked up three days of beer before liquor before beer before liquor.
Prism pursed her lips. “Okay, Robbo. What do you need?”
Robert let his head tip back, resting against the wall. “A lobotomy,” he muttered, his voice monotone.
Herm sighed at the same time that Alice pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “What you need is a shower.” She turned on the tap, nudging the plug into the drain. “Get your lanky ass in that tub before it fills up, or else I’m sending Colm in here to do it for you.” She snatched her sunglasses off the sink where Robert had abandoned them. “And I ain’t never lending you my shades again if this is how you treat ‘em.” She squeezed Herm’s upper arm before shooting Robert a pointed look and flouncing out of the bathroom.
Herm shuffled from one foot to the other. “I… think she might be for r—serious, Robert. Can—can you stand?”
Robert waved him off. “Get outta here, kid. You did enough for me already. I got it.”
Herm hesitated, giving Robert one last glance. To allay his worries, Robert pulled himself to sit up straight, hardly leaning against the wall at all.
“Go. See what those assholes are doing out there. Try to keep my apartment in one piece for me.” Robert waved his hand at the low cacophony of sounds coming from his one-room apartment, desperately praying to whoever still listened to him that he could stave off the dizziness still swirling around the base of his neck for long enough to convince Herm that he didn’t need help into the shower.
“Oh…kay,” Herm said, seeming to weigh his options before making a decision. “Can—will you let me know? If you… I don’t know, if you need anything?”
Robert nodded, immediately regretting it when he felt his brain rattle against his skull.
Seemingly satisfied, Herm slipped out the bathroom door, leaving it ajar.
To his credit, Robert did try valiantly to get into the bath. However, he failed to take into account the fact that he had basically not stood up for three days; and Punch Up made good on Alice’s threat.
“Alright, ya scrawny git, you’re askin’ for a dunkin’.”
“Woah, wait, Colm, just give me—” Robert’s defensive flailing was interrupted by a pair of huge, rough hands snatching him under the armpits. Briefly, he was weightless, his stomach doing flips, before he was unceremoniously deposited into hot bathwater.
Robert spluttered.
“Punch Up, what the fuck?!” His clothes were sticking to him unpleasantly, and he could feel water streaming down the back of his neck.
“You had yer warnin’. If you wanted to do this the easy way, you shouldn’t’a gone and drank three times your body weight and then let your phone die.” Colm dusted his hands off. “Well, get on with it. I’m not your mammy, I won’t be washin’ yer arse for ya.” He slammed the lid down on the toilet, perching on the edge and examining his cuticles.
Robert huffed out a sigh, fingers working to unbutton his drenched shirt. “I don’t suppose I can get you to go the fuck away.” His words had no bite; really, he was getting off light. When he first gained consciousness, he was pretty sure he was actually dead.
Now, he… well, he wasn’t dead, at least, and it seemed like his team was going to do their damnedest to make sure he stayed that way.
He held in another dramatic sigh, opting instead to shimmy awkwardly out of his wet clothing and reach for the shampoo, all too aware of Colm’s watchful gaze out of the corner of his eye.
“What, you think I’m gonna try to kill myself with a loofah?” he intoned drily, unable to stop himself from chafing against being on suicide watch, no matter how deserved it may be.
Colm shrugged. “We’re worried about ya,” he said simply, not rising to Robert’s bait.
Robert fell silent, feeling like an asshole for the hundredth time in the last week. “Thanks,” he finally said. “For… being here.”
“Save it for when yer dick’s not out,” Colm retorted. “But… yer welcome. Just wish ya would’a called instead of… all this.”
Robert huffed out a laugh, dunking his head under the water in a half-assed attempt to rinse his hair. “I’ll remember that next time I come face-to-face with my father’s killer in an end-of-the-world, action-movie-style battle.”
Colm grunted. “Yer a dick when yer hungover.”
“Love you, too, man.”