Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Is it possible he has a pneumothorax?

No, no—he'd be choking on blood, or something. His ribs would be caving in. He wouldn't be breathing at all. Would he?

Fuck. Each nerve inside his body screeches with slight movement. He's not even sure he can move his arm; it's loose, it's sagging. He cracks his eyes open, casting a quick glance and—yeah. His arm isn't even in the socket.

Everything is hot. His face, his fingers, his toes, everything. He can make out flames, tiny fires that roar this way and beyond. The Mech is in pieces. Its wires revealed from an outer shell cracked beyond belief.

Sirens above him, a helicopter's blades are swooshing, and the loud thunder of people's foot beats and screams lull him to sleep. 

No one visits him.

Each day, he opens his eyes after the sound of his door opening startles him.

A kind nurse smiles at him for the quickest of seconds before remembering professionalism, and she administers his painkillers. She stretches his legs, makes small conversation while Jeopardy! plays softly behind her head, and he just watches. She has children. A pair of twins who laugh too freely, according to her. She tells him they both look up to Mecha Man, that they are cheering for him. She usually winks at him; says she's kept his secret. She always leaves soon after, her once kind grin dimming.

Robert continues what he's done for however long. He lies there.

Thinking. Always thinking.

The Mech is gone. His father's life work has been thrown into Hell. He doesn't even know where the Pulse is. It isn't destroyed. He won't allow himself to believe that. But he should plan for that, right? He needs to think of everything—

He falls asleep again. He'd gotten the Final Jeopardy correct.

No one visits. 

His first order of business after being released is to search for the damn Pulse. If it had blown up, they would've reported on it. Some weird shit would have happened, or whatever. So, it's out there. It's waiting for him and he just has to find it.

He obsesses over watching the updates from his phone—even more than usual.

He uses what little time away from that to disassemble the Mech and put it in his apartment. He can't afford a storage unit, especially after his four month stay in the hospital. Thus, days and nights are dedicated to screwing and unscrewing bolts and shit to transport the giant fucking thing.

Inside, when he's fighting, the size feels great. He feels powerful and ready. Now, he curses his father for making the thing so unbelievably ginormous. Maybe he could downsize it, lower some of the—

Not his main focus. Pulse.

He has to focus on the Pulse. 

Robert is suffocating in front of such bright lights. They surround him, too many noises and bodies in one area, and he can feel his skin begin to itch. They all keep asking him questions; he attempts to volley them, but they persist. They always persist. The array of microphones that sit atop the podium do nothing to ease him.

A reporter calls him a failure. They claim his father would be disappointed in having Robert as his successor. Prodding even further by mentioning his grandfather, the deified man who started this legacy.

The entire room, for a small respite, quiets. Each journalist is holding their pens and pencils and tablets on their sheets and screens, their eyes all watching him with rapt excitement. It's a minefield. They all know it. Robert knows it.

Each stare weighs as heavily as the tumultuous gaze of a gun's barrel, loaded and primed for harm. Robert's own lips hold the ammunition needed to supply that filthy weapon, but this isn't new. It all reminds him how truly small he is—a fact that has long been instilled in him, save for moments of bravery and rebellion; to which even those were quickly dispelled and replaced with how he is now. A shell of a man, slouched shoulders, unsure voice, but pretending he knows the answers. An act of heroism and altruism that defies mankind's base desires and behavior.

He can feel each lick of anger dragging across his stomach. They twist and boil inside, threatening to breach his throat and allow vitriolic words to erupt. He's doing his best. Is that not enough? No, he already knows that answer. He tightens his grip on the podium.

All eyes look to the reporter who had asked. It's a test to see if they want to retract it. They all know.

Robert pushes against the wood, it creaking menacingly as he chews the inside of his cheek. He leans forward, teeth set in a grimace, "That's enough for today. Goodbye, everyone," he steps back, remembering his training, "Thank you."

He leaves without another word. They all clamber to get his final remarks.

Robert is tired. 

"Man, fuck you—"

Robert groans in pain because he stupidly uses his dislocated arm. He thought he was being clever. He is quickly disproven.

He's thrown to the ground unceremoniously, a laugh bubbling inside his chest from the adrenaline as they kick him. He stares at the night sky, watching a star flicker in the distance. It could be a plane, but he can't tell. A boot strikes him especially hard across his nose, the toe of it landing in his eye. He loses track of his waylaid star, but he can't care.

The laugh leaves him now. The next kicks are more hesitant, softer. Robert smiles up at the rainbow-colored posse with his blood-stained teeth, gurgling a little as it dribbles from his nose into his mouth.

"Jesus, this dude's whacked," the purple one says.

"Whatever," the red responds, "Fucker started it."

The green one kicks Robert's ribs, the ones that are still bruised. "We'll fucking finish it."

"I don't know, man," Purple steps back, but ends up stomping on Robert's fingers. "Shit. I think we gotta—"

A blinding light forces Robert to close his eyes and all he can hear is a fistfight ensuing. He stays still, hoping to play dead, or whatever will let him escape this regretful self-infliction with his life. He decides to do inventory: He can breathe, which is good. His nose hurts, but he knew this. His arm is dislocated. Again. He can feel the stinging numb that accompanies that sort of thing. He wiggles his toes... all of them are in working order.

"I wasn't too late, was I?"

Robert peeks out from one eye, holding the other closed. It could've been swollen, too. He's not sure. The oh-so blinding light was the streetlamp.

A tall, muscular, blonde woman stands over him, an easygoing grin on her lips with a hand outstretched to Robert. Her eyes are a dazzling blue, but Robert's vision is probably fucked right now. So, no use in getting enthralled right now.

He takes her offered hand, the woman hoisting him up with ease. She dusts his shoulders off, patting his back a little rougher than necessary when she's finished. Robert studies her suit closely, along with her mask, and it clicks.

"Blonde Blazer," he says intelligently.

She giggles at him, "Yeah," she sighs, "In the flesh. You're probably concussed, aren't you?"

Robert shrugs, "Wouldn't doubt it," he watches her eyes flit to his shoulder. "Thanks for, uh, saving me. Didn't have to, but, yeah. Much appreciated."

Blonde Blazer nods her head. And that's all she says about it. "Well," she puts one hand on Robert's shoulder, "I was going to ask you for a drink, but now, I think I should take you to a hospital," she motions to his arm, as well as his general state.

"Eh," Robert looks away to the TVs that are still scrolling the banner of MECHA MAN BREAKS SILENCE. "I've had—" A loud click along with a nauseating crunch sound as Blonde Blazer pushes his arm back into socket. "Fuck," Robert hisses, "Sorry. Didn't mean to—"

"Oh. No," she removes her hand. "Completely understandable," she crosses her arms along her chest. "You were saying?"

Robert licks his teeth, sucking on them while his eyes once again trail over. "I need a drink." 

He returns to that itch. Eyes are on him, incessantly so, as he walks side by side with Blonde Blazer. They all mutter to themselves before giving up to imbibe. It unsettles Robert all the same, and he feels his stomach drop with each step.

But Blonde Blazer looks at him with a kindness he hasn't seen since... Well, since he looked into Chase's eyes and saw it there. And that was years ago. It makes him feel weak, like he's impressionable again and making stupid decisions, but safe to do so. It makes him feel like he's right where he should be, despite the onlookers who say otherwise. He knows it's not what she feels exactly, he's not naïve or optimistic, but it's what Chase had felt. And that's what Robert holds on to, even after all these years.

He's making a dick joke without even realizing it. She's laughing into her bicep, taking sips of her drink that Robert can't discern, but he's having fun. The edges of joy scratch at his rotten interior, but he's stuck in his ways.

He downs his beer, hoping it'll wash away whatever cloud hangs over him tonight, along with the blood that lingers in his gum line. It makes the already bitter beer even more, but with a tang of copper. He imagines it would be enjoyable for a vampire.

He's drunk.

Blonde Blazer is looking at him, but it's changed. It feels charged. That sends a chill through Robert's spine, his hairline tickling. He tears his gaze away, studying the wood grain of the bar top.

"So," she says the syllable with a weight of duty and guilt, "I came here tonight with a proposition."

Robert can't resist it. He pushes himself on the wood, lowering his chin to make his eyes softer, as so many of his exes–no, ex, as in one–told him was charming. "A proposition," he allows his lips to pout because he's shameless, if only in this moment. Things can only go up from here, so why not?

She laughs, "Not that kind," her eyes land on his lips. "I don't—" she interrupts herself. "My brain is a mess. I'm drunk," she looks for a glass of water, and Robert reaches for the one in front of him.

He ought to sober up too if he's misreading everything.

He takes a large swig, his throat immediately burning and a cough sputtering out. "Goddamn—" he hits his chest, hoping to soothe the burn by distraction. He calms, but his anxiety returns tenfold when he sees where the liquid now lies. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry—"

"No," Blonde Blazer is dabbing at her neck with a napkin. "Just," she leans over, pointing at the glass that was next to the one he holds, "See the ice cubes?" she's teasing, but Robert's shame does not dwindle.

"Yeah," he puts the glass down, grabbing the actual water. "Still, I'm sorry."

Her eyes are watching him, almost studying and taking notes. His hackles raise, his heart hammering in his chest again, but he tells himself he's safe. He's in a bar meant for superheroes. A small twinge of doubt with the whisper of imposter lingers in his mind.

"I'm gonna go clean up," Blonde Blazer stands, still watching Robert. "Wait here? I still have that proposition."

Robert just nods.

He sniffs the water, now unsure, but it has no smell, other than whatever minerals are in the tap. He nurses it, hoping to lessen his buzz. This night has been a shitshow.

"Hey, bitch!"

Robert can sense someone beside him, along with two others, but he ignores them. He continues with his focus on the water, letting the ice cubes brush against his sore gums.

"Did you hear me? I'm talking to you," a pause. "Bitch."

Robert steals a glance. There, just to his right, is a tall man. He towers over Robert, obnoxious sunglasses covering his eyes, hair pulled into a low ponytail, outfit consisting of a spandex suit that's neckline cuts just above his navel. Robert looks. Because he is drunk.

He turns his body to the man, "I didn't turn around because I'm a bitch," he looks to see the others. A tall woman whose eyes stab into him like daggers and a short man who seems affable, despite his company. "I turned around because you're annoying."

A finger is pressed into his sternum, making him wince. "This is a bar for superheroes. Which you are not," the taller man snarls, "Getting drunk like some weak ass bitch. You can do that in any other bar."

"You love that word, don't you?" Robert says. He pushes against the finger, goading the other. "And just who are you?"

"A real fucking hero," he curls each finger over the other, making it into a fist against Robert's chest. "Unlike you."

Robert hums, pushing the fist away. His ribs scream from the stress, but he doesn't deflate. "And what's your superpower? Oh, no. Let me guess," Robert grabs the glass again.

All Robert knows is he prattles off something insulting, about doctors or some shit, but he's already turning away to be in peace. He just wants to go home, now. Proposition be damned; he's tired.

"Don't fucking mess with me, Mecha Bitch," the man slams his palm against the bar top. Flames curl over his fingertips and it causes Robert to actually look.

He trails his eyes over the knuckles, carefully, counting each one. He reaches the last two, and he freezes.

The man has taken his sunglasses off.

Robert really wants to go home.

"Look," Robert is about to acquiesce or whatever, but he's cut off.

"My name's Flambae," Flambae gloats, as if it's not the corniest name Robert's ever heard. "You'll fucking remember it after I kick your ass."

"Right," Robert watches Flambae saunter to the middle of the bar room, seeming to prepare, but Robert is unmoving. "So, revenge? Because I busted you," Robert hooks his foot into the barstool to swing himself away. He is someone addicted to conflict, or whatever this sick routine is. Because he can't help himself. "You're just another shitty villain to me. It won't change a thing."

He hears the quick footfalls of someone sprinting to him, along with a roar of heat. He curls his fingers tightly against the glass, and as easily as riding a bike, throws the water on to Flambae. Robert's aim must be off because instead of stopping the man, he surges forward, nearly falling on to Robert's back. Robert twists himself out of the way, Flambae hitting his open mouth on the wood, tooth clattering on the floor as he falls with it.

Robert's promptly kicked out of the bar.

He's just going to have to hear Blonde Blazer's proposition another time. 

"Ro—No, shit! Mecha Man!"

His head whips around to find the voice. He's at the end of the alley, just about to turn so he can go home, but Blonde Blazer stands at the other end, waving him back over. She has two glasses with her, both filled with brown liquid. More drinks, he thinks sardonically, that'll make things better.

Still, he walks to her, as though he's magnetized. His boots crack a piece of glass from what he assumes is an old fight or mugging, the noise distracting him.

"Come on," she urges, "Just a few more steps."

He rolls his eyes as he sidles next to her, taking a glass from her. It sloshes around the rim, allowing him to get a whiff. Yeah, definitely alcohol. Robert sips it, as does she.

"I was on my way home," he says, throat still burning.

Blonde Blazer laughs, "I heard you got into trouble," she hands her own drink to him. "Nothing serious, right?"

Robert waves a hand dismissively, "I, uh, spilled my drink. That's all."

"Well," she eyes him, unconvinced, "Let's go. Gotta talk to you about that proposition."

"Right," he follows her where the buildings thin out and she grabs hold of his waist. "You strong," he mutters.

Her eyebrow–or whatever you'd say–raises in amusement. "It's not far," and she lifts them both easily above the ground.

They glide above L.A. and Robert's chest swells. People are meandering the streets and sidewalks, laughing, taking pictures with friends. They're living and breathing, still joyful as they should. It's all so familiar, like déjà vu, but better—the kind you want.

So many nights he'd be up here, inside the suit, flying above cheering people, as he rushed off to save more. The lights are dazzling, like his own spread of stars on Earth. He sighs softly, grief filling his lungs as he realizes it's over. He'll never return to this. He can hope, he can dream, and he can pray for it, if he so dares. But he knows the truth. The suit is destroyed. He never found the Pulse.

Mecha Man is gone. All that's left is Robert. A human man who cannot protect these people and their livelihoods.

Blonde Blazer sets them down gently on a billboard, the breeze blowing against both of them at such a height. She tucks strands of hair behind her ear, taking a deep breath in. Robert looks at the Hollywood sign.

"So," Blonde Blazer turns to him after they both left the lingering silence. "About that—"

"We don't have to keep saying the word," he laughs. "What's up?"

"I know I haven't done this in the most professional of ways," she motions toward the drinks that sit between them. "I guess you could say I was nervous, needed the liquid courage," Blazer scoots herself closer, eyes moving down Robert's face slowly—pointedly. She motions toward his mask. He gives her a nod. Her fingers deftly pull it loose, setting it to the side, Robert's face now open to her. She grabs his chin gently with her fingers, turning him left to right, smiling gently at him. "We can work with this," she whispers, the light from the billboard cascading on her.

Robert's mouth runs dry, but he pulls back.

"Anyway," she sucks in a sharp breath between her teeth. "I wanted to meet you. You came recommended, Robert Robertson. Highly recommended."

Robert opens his mouth to ask just who, when the itch grabs his brain. He whirls around, backing away from her slightly. "How do you—"

"Sorry," she attempts, "Sorry. I work at the Superhero Dispatch Network," Blazer holds her hands out, "Do you know a hero named Track Star?"

Robert's heart soars, no longer in the depths of his stomach. "Track Star? Yeah," his grin is unstoppable. "We go way back."

Blazer returns his smile. "We want to offer you a job," she pauses. "An arrangement, actually. You work for us dispatching heroes while we fix your suit," her eyes go soft, like she sees through his walls, "You can be Mecha Man again."

"The suit was completely destroyed," he knows that's not exactly true. It simply doesn't function.

"We can handle it," she promises.

Robert looks to the sky. A plane passes above them, probably off to transport people to their families for holidays or special visits.

Can he really allow himself this? To get his hopes up?

Does he even want to be Mecha Man again?

It's your duty. Do not disappoint me.

"When do I begin?" 

Chapter Text

It all comes crashing down in the deep hours of the night as Robert stares blankly at the Mech.

He's too trusting. How could he just believe Blazer? So quickly, so deeply, and unflinching, how could he? It goes against everything he's told himself for years, all the aphorisms his father shared in their so few interactions. Never let your guard down. Get up, no matter how damaged. Get up.

Beef shifts his weight and presses all twenty pounds of him into Robert's leg. Robert huffs a laugh from his nose. He puts a gentle hand on Beef's ribs, scratching a little, watching a tiny leg kick in enjoyment before removing it to let him sleep. Beef snores softly, nose nudging Robert's foot to relax.

Robert sighs, long and thin. He closes his eyes, no longer staring at the swirling patterns that mosey around. He takes a page out of Beef's book.

Sleep. Even if it's in a plastic lawn chair. 

Robert wakes up with the routine pain that always lingers after rest. His joints are stiff, his back aches and cracks as he unfolds himself, and all of his muscles tremble from a night's overuse. His jaw is tight from clenching it as he slept, a particular sore spot in a molar where the pressure focused. He attempts to right it by letting it hang loosely, but it pops, an excruciating burst flowing through his cheek. His nose isn't much better, but he can breathe.

Beef is still snoozing away, not a care in the world, his stomach exposed. Robert smiles before padding down the hall to begin his day.

It should be simple. Brush his teeth, shave, shower, dress, then work. He's done this–or something similar–nearing fifteen years. It's mindless as he wraps a towel around his waist, returning to the main room and finding Beef stretching. Robert clicks his tongue to call him over, the dog slow in his approach.

"Sleep well?" he asks, pulling Beef's bowl out. Beef begins to circle excitedly, small arfs beginning to bounce off the walls. Robert chuckles, but puts a finger to his lips, "Not too loud," he pours the food, waiting. Beef sits immediately, eyes intense as Robert hovers. He sets it down, walking away as Beef begins his breakfast.

His knees creak as he leans over to grab his Mecha Man jumpsuit, stepping into it. He pauses as the zipper lies just above his chest, yet still open. The emblazoned M feels phony. His stomach churns at the sight of it. He zips it fully.

Robert stuffs the mask into his back pocket, grabbing his keys and phone swiftly. 

This chair is the most comfortable seat he's had in months, but he knows that's not saying much.

His eyes glaze over as he mindlessly watches the commercial, body finally relaxing. Phenomaman is clearly reading cue cards, but who cares, right?

"She's definitely not making it to band practice," Robert mutters to himself, the guitar riff fading out.

"Haha," a voice is behind him, startling Robert, "Oh, um, what?"

Robert looks and his eyebrow raises without his input. A gangly man is slouching, arms gripping a loose tie, wetsuit glistening. "The commercial," Robert says, watching the man climb over the back of the other couch. "It was... interesting."

"Phenomena-mena-man! He's a rockstar," he replies.

Robert pauses. "He's certainly phenomenal," Robert internally cringes, but he said it, so he's gotta stick with it.

"He could sell snowballs to an E—Is that not-not cool to say? A snowman? Or a snowperson! Doesn't have to be white, or—"

Robert allows him to babble, mind focusing on the scrawl of text offering different tiers for paying customers. This company is robbing the residents of Los Angeles.

He's brought back by the sound of creaking and frustrated grunts. The younger man is twisting the fabric around his arm, it flopping uselessly against his chest just seconds later. Robert stands, hands outstretched to ease his way.

"Here," Robert sits next to him, taking the tie gently from him. "Allow me."

"Oh. You don't have to—"

Robert ignores him, but hesitates. "It's soaked," he smiles at him, "You nervous? Big job interview?"

"My—my powers make everything wet—moist... Waterboy is my—what they call me," he looks at Robert's face, their eyes meeting briefly before he quickly darts them away. Robert loops the tie into itself, halfway through the Windsor knot. "And yes. But no is more—"

The door slams open, the hinges croaking at the force and frame rattling against it just as well. Robert looks to find the source. The sun's glare bouncing off the glass blurs his vision, but he blinks a few times and—His blood runs cold, fingers clenching the tie.

Flimflam or whatever is there, next to the fake plant. He's walking inside. His steps are sure, his posture confident as his gait only widens with each step.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Robert grasps Waterboy's shoulders, pushing him to block Robert from view, but allow him to still watch the new arrival. Waterboy is still babbling, but Robert can't make out one single word. His mind is buzzing, and he suddenly feels incredibly stupid.

He's in the damn suit.

Flambae–that's his name–is finally gone. Robert's shoulders still hug his ears.

"Now that your face is aside-a my face, I know you—of you," Waterboy's voice grows softer with each exhale, "You... you're Mecha Man. You can't be—But you're dead, I thought."

Robert grabs the tie again, finishing the last pass through. "Just on the inside," he mutters.

"You're different, um, in person," Waterboy backs away as soon as Robert tightens the knot against his neck. "Smaller, maybe."

Robert's ego winces. "Never meet your heroes, kid."

"Oh. Was that—That was rude—harshest—mean," Waterboy is about to continue, but his eyes widen behind his goggles. Robert reels back in surprise.

A hand touches his shoulder, Robert jumping and turning. His fist is clenched, but he eases it the second he sees Blazer's eyes.

Waterboy shoots up, arms and legs flailing in his excitement. Robert catches a wet patch on the couch where he just was. "Miss Blazer—Blonde! Oh, my gosh, another real—"

"Sorry," she pulls on Robert's shoulder before letting go, "I actually need him for something."

Robert stands, slowly, his knees protesting each bend. "Good luck," Robert says, Waterboy's eyes still wide as they walk away.

Blazer shoves him into the back of an elevator, obscuring him from onlookers by placing herself in front. All Robert can do is stand there, sigh, and think about Beef.

Or strike up conversation.

"So—"

"Not a word," she says, but there's no bite to it.

Dwelling on the well-being of his dog it is, then.

Super.

He's probably okay. He's been left alone during nights, when Robert was out being Mecha Man. Beef can handle a 9-5 shift. He's a big boy.

...But what if he can't?

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, then Blazer is dragging him through a maze of cubicles and conference rooms. His equilibrium must still be off because it all makes his stomach churn, but he keeps that to himself. It's his first day, he doesn't need to get sick.

Just as she had done at the elevator, she pushes him inside an empty conference room a little rougher than necessary. He trips on his own foot, but catches himself quickly.

"Can I talk now?"

"Yes," she rolls her eyes, locking the door before walking away to check under the table. "We don't want everyone knowing you're Mecha Man," she is thorough, looking in each corner. "A lot of our dispatchers are retired heroes, but..."

"But I'm not," he supplies, "Technically."

She stands beside him, putting the backpack down. She unzips it. "Right," she grabs a blue shirt, holding it out to him, "So, you'll put this on."

Robert takes it from her, holding it up to his chest. "This shirt?"

She puts a finger to her chin. "I... remembered you being bigger."

Robert sighs. "Sorry to disappoint," he removes the mask, staring at it. For years, it has felt like a second skin to him, just another barrier to protect him from enemies, from even himself. It was something that completed him and urged him to do good, and to be the man his father needed him to be. It was as easy as breathing, in those first few years. He didn't have to think. "I never felt silly wearing this," he whispers. There's a pause between them.

"But you do now?" she replies.

It's too tender, too soft. Another bout of that sickness beats through him.

"That's what I was implying with the silence," he jokes.

She doesn't buy it, he can see. But he won't offer any more than that. He's already given too much.

He goes to the corner, away from Blazer and her eyes that see. He unzips the front of his suit, only enough to make a sound because he can't find the words.

"Oh," Blazer turns every which way, "Should I—I should leave. Yeah," she goes to the door, "I'll just be—"

Robert throws the mask to the side, it staying in the air for longer than physically likely.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Blazer stands still.

The mask fwips around erratically, before darting off. It hits the door, a loud grunt of pain as it smacks, and then there's a woman on the floor.

"Who locks a damn conference room?" She sits up with a drawn out groan, her hand disappearing into her pocket. She brings out an inhaler, pressing it to her mouth and taking a large inhale. Robert notices the jewelry in her septum. "So," her voice is hoarse, "You two fuck or what?" She takes another puff.

Blonde Blazer doesn't deign that worthy of a response. "Robert," she says instead, "This is Invisigal. She's part of the Phoenix Program, where we rehabilitate former villains," Invisigal rolls her eyes. "You'll be her team's dispatcher."

Invisigal balks as she stands, "He's our new dispatcher? You've gotta be fucking joking!"

"No. Not joking. I think he'll do—Are those my earrings?"

She hands the earrings to Blazer, arms crossing over her chest after. "They look better on me," she narrows her eyes, "Answer my question."

"No," Blazer says, "Robert and I have a strictly professional relationship. Nothing has happened between us," she casts a look to Robert, but he can't decipher it, "You will keep everything you've heard about him to yourself," Invisigal is focusing on Robert, now, eyes keenly tracing the bruises on his face and clavicle, "If I hear—"

"You'll know it came from me. Yeah, whatever," Invisigal turns away. "But seriously. Him? I bet he can't even throw a good punch."

Robert leans to grab his mask, the watchful gazes of both of them hot on his back as he does so. What in the—

"Look," he holds it between his fingers, "I'm only here to help. You wanted a chance at redemption, I'm just here to guide you toward it. Up to you if you want to take it and maybe do some good."

She stares at him blankly. Invisigal looks to Blazer. "See why you like him. He's a total nerd," she backs into the door, swinging it open. "A dad bod nerd," she disappears, and they're left alone.

"She grows on you," Blazer says. "She called herself Invisibitch when she turned herself in."

Robert scratches his stubble. "I thought Invisigal was a little corny for her."

Blazer smirks. "Really? Because I came up with it."

"Oh," he quips, "Then, by all means, I apologize."

Blazer rolls her eyes. "Just change your clothes," she chuckles softly. "I'll be waiting outside."

The door latches and Robert's all by his lonesome. He hasn't even clocked in and everything feels amiss. 

"Mecha Man."

It's said so coolly, each of Robert's muscles clench in trepidation. He moves, without his own allowance, checking each stall and mirror. There's no traces besides the usual grime in a public restroom. It's unsettling, but not relevant. The bathroom, with its harsh yellow lighting and tiled floor, is all too soon encasing him, and he feels urgency's wrath.

He stands in the middle of the restroom, his eyes narrow, and jaw tightly pressing against itself. He can hear it click.

"At first, I was worried about your unwashed hand touching me," he's frantic, but he knows better. "Now, I'm worried everyone here knows who I am."

The tense silence is broken by Royd's arm waving dismissively in front of Robert. "I'm the one at SDN who'll fix your suit," he shrugs, an easy smile on his face, "Need to know basis, and I need to know."

"Okay," Robert drawls, "Good. But you still didn't wash your hand," he points a finger, but there's only a hint of an accusation behind it. His heart is still hammering against his bruised ribcage.

"Nah," Royd laughs, "Never touched nothin'. Pants and underwear only," he grabs his waistband, "Even for shake, I just do like this," he then wiggles the fabric for longer than necessary.

Robert holds a hand out as a hero passes by them. His eyes follow longer than they need to before returning. "I don't think I got it. Can you show me again?"

Royd slaps his back, ushering him out of the restroom. "We got work to do! I'll hit you up later, work on detes. Yeah?"

Robert holds up a loose thumbs-up. "Sure." 

Another slap.

He swears his shoulder is out of place. Again. 

Just as soon as he pushes against the door, footsteps are behind him. He breathes quickly through his nose, stepping inside the Records Room.

Someone is there on a ladder, loudly searching through each cranny. Robert opens his mouth to announce himself, perplexity growing with each second.

"You found the room all right," a teasing voice, and Robert turns to find it's Blazer. She stands in the doorway, posture relaxed.

A loud rustle and then the sound of someone scampering off a rickety ladder, "Who's this freckled-faced fuck?"

Robert whirls around, now met with a short, elderly man peering around the corner. He makes a beeline for Robert, his arms open and welcoming. They wrap around Robert's torso, squeezing him tightly and Robert returns it. He's unsure why.

"Is there a reason this is happening?"

"It's a hug," the man releases Robert. "Lighten up."

Robert searches each metaphorical file he keeps locked and stored inside his brain, but there are no connections.

But then the man's eyes trail to his ear–the one with the scar from what feels like eons ago–and they soften before looking into Robert's again. They're full of a sadness and hope that Robert hasn't seen since—

"Chase?" Bile is rising in his chest, his stomach flutters with glee.

The hero mocks Robert by doing his oh-so famous pose, laughing to himself.

Robert grabs the man without hesitation. "Holy shit! I can't believe it. It's been... what?"

"Too damn long," he responds, pulling Robert in before pulling away. "We need a sit down."

Robert nods. "So, what's up? You wanna tell me why you look like Einstein?"

Blonde Blazer laughs behind them. "Sorry," she calms herself. "I never noticed."

"Fucker," Chase elbows him. Robert rubs his side in quiet agony. "It's the powers," Chase returns to where he was when Robert first entered, only grounded. "Long and short is I aged myself. By a lot." He grabs a floppy disk.

"So, how old are you?" Robert hopes it'll lighten the mood, but Chase was always fickle when it came to feelings.

"I don't know. My seventies, or whatever," Chase pulls his glasses down from his nose, letting them hang.

"You're probably the last person I can complain to about losing my suit, huh?"

"Damn right," Chase pokes at Robert's bicep. "Don't worry. It'll get fixed," That sadness creeps its way into Chase's tone, and Robert wishes to will it away.

He simply shrugs noncommittally. "Other than being old, you're fine?"

"Oh, after fifteen years you care how I'm doing?" He's teasing, but it cuts.

"Fifteen?" Blazer chimes in, now fully inside the room.

"After this kid's dad passed," Sure, Chase, Robert thinks sardonically, Air the dirty laundry. "He started dodging me like he owed me money."

Robert looks to the floor. "I was in a weird place."

Chase grabs his arm, finding his eyes. "We all were," he then pushes Robert farther into the room. There's a desk in the corner overflowing with old books and technology, with the shining beacon of ancient codes sitting amongst it. "Let's meet your crew."

"What?" Robert sits in the chair. "Shouldn't I meet them in person? Wouldn't that be better?"

Chase shakes his head. "No," he feeds the disk into the computer, "Not everyone makes it. It's easier this way."

It takes an excruciating minute or two for it to load. No one says a word. The only sound in the room is the faint tick-tock of a mechanical clock in some corner. Robert is about to make a quip, but then the screen flashes and there's files for him to open.

"A slideshow?"

Chase and Blazer introduce the first of his team: a man-bat hybrid who went to Harvard. Simple enough.

He clicks on the next one and...

Goddammit.

"—Fire and flame without burning," Robert finishes Chase's sentence. "We've met."

"Yeah? Well, I doubt it was friendly."

Robert's first day is getting worse and worse. 

He's immediately the laughing stock of his team. He knew it would happen; it always does. Invisigal had mentioned his battered face and overall ill appearance. There was another comment, but he hadn't heard. All he did catch was Coupé saying, "We get it. You're emo."

She'd also directly disobeyed him. She endangered a civilian.

Everyone's on break, at least the Z-Team, and he's trying to take this time to relax and decompress.

He's punching the code for the Twinkies with unnecessary force. The spring pushes it forward and Robert leans down, grabbing it with a sigh.

Sonar shrieks. Robert's hand is covered in covered in cream.

He throws the package to the table. He doesn't want them, but he's certainly not going to waste them. He returns to the vending machine, feeding it another bill, and pressing the code once more. He leans over again, grabs the package. He's standing up, and then Invisigal's there: "Hey."

And again, he crushes the Twinkies.

"What kind of superhero flinches?"

Robert's frown deepens. He glares at her, moving to sit at the table. She follows him.

"I didn't say who," she exclaims after his silence. "Chill out."

He puts his head between his hands. "You'd be jumpy after fifteen years of people trying to kill you."

She scoffs, putting her arm over the back of her chair. "What makes you think my life's been any different?"

Robert only looks at her through his eyebrows.

Invisigal continues, "You think growing up around a bunch of shitbag villains, I didn't need to watch my back?"

"I can't just disappear, okay? I have to actually face my problems." It's harsh. He doesn't mean it, not fully. He's frustrated. That's all.

"What the fuck?" Her eyebrows furrow and she's leaning forward again.

"You can't just go around—"

Sonar screeches again. Robert jumps, turning around to glare. Sonar is putting a dead rat inside his mouth.

"Why does he keep screaming?" Robert grumbles, nails biting into his palms.

"His name's Sonar," Invisigal deadpans.

"Yeah," Robert snips, "I know what Sonar means."

"Then why'd you ask?" She smooths her expression, shoulders loose, "Look, I just came by to celebrate the mission going well. Didn't mean to interrupt your little snack," The sentence is strained in the end.

Robert's eyes narrow. He frowns. "You actually think that went well?"

She scoffs. "No. I think it went great."

Robert points a finger toward her. "You trashed the place," he taps the table, "The suspect got away, you got the client hurt," he holds eye contact with her. Her eyes are fierce, now. "You think when that guy signed up for SDN, he'd thought it'd result in the back of his ballsack getting scorched?" Do your job. "'Cause they don't mention that in the commercials."

Ivisigal pushes on the table, pressing closer. "First of all," she points at Robert, just as he had, "The place was trashed when I got there. Second, I'm sure Granny would take some crispy nuts over losing an arm," she backs against her chair once more. "As for the bad guy... Fuck shit happens."

"Fact of the matter is, that shit didn't need to happen," Robert's mind is overrun by those tenets of heroism beaten into him. "We could've found an outcome where the client doesn't get fried and we get the perp, if you just fucking listened to me," He knows what he's doing. He has since he was walking. "You ask for help, then I—" A loud churning. "What now?"

Sonar is pressing a blender, the blades slicing into what Robert assumes is more rats.

Robert raises his voice, "I make the calls. Not you."

"Here's some advice," Invisigal is yelling, too. "You're right at home behind the desk. 'Cause you're no hero," Robert's shoulders tense. "You were a nerd playing a video game in a suit your daddy built," she pauses. Her nostrils flare. "Now, you're a twitchy bitch turtle without its shell. A real hero puts their ass on the line. A real hero can't just push a button to make their problems disappear."

It's a clear dig at what he said to her. It's bait.

"The suit isn't what made me Mecha Man," He's no longer thinking clearly. He is his father's son. "It was how I did my fucking job that made me Mecha Man. Based on what I saw today, you'd never last a single minute as Mecha Man, 'cause there isn't a mech suit in the universe that'll keep you from being a selfish fucking asshole."

The room finally quiets. Robert huffs defensively.

Invisigal stands, kicking the chair before vanishing from view.

Robert immediately sags. Chase told him to not coddle them, but he didn't give Robert permission to berate them. It was uncalled for. He stares at his hand, finally releasing the grip he has on himself. Maybe he should leave, never return—

Invisigal reappears, screaming into Robert's face. He recoils, arm pulled to swing.

"Feel bad?" she sneers, "Good," her own arm reels back. Her fist connects with his face, sending him to the floor, "Fuck you!"

Blood is running down his face from his nose. His vision is blurry, tears welling in his eyes. He wipes at the blood, knowing it only smears it across his cheek.

Sonar stands over him. "You gonna eat those twinks?"

Robert would laugh, but he's tired. "Not what they're—Know what? Knock yourself out. Good shift," Because he's still a leader.

Sonar grabs them, stuffing them into his blazer's pocket. He promptly leaves.

Yeah. Robert deserves that. 

"Damn. You look like shit. That's fucking hilarious."

Robert almost bashes his head against the wall. Robert has toilet paper shoved into his nostril, his cheek is swollen, and he can feel it making its way to his eye. He's only just pushed his nose back to where it belongs.

"Flambae, I really—"

"Hold on. I have to get a picture," he takes his phone out. The phone case he has is obnoxious. It has flames on it, of course, with rhinestones. "Motivation," he smiles, the gap in his teeth visible.

Robert grins a little in Schadenfreude. "I really don't have time."

"It'll take, like, two fucking seconds," Flambae says, "Just do a stupid pose or something. Or just stand there," Flambae holds his phone up. "This kicks ass. Who hit you?"

"I... I don't know if I should say," Robert doesn't necessarily want it to ruin what little morale there is.

Flambae harrumphs loudly. "Don't be such a bitch. Oh, wait. Was it a woman?" Flambae doesn't even let Robert answer. "It so fucking was. Bob Bob, don't be such a bitchass sexist. You can just say it."

"I'm being called sexist? By the guy that says bitch every other word?" A blinding flash shines over his eyes, forcing him to screw them shut.

Flambae curses under his breath. "Forgot about that. Hold on. It's got to be perfect," he looks away, quiet for one second. And that one second is so beautiful to Robert's ears. "Here we go," And it's ruined. "It's a word. What are you gonna do? Punch me?" Flambae grins wildly at his phone. "You're clearly weak as hell. Got noodle arms or some shit. Wouldn't even feel you hit me."

Robert stares at the floor. "You would."

"Nah. I wouldn't," Flambae shoves his phone in his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "Whatever. I don't have time. Bye."

Robert sighs, pulling a hand over his face. "Bye. Good shift."

Flambae grumbles a soft, "Whatever." 

Chase drags Robert into a corner just next to Blazer's office. "The fuck happened?"

Robert sighs deeply. There's no use lying to Chase. "Got punched by Invisigal," Chase's eyes widen before immediately sharpening, "I deserved it. A little. Just don't make a big deal, okay? The shift was a shitshow, already. I don't want to make it worse."

Chase pushes Robert through the door. "No, it wasn't. Whatever. I'm not covering for you."

Blazer is sitting down, putting a file into a folder before she rights her cape. She smiles at both of them, motioning to the chairs in front of her desk. "Have a seat," she scoots her desk chair closer.

Robert sniffs, pressure in his nose dissipating.

Chase shoots him a quick look of amusement.

"What happened to your nose?"

Robert hums softly.

Chase rolls his eyes. "Here we go..."

"You have a tissue hanging from your nose, Robert," she raises one eyebrow, "I was trying to ignore it, but it became impossible when it started soaking in blood."

Robert looks away. "I, uh," he remembers cold winters visiting out-of-state family and his dad begrudgingly setting up a humidifier. "I get nosebleeds when it's dry. The air in the office it's, uh, on the dry side."

"It is?" She is clearly bemused. "I'll have facilities look into it."

Chase elbows Robert, the same as this morning. Robert returns it, both of them smiling mischievously.

"Alright, boys," Blazer chastises, "We're here to assess Robert's first shift," Robert's blood turns to ice inside his veins. "And aside from whatever happened... here..." Her eyes are fixed on the tissue. "I thought it was pretty good."

"What?" It was terrible.

"Told ya, Robbie."

Robert glares at him for the nickname.

"I was watching on the monitor," Blazer powers through, "The work you did dispatching, I don't think the Z-Team has had a better shift than that."

Again, Robert thinks it was terrible.

"We just might need to confront the fact that it might be the best they can do."

Now, that, Robert refuses to believe.

Still, Chase continues, "Especially how the Granny thing went."

Blazer sighs. "Yes. The Granny's Donuts situation wasn't ideal, but I've seen so much worse from Invisigal."

Worse? How could it be worse than that? Murder? In the first degree?

"Let's be real, she ain't gonna make it."

"She's difficult to work with, sure, but I see a lot of promise in her. The other Z-Teamers seem to respect her."

"They're afraid of her."

"The perp got away," Never fail. "How is that an acceptable outcome?"

Chase shrugs. "Shit happens."

"Look, Robert," her voice is soft, yet still commanding, "You should be proud. The bar is very low for this group."

Rise above any expectations. "Well, it's not low for me," It never was. "I know I like to make a joke and keep things light as much as the next person," To hide from himself, or whatever a therapist would say, "But when it comes to work, I'm not messing around here," he almost swears, but he remembers she's his boss. "If you want the Phoenix Program to survive, the bar needs to go up." He never had that chance. Why should they?

"And how would we do that?"

Robert remembers the early mornings with his father. He was never allowed to stay up too late, but he was always woken up at 5 a.m. It was part of the allotted time he got with his father, and in it each second was tense. His father would stare from across the table, report cards in hand, watching for any dip in his scores. He would tell Robert to eat. Robert would try to ask about Mecha Man's adventure that night, but he was always told to focus. He'd ask the most foolish question of why. The main lesson above all: Never question why.

"By treating Z-Team what they are: A bunch of villains," he's unsure, but it's the only thing he's got. "And leading a bunch of villains takes a different approach than a superhero team," Chase is watching him. "I need to be around them," He needs to be whatever his father always was for this to work. "They need to see I'm all in, and they need to reciprocate that."

Chase says, "Some tough love."

Robert replies, perhaps more damning than he realizes, "The only kind I know," he eases the weight of it, "And based on what I've seen, the only kind they'll respond to," Both of their expressions soften. "I know it will be aggravating at times, and more tedious than imagined, but I want to try," Why? Because he has something to prove? To who? He doesn't even know. "I don't want you stepping in. They need to respect me, even if I don't have powers."

Blonde Blazer nods to Chase. He does the same. "Okay. We'll do it your way. Monday, we'll get them into a room and introduce them to their new supervillain leader."

The title of villain being put on him, even in jest, causes his skin to crawl. "I can't promise it'll work. I can promise to do my best."

"No fucking way it'll work," Chase laughs, "But it'll be much more fun to watch."

"Chase," Blazer stands from her chair. "Some optimism, please?"

Chase grouses, "Goddammit. Yeah. I also promise to do my best."

Robert feels a new world atop his shoulders, perhaps even the whole solar system. 

Someone is leaning over his desk, arm moving furiously. It's Waterboy.

"Hey, kid."

He shoots up. It looks... suspicious. Robert inches closer.

"Yeah, no! I—I didn't—did this!" Waterboy holds his arms up. The movement unveils a smattering of crumbs and a suspicious white cream on his desk and computer. Robert grabs a piece of the wreckage, bringing it to his nose. Ah, glaze. "—evil mode and—and—just hit... smash the same donut!"

"What a mess," Robert holds the napkin, it dangling with the weight of the cream.

"I'll—will clean it."

"What?" Robert turns to the man, "No, no."

"No—yes! See! I'm SDN's newer—newest he..." The word gets drawn out. He tries again, "He..." and again, "He..."

Robert smiles, "Hero?"

"...helpful janitor. Helpful janitor," he showcases a name tag that's lettering is ruined from liquid.

Robert chuckles, "Okay. Cool," Water powers have to be helpful in custodial work, right?

"So," Waterboy grins, "It's my pleases—pleasure and it's—um, my job. Which you helped me get," he wipes water from his brow. "So, thank you. Thank you so much."

Robert's unsure just how much help he was, but he'll accept the gratitude. "Happy to."

Blazer comes up behind them. "That—It's Friday. I'm not gonna ask," she puts a hand to her hip. "You headed out?"

Robert realizes he's not obligated to stay. "Oh. Yeah," he hands the napkin to Waterboy. "Thanks, kid," He grabs his company-branded backpack and leaves for the elevator.

What a joke of a day. He can't wait to see Beef.

Chapter Text

He's gonna get fired.

Chase and Blonder Blazer are both staring at him like he has three heads.

"Can you repeat yourself?" Chase's eyes are narrowing with each breath.

"Maybe I put it too crudely." Him and his big fucking mouth. "No cursing this time. So," He watches Beef trail underneath their legs. "Again: I don't think cutting one of them is smart."

"How the fuck else are we going to—"

"Why not?" Blazer holds a loose hand over Chase's shoulder. "I thought we agreed on this."

Robert throws his hands up in exasperation. She didn't offer him a chance earlier, after she'd cornered him and mortifyingly blurted out her new status of single. He quickly pulls his hands back. "What's the point of all this talk about redemption and phoenixes if we're just going to throw them out? Over a leaderboard."

She shakes her head. "We already told them—"

"Doesn't mean we have to go through with it."

"That just makes us look like weak-ass punks."

"Robert," her voice is calm, but it still unnerves him. "You said it yourself that the bar needs to go up. This is what that looks like."

He frowns. "We didn't even give them a chance. Not a real one."

Do they even deserve this? Should he even stick his neck out for these... He can't even get his own thoughts in order. But his stomach is in knots.

Maybe it's the failure. It's too soon.

Blazer sighs, a short sound. "They've had many chances. Why do you think they'll change now?"

Because they know him, know his face. He's not just some fucking dork without any connection to them sitting behind some stupid desk.

But he doesn't say it.

"I don't know," he answers. "Blind hope?"

Chase scoffs, but it isn't malicious. "Optimism."

There's silence between the three of them, Beef's soft grumbling and the goings-on of the office sitting in the air. A string is being pulled taut, and it might as well be his nerves.

"Okay," Blonde Blazer finally breaks. "We'll see, then."

Robert's jaw drops from its pull. "Thank you."

Her eyebrows scrunch together sadly. "No promises," she says, "Try your best."

He's turning away to begin his shift, but a strong arm pulls him back.

"Don't tell them," she instructs, "Use it as motivation." 

At least he can say, with a little sincerity, the second shift went much better. The synchronicity they had near the end about brought a tear to his eye.

The sun is beginning to set, the bright orange on the horizon lulling Robert's nerves to ease. He can clock out soon.

People are still moseying around, wrapping up their own shifts and settling little matters here and there. The voices drone on, soft goodbyes and feet leaving toward the elevator. Robert spins his chair around, staring at the ceiling.

"Whoa. You're still here?"

Robert uses every muscle inside his body to withhold the groan of annoyance.

"Flambae," he says instead, "You don't have anything better to do?"

"Your life must be so boring if you're still here. Willingly," Flambae leans over, eyes meeting Robert's. His head blocks the fluorescent bulb, and for once, Robert is glad Flambae is there. "You just stay here? For what?"

Robert cannot hold it. He sighs deeply, the air rustling the stray lock of hair that hangs on Flambae's forehead. It earns him a look of bemusement. "Got something else I need to do."

"What? We're all done, you know. Shift's basically over," he emphasizes it like Robert is new to language. "You got paperwork or something?"

Robert sits up, his neck creaking in protest. "I—" He interrupts himself. "Why do you even want to know?"

Flambae shrugs. "Looking for ammo."

"Ammo?" Robert parrots. "Like that picture?"

Flambae rolls his eyes. They settle somewhere on Robert's cheek, where the yellow bruising stains his under eye. "Don't worry about it," he smirks. "Too much."

He's about to respond, but his computer flashes with a warning of a team member leaving the service area. Robert scoots away from Flambae, pushing his headset back over his ears. The ex-villain grumbles, pressing forward into Robert's space. Robert shoos him.

Flambae retreats with a muffled curse. Robert's sure it was the same as always: Bitch.

Robert finds a camera that offers him a clear view. Invisigal is sitting on a swing set, one leg folded up, a cigarette against her lips. She sways gently, possible residual energy from one large push. Robert clicks the side of his headset, clearing his throat, "Invisigal? Is there a reason you're subjecting children to secondhand smoke?"

She kicks her foot to the gravel, boot scraping across it as she takes a long drag. "As if." She blows the smoke out in a ring. A long cough leaves her lungs. "Why are you even talking to me?"

Robert presses his lips together. "Computer dinged," he says, though it's not what she wants. "You seem down in the dumps."

"I know it's me," Invisigal says. She takes another long inhale. "Today was just about making it easier."

"So, you gave up?" Robert puts his back against his chair, settling.

She flicks the ash to the ground. "Sure, whatever you wanna call it. Look," she turns to the camera for a brief second, "I'm not made for this. For any of it. I've—" Her back is in view once more. "I've got the powers of a villain. I might as well just stick to what I'm fated to be," A pause. "Or whatever."

"That's not right," Robert says. If it were all about powers having some impact on a person, then what the fuck does that make him? Just some useless, amoral dude? He grits his teeth. "Or maybe it is, I don't know. But do you really want some bullshit called Fate to decide that? A bunch of stars or some shit? I don't think it's true." If it is, he's failed the worst of all of them. "You've got more fire than that."

"That's your motivational speech? I don't know, decide for yourself."

"It's my, like, first real day of this," Robert defends. "Cut me a break."

She flips the camera off, a laugh leaving Robert in surprise.

Another alert flashes across his screen. He does a little twirl before grabbing the microphone. "You wanna talk about fate? Guess who is just around the corner, mid-burglary."

Invisigal stands from the swing. "Who?"

"Lightning Struck."

She keeps her back to Robert. "Not going."

Robert quirks one brow. "Why not?"

Invisigal chuckles sardonically into her earpiece. "You're kidding. I'm being fired in, like, thirty minutes. Send someone else."

"This could be the difference." He is unsure if he believes it, but he wants to try—he needs to.

She starts walking toward the loitering teens, cigarette toward them in offering.

"Don't—"

"Who'd you think I got it from?"

One of them takes it, nodding to her with respect. Robert sighs in disappointment, but understanding.

"I'm sending you the address."

She doesn't argue. That fans the small flame of hope inside of Robert. 

Click. Flash.

"She got him, huh?"

Robert finds Blazer next to him, a proud grin resting fondly on her lips. "Yeah," he answers. "She did good work."

The Z-Team are posing with her, voices animatedly giving congratulations and applause. Invisigal shies from the attention, but there's an air around her that is soaking it in with delight.

"So," Blazer's tone shifts to the same one from their first meeting; the teasing lilt after Robert made a fool of himself. Her fingers are pointing to the buttons on his headset. "This button—"

His face washes in red. "Oh," he says. "You heard the..."

"Everyone did," she chuckles. "Do you really believe that? She has a chance?"

Robert looks back to the she in question. "Yeah," he replies. "I think everyone deserves a chance." Because it'd be selfish of him to say they couldn't, only because he'd never been given the same. It stings, but the knife must wriggle out someday—even if it's slowly.

Blazer's eyes are soft as she watches him, flitting to the group in front of them. "You're right."

His eyes widen. "You mean—"

She nods. "I do."

Robert beams, but he dampens it. He needs to be professional. "Who gets to tell them?"

"How about you?"

Robert's entire body is alight with each emotion he has felt in the last hour, buzzing with the residual adrenaline. He walks to the open area where the Z-Team stands, all of them immediately watching with narrow eyes.

"Good news," he announces, each member waiting for the shoe to drop. "No one's getting cut."

They all laugh at him.

Two steps forward, two steps back, as Paula Abdul said. 

The shift is officially over.

Robert is lingering, his eyes fixated on the pieces of metal and wiring strewn across the tables, overflowing from cardboard boxes. His fingers reach out mindlessly, tugging on the exposed inner workings of his livelihood. Past livelihood, he corrects himself. No longer his; a tarnished legacy ruined by his being reckless.

He fiddles with them, twisting them between the pads of his digits, the once powerful thrum that emanated gone. Royd's words about gearheads and science nerds–or whatever he had said–swim in his brain. How sad it is that Robert never knew enough to glean that information about his own father. All he has to show for his teachings are the bruises scattered along his ribs and the countless scars that hold him together stitch by homemade stitch.

"Hey, Robert."

Robert's head is lazy in its rise, but it speeds as Chase's sweater comes into view. "'Sup?" He goes for casual, but he knows Chase can see through Robert. It was always a talent of his.

"Nothing much." Chase steps closer. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be home?"

"Not much of one to go to," Robert replies. Beef's feet clatter on the linoleum, sounding his presence to his newfound best friend. "Besides, I got stuff to do."

Chase leans over with a grunt, hoisting Beef onto his hip. The chihuahua licks his hand with glee. "Like sleeping," Chase scratches under Beef's chin, avoiding Robert's eyes. "Don't think I can't see those disgusting eye bags. Not to mention, that awful complexion."

"I thought you like my freckles."

Robert catches Chase's eyes rolling. "Nice one. I meant how fucking pale you are, shithead."

"To better see my freckles," Robert insists while pulling out one of the blueprints Royd left to Robert's disposal. "I'm trying it out. It's a French beauty thing."

There's a pregnant silence between them, save for Beef's general noise. Robert bores his eyes into the plans, the improvements he could never dream of. His skin itches with each line and detailed measurement; he doesn't truly deserve this.

"We never had that sit down."

Robert's breath stops inside his lungs. He pushes his hands into the table, bracing himself on it. "No," he swallows thickly, "We didn't." For good reason.

An irritating screech of metal against the floor along with the telltale clangs of cheap, folding chairs being brought to them.

"How about now?" Chase sits himself on one, motioning for Robert to sit in front of him. He puts Beef down, the dog circling the room, away from both men.

Robert eyes the chair warily. The older man does the same, only his target is Robert. He can feel the intensity of the look; it is a look pleading and desperate. It is a hand reaching for a connection that was lost to time; one lost due to Robert's continued cowardice.

Robert takes the back of the chair in his hand, plopping himself in the seat of it.

"How are you doing? Really. No bullshitting."

Robert lowers his head. His first instinct is to dismiss it. He wants to wave it away with a joke, demand that he's fine. He's been fine for years; he's fine now. He'll be fine for years to come. But that's the fear that brought him here, seated in a room with Chase, a man he once looked up to like he could make Robert's dreams reality; simply because he believed in a little snot-nosed kid.

"I've been worse," he lies. Losing his father has to be worse than this. His father's death means more than whatever silly feelings he has about a suit.

Chase leans forward, putting his arms on his knees. The chair groans with the movement. "Sure. But this probably comes close."

Robert shrugs. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"I don't know." Robert can feel the agitation bubble in his gut. It's irrational, but it's happening and clawing its way out. "I don't know." It comes out in a whisper, his resolve already faltering.

"That's fine." Chase searches for Robert's gaze. Robert gives it. "I was worried about you. When I saw the news."

Robert frowns, the muscles well practiced. "Why didn't you try to find me?"

Because that's what hurts the most, now, in this moment. No one visited him but that kind nurse, though she was paid to do so.

"I wanted to."

"Then, why didn't you?" He feels weak. An arm grips his bicep, pulling him up from cowering over his scraped knee.

Chase is silent, but he breaks it with a shaky breath. "I didn't know if you'd remember me. Or care. I thought you didn't want to see me ever again," He rubs at his jaw. "I'd called the hospital, but you were in a coma. Didn't think it was right to just show up. Never worked the nerve up again."

A shared cowardice, then, that left this friendship so tattered.

"You could've come," Robert feels his chin wrinkle with sorrow. He wills it away, but the knowing gleam inside Chase's eyes is there. "I wanted—" The words cut off. This is exactly why he didn't want to do this.

Chase shoots forward, chair falling to the floor as he stands to pull Robert into his chest. He puts his head atop Robert's, squeezing tightly. Robert winds his arms around Chase's middle, eyes wetting the yellow fabric. His shoulders heave with each breath from his lungs, spit dribbling on his lips as he shudders. Chase holds him steadily, gentle yet firm in his grip. Robert's chest burns from the force of it, his face red-hot with shame, and worst of all: Snot spouts from nose, the same as those years ago.

"I'm sorry, Robert," Chase says when Robert quiets. "I'm sorry."

"No, I am," Robert sniffles as he pulls back. Chase lets him go, but he leaves a soft hold on Robert's shoulders. "I was trying so hard to find Shroud. And I did. But I destroyed everything. I fell into his trap."

"I would have, too. You're human." Chase ruffles Robert's hair.

Robert shakes his head. "No, you wouldn't have. You're smarter than that."

Chase grins. "No fucking shit," But it falls immediately, "I've done some dumb things. You know that. It's just part of the job."

It goes against all the tenets of heroism.

Still, he presses himself into Chase's hold and allows the older man to pinch his cheeks while mocking elderly ladies. It makes a laugh gurgle in Robert's throat, an ugly sound borne from a comforting joy.

Just the same.