Chapter Text
Robert grimaces as the throbbing pain in his back worsens into something he can’t ignore. Straightening in his chair, he takes his hands off the keyboard for the first time that shift and tries to stretch his arms above his head in an attempt to relieve the pressure in his shoulders.
Key word tries.
He swears under his breath as the motion only makes the searing pain more intense. Giving up, Robert resorts to rolling his neck stiffly, doing nothing for the ache.
Unfortunately, his slip doesn’t go unnoticed. As he refocuses on the final few calls, Prism pipes up first, her voice containing a hint of amusement.
“Yo, Roberto, you good?” Robert can hear her smirk over coms. “Someone blowing you under your desk or some shit?”
Robert sighs, “No, unfortunately not.”
Prism’s shrill bark of laughter immediately shreds his eardrums, and a couple other Z-Teamers voice their surprise. “Damn, boy! Didn’t think you were into that.”
“Eh, I thought he’d be more of a degradation kinda guy.” Flambae’s accent curls in Robert’s ear. Annoyingly. “Fits his whole repressed and depressed thing.” Robert’s face feels prickly.
“I mean, those bruises and scarring?” Invisigal joins in, and Robert is so very done with them today. “Fuck, maybe he likes being thrown around a bit.”
“Okay, guys, could we get off the topic of my sexual preferences.” Robert switches back to his dispatcher tone, his patience already running thin. “My body is giving me hell for existing, that’s all. Lunch break is in—“ He checks the time. “—eight minutes, and I’m sure we all need it. Lock it in.”
He hears a chorus of sarcastic “Yes, sir”’s and generally dismissive statements, but the rest of the shift wraps up nicely enough that Robert can forgive and forget the last conversation.
However, the team’s successes do not miraculously heal the pain in his shoulders, and even just the reach to take off his headset sends another twinge through his nerves. He groans and sinks into his chair, squeezing his eyes shut as if it would make his existence in the world just as void. He was already dreading the rest of the workday.
“How long has that been bothering you?”
Robert glances up at Galen leaning in the space between their cubicles. He’d moved to Chase’s former spot after his uncle had taken up hero work again. Though it was at the expense of Mandy’s powers, Chase was having the time of his life as Star Blazer, finally finding more stable joy in his life. Mandy didn’t actually seem to mind either, appreciating the small break she was offered until they could find a more permanent solution to Chase’s imminent death. In the past few months, however, Robert had come to appreciate his coworker a bit more. He was a very efficient dispatcher, pretty funny, and knew a bit too much about everyone in the office with his super hearing. Which made their break time mini-gossip sessions all the more interesting.
Today, however, Robert was not feeling it, hoping to grab a snack from the break room vending machine and a breath of fresh air.
“Eh, past few years.” He grumbles as he stands, rolling his shoulders again, as if it would solve anything. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sure.” Galen monotones, though not uncaringly. “You should probably get that checked out, man. Especially if it’s been happening for so long.”
“I’m fine.” He insists, rubbing at his temples as another wave of his new and improved headache rolls into him. “It really isn’t that bad, I can manage.”
Galen shrugs, heading in the direction of the bathrooms, “Your body, your choice. At least you have a bed now.”
Robert’s brow furrows, staring after him. “Wait, how did—“ He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Nevermind, I stopped asking that question a long time ago.”
When Robert steps into the empty break room, he opens the fridge to grab a tinfoil wrapped burrito, leftovers from takeout the night before. He takes his sticky note off, unwraps it, and pops it in the microwave. As it starts and the cylinder slowly spins behind the window, he rolls his shoulders again. The pain flares, pulling another hiss and quiet swear from him.
“Damn, Rob, did your morning workout fuck you up that bad? Not surprising, I don’t ever see you warm up or cool down.”
Robert decidedly does not turn around at Flambae’s voice, though he does feel the flame elemental cross behind him to the fridge, rummaging for his own lunch. The microwave beeps, “You’re watching me when I work out? Bordering on creepy, Flambae.” Robert says as he takes out his burrito and bites down, nearly burning his tongue.
“Right, I’m just making sure you don’t crush yourself again. You throw more on that bench than you can handle.” Flambae leans on the counter, warming his food, which is a bowl of something much more appetizing and savory smelling than Robert’s sad looking burrito, in his hands. “Stop being a fucking idiot normie and work out properly.”
“I do. This,” He gestures vaguely at himself, “is entirely different.”
“How?” Flambae seems almost incredulous that Robert could possibly be hurt outside of his overconfidence in the gym.
“It’s always there, it just flares up every few days. I can manage it.”
Flambae puts his food down, the lightest trail of steam rising from it. “So, chronic.”
“Sure.” Robert deadpans. “Considering the shitshow that is my life, I wouldn’t put it past me.”
“And, what, you’re doing nothing about it?” Flambae presses with a glare, and Robert raises an eyebrow at his tone. Is that. . concern? Huh.
“It’s not that bad.”
Flambae opens his mouth, his fiery gaze intensifying, but then he shuts it with a click, like he’s holding himself back from leaving Robert a smoldering pile of ash. He huffs through his nose, the smallest of flames flickering down his shoulders. Annoyed, he rolls his eyes, gesturing at Robert, “Where.”
“Where what?” Okay, Robert admits he’s fucking with him. But he’s curious why Flambae is so worked up about this. It’s not his business, and typically he’d mind it, so why now?
“Does it hurt.” Flambae grits, like he’s genuinely struggling to get the words out, his missing tooth whistling slightly.
“Oh, shit,” His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you . . . worried about me?” Robert can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face. He’s not sure how to feel about that revelation, but trepidation and surprise are both roiling in his gut and creating a slightly nausea-inducing combo.
“Why is that so hard to believe!?” Flambae exclaims, almost theatrically tossing his hair as he scoffs. “Fuck, I try to help you one time. . .”
“Kill me if I’m a little skeptical. I’m curious what you’ve done with the real Flambae.” Robert says, amusement tickling him.
Flambae snaps, stepping closer. “Bitch, I haven’t fucking changed. Let me fucking help you.”
“If you can word it less like a threat, then I’ll consider it.” Robert meets him, standing his ground, arms crossed.
Flambae breathes furiously, then squeezes his eyes shut, swearing in a combination of foreign languages. Eventually, he drops his gaze back to Robert, held rage simmering behind his amber eyes. “Can I . . . help you with it?”
Robert smirks, his teasing softening despite himself, “What are you offering?”
Flambae narrows his eyes, “Robert, you already live in a gutter, get your head out of it.”
“I’m being serious!” Robert responds with a laugh. “Also, my place is much nicer than a gutter. An expensive hostel at least.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” The hothead mutters. “But, I’m actually—“ He looks genuinely constipated. Robert tries to stop himself from laughing. It takes a lot of effort. “—trying to be nicer. To you. To everyone. So stop being an asshole about it.”
“Coming from the team’s chief asshole, I’m impressed, Flambae. Did you learn that in therapy?”
“Yes, actually. Victoria is infuriatingly good at her job.” Despite his words, his anger actually dims, something close to fond appreciation shining through.
Robert is honestly a bit surprised. Not about Flambae in therapy, but moreso him. . . actually learning from it? He doesn’t know, but he knows he means what he said to him. He is impressed. Any progress made is something, and Robert likes that he’s trying. There’s an odd, constricting feeling gathering in his chest.
“Huh.” is all he says, garnering an immaculate raised brow from the man standing above him.
“What?” Flambae reverts back to that pinched expression.
Robert shakes his head, breathing deep to disperse the tightness in his ribs. He tilts his head up at Flambae, letting some of that warmth spill out into his smile. “Nothing, just proud of you.” He finishes his burrito, grabbing a napkin and cleaning his hands.
Flambae breathes a laugh, hand rubbing at his face, muffling his responding, “Whatever, man.” Robert swears he can see an embarrassed flush touching the taller man’s cheeks, and shit, if he doesn’t find that a little endearing.
Uh. Hey, okay, so where the fuck did that come from?
Before Robert can start down a very distracting spiral, Flambae clears his throat, looking somewhere just past Robert’s face, continuing stiltedly, “Heat. That’s what I, y’know, could help with.”
It takes Robert half a second to remember what they were talking about. He throws out the crumpled napkin, “How exactly?”
“Let me just—“ Flambae sighs shortly, planting his hands on his hips. Robert’s eyes flick down before refocusing on Flambae’s face. “Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
Flambae fights rolling his eyes, “You know what I fucking mean.”
Robert’s grin returns, “Fine. Uh, neck and shoulders are the worst offenders today.”
Before Robert can process or protest, Flambae is stepping closer and his large, calloused hands curling over the curve of his neck. His thumbs touch just over Robert’s collarbone. They’re hot, hotter than Robert was expecting, making him suppress a shiver. For no other reason than the sudden temperature difference.
Flambae’s hands massage into the muscles, smoothing up and down Robert’s neck, his eyes focused on his work and entirely blind to how Robert has been stunned speechless. “Heat loosens muscles, helps with pain and swelling.”
And shit, he’s got a pretty good point because the warmth is seeping into him slowly with every press and pass of Flambae’s hands. The pain doesn’t disappear, but at least it isn’t clouding his brain anymore.
However, the thoughts that are now taking up space in his brain are really fucking distracting.
He works into Robert’s shoulders, rubbing circles and decisive swipes. Robert nearly sways on his feet, leaning into the touches, and the heat is starting to get to him, crawling up his face and making his hands, limp at his sides, tingly. Small hums escape him unbidden, barely even noises, but he doesn’t even notice, losing himself in the feeling of rough hands pressed to his neck.
On a final pass, Flambae’s thumb sweeps over his Adam’s apple, his other fingers pressing into his nape. Robert’s throat clicks as he swallows, and he knows Flambae can feel it.
But then he feels the missing touches, where two fingers would be, and he’s suddenly doused in ice water. His eyes blink open—when did he even close them?—and he pulls back slightly. Barely more than a twitch, but it does the job he wishes it didn’t do. Flambae’s hands immediately fall away, and Robert didn’t think he could get any colder.
Robert clears his throat, rolling the previously offending body parts and finding that whatever Flambae did actually fucking worked. The spiking aches were dulled to a throbbing that blended with the usual pain, more manageable.
“Shit. That actually did something.”
Flambae doesn’t respond, not with a quip nor a dismissive insult. Robert looks up, for a second irrationally fearful that he’d majorly messed up somehow, but by then, the taller man was grinning coolly, “Of course it did. I know these things.”
Robert recovers, offering his own half-smile back. “Well, I won’t underestimate your prowess from here on out.”
“Took you long enough, Bob-Bob.” And Flambae, to Robert’s complete lack of preparation, winks at him. Combined with the stupid nickname and his teasing lilt, it should’ve been annoying as fuck.
But instead, something clenches in Robert’s chest, mixing with the guilt and making him nauseous with the conflict. He doesn’t even hear what Flambae says next, and by the time he blinks back to reality, Flambae is walking out with his food.
Before he even thinks, Robert blurts out, “Thank you.”
Flambae stops in the doorway, turning over his shoulder. Robert catches a flash of . . . something on his face, too quick to identify it, before Flambae’s glaring and muttering obscenities as he speed walks away.
Robert watches him leave. He knows he stands there for too long. He’s just waiting for that feeling to stop trying to knock him on his ass.
It doesn’t. But he does manage to walk back to his desk and slump down in it. He rubs the back of his neck, pressing the phantom feeling into his skin. He’s still feverishly warm, gooseflesh rising at his cold fingertips.
“You are so screwed, man.” Galen remarks without even getting up from his chair.
Huh. He honestly doesn’t know. Not yet. But he’s a little scared to find out.
~~~
You see, Robert assumes that was a one-off event, brought on by his pain-muddled brain and a lapse in judgement from both of them. Or a dare by someone on the team.
But he’s sorely mistaken. And it keeps happening.
A few days later, he’s settling in for the next shift of dispatching when he feels the ache settling into his lower back. He twists, trying to crack it, but as usual, it solves nothing. So, he sighs and puts his headset on, resigning himself to his fate.
Halfway through the shift, it starts becoming more than a bit distracting. He’s not letting this affect his work, so he swears and stands up, stretching. “I should not be having this much back pain at this age.”
Malevola speaks up as she heads to a solo mission. “You should do some stretches over break.”
Sonar pipes up. “I dunno. Sounds like a skill issue to me.”
Robert’s eyes narrow, aiming to ignore the usual jabs. A new mission pops up, and he smirks at the details.
“You know what, Sonar? I think you’ve got this one.” He knows he’s being petty, but he can’t frankly bring himself to care.
Sonar gets the details, and groans loudly. “Fucking crowd control?! Robbie, you better watch your back.” He says as he flies off to the event anyway, grumbling swears and elaborate vows of revenge.
“Yo, are you ignoring the whole ass bed we stole for you?” Flambae interjects, his disdain clear. “Pretty rude, Robert. We might have to take it back, y’know, give it a loving home.”
Robert grins lazily. “Wait, is this an elaborate way to get me to sleep with you? Take my bed to get me in yours?”
Flambae splutters out multiple starts to a retort before settling on, “Fuck no! There’s no fucking universe in which I’d want to sleep with your bitchass.”
Robert takes way too much joy in Flambae’s fumbling. Prism’s tornado siren of a laugh cuts through. “Oh my god! Robert, you should see his face!”
“I mean, I can’t blame him.” Visi says casually. “I definitely want that ass in my bed.”
Punch Up hums. “Y’know what, I second that.”
“Okay, what the hell—“ Robert tries to break this line of conversation up before it grows exponentially.
“I am unused to the act of sleeping, but if it is with Robert, I am willing to attempt it.” Phenomaman declares.
“I-I don’t think that’s—“ Waterboy tries to explain. “They mean—well—“
“I am. . . not exactly opposed to that concept either.” Coupé murmurs as she flies back from her mission. “He would likely be a thorough partner, though I’m unsure if he would be able to handle my performance.”
“Shit, you’re right. We’ve done some wild shit in bed.” Punch Up admits lovingly.
“I remember every moment fondly.” Coupé responds in kind, and now Robert is considering quitting his job. Does an HR department even fucking exist here, or do they just ignore this program on principle?
“Okay, everyone, back on fucking task. The next time someone mentions sex, they’re getting sent on a sewer mission.”
The coms quiet down besides a smattering of snickers and dismissals from a few people.
Sonar returns from his crowd control assignment soon after. “I’m either going to need a shit ton of weed or boobs or else I might take out a civilian.”
Robert groans and drops his head in his hands. The team bursts out into laughter.
Sonar is incredibly lucky that the Torrance Sewage System is without incident.
When the shift ends and everyone begins discussing lunch options, he barely even thinks of the originating topic of conversation.
That is, until he’s walking to the break room to grab the mediocre cup of instant ramen waiting for him, and his back pain decides to stab him through the spine like it has no one better to harass.
“Man, you weren’t joking about having chronic pain.”
Robert turns to see Flambae walking in, his tinted sunglasses still on. Sunglasses indoors, he thinks to himself, irritated by that fact.
“Seriously, do you sleep upright or some shit?” Flambae snarks.
Robert stares at him, unimpressed. “I don’t get much sleep anyway, so I feel like I could right now.” He attempts to walk away to end the conversation. Flambae follows him into the break room anyway.
“Why the fuck not?”
“When did it suddenly become your business?” Robert fires back as he nabs a noodle cup from the pantry.
Flambae tsks. “Uh, now? Obviously.”
“Uh huh.” He says as he fills the cup with water.
Flambae makes a disgusted noise. “Do you have any other fucking food besides that instant garbage?” He moves to open the fridge, taking out another bowl of that same food he’d brought a few days ago.
He places the sad cup of noodle and water on the counter. “No, unfortunately not.”
“Have you heard of a grocery store in your life?” Flambae keeps muttering, steam slowly beginning to rise from his bowl. It smells insanely good, and for once, Robert is jealous of this hothead idiot. “There’s literally one five miles away.”
Robert side eyes him, a twinkle of amusement in his stare. “What was that yesterday about you being worried about me?”
“You aren’t special.” He says. “Get that through your thick skull.”
But the way he says it is so hilariously unconvincing that Robert turns and levels him with the most knowing grin. If he has the opportunity to mess with this man, then he’ll jump at the chance. He’s also noticed that Flambae has made it his life’s mission to look anywhere that isn’t Robert’s face for more than a second. He’s never seen this guy get so. . . flustered? He thinks that’s what it must be, and it’s endlessly intriguing him.
Flambae glances at him one more time before grumbling. Then, he pushes the bowl into Robert’s arms. “Jesus—“ Robert swears at the temperature and almost drops it trying to put it down on the counter. “Uh, what the fuck?”
“Eat something that isn’t absolute shit for once.” Flambae says swiftly, and Robert can’t even come up with a decent comeback because the man walks out of the room so fast that Robert feels the wind of his escape ruffle through his hair.
Huh. Flambae just gave him his food.
Robert looks down at the bowl, steaming up something aromatic and savory. He nearly sticks his nose directly into the rice trying to sniff it, in case Flambae was secretly trying to poison him. Force of habit.
But all he gets is another strong whiff of whatever delicious meal Flambae had just given to him, seemingly with no expectation of payback.
He scarfs it down in record fucking time like he hasn’t eaten in three days.
The odd niceties and favors start to become a regular occurrence, and Robert can’t figure out how he feels yet. Maybe it’s a symptom of not knowing Flambae before, of only seeing him as a villain, then a coworker who was equally annoying as he was surprisingly funny, and now. . . shit, he wasn’t sure.
But it does make him happy to finally see more of this side of him. The side that actually isn’t a flaming asshole.
Flambae brings homemade dishes more often—typically leftovers from when he’s cooking for his family—to share with the team. And they eat it up like they’d been starved for the whole week.
And Robert is not complaining. He’s had very little homemade food over the past 15 years, only ever cooking out of boxes and instant meals, but every dish that Flambae makes somehow tastes unlike anything that Robert has ever eaten before.
Then Flambae presses a separate container of leftovers into his hands at the end of the final shift, with a sticky note of detailed reheat instructions, and turns on his heel and leaves before Robert can even thank him.
Those are the days that Robert goes home feeling a little bit warmer knowing it’s there in his passenger seat. And even better when he reads Flambae’s surprisingly neat handwriting later that night. He sticks them on his fridge, and soon the notes are a little smattering of color to go along with the chaotic mess of lamps in various styles that he has scattered around his place. Sometimes he’ll find himself rereading them, lingering on the F initial scrawled in the corners, signing them as if Flambae wasn’t handing the dishes directly to him.
He markedly does not return the tupperwares. He initially forgets, but once Robert notices, he waits to see whether Flambae will ever bring up the topic of his missing containers. He does not mention it once.
So the cooking is new. A nice kind of new.
The touching, however, is driving Robert up the fucking wall.
And not in a good way.
His pain was still a constant, sometimes leading to more irate shifts and snapping at the team. Which he’d regret slightly in the evening, but he knows they can handle it and call him out if he goes overboard due to him being unable to find a position to sit in that won’t feel like his spine is wrapped in barbed wire. And they do call him out with firm disapproval, and Robert just sighs and apologizes briefly, and everyone moves on.
Well, almost everyone.
Robert doesn’t even say anything half of the time, just sighs when he stands or grunts when he moves a little too quickly. Yet the slightest hitch of his breathing or aborted movement draw those stupid fiery eyes to him.
Whether it’s over coms or in the break room or the offices, anytime Flambae was remotely within earshot or the same damn room, he flies back post-shift quicker or walks over like it’s the most normal thing in the world and puts his hands on him.
It’s never anything big, contrary to Flambae’s entire philosophy. He didn’t think the guy was capable of subtlety.
Until now.
Robert is hyperaware of every single time Flambae walks into a room or brushes too close to him. And sure, he was aware of it before, but that was to prepare himself for whatever insult, complaint, or snappy judgement the flaming asshole was going to throw at him. Now, he isn’t sure anymore, unused to this new tactic of kindness Flambae was employing. He’s just gotten used to the food, and now he has to deal with those heated eyes and hands and—
Fuck. Shit.
Robert convinces himself that Flambae must be messing with him. He’s the kind of guy to enjoy pulling pranks and seeing how far he could push things.
And if that included riling Robert up and flirting with him damn near on the regular, then Robert couldn’t put it past him.
He can’t figure out what Flambae’s goal is yet, but the annoying range this man has is beginning to eat at him. If this was another prank, it was finally working on him. Why? He didn’t fucking know. Maybe he was touch starved and—
Wow, he really just answered his own question. Fine, he’s a bit lacking in the physical touch department. But this has to be something else other than just that. Something that explains why his chest feels like it’s being squeezed and why he feels almost nauseous with its intensity every time it fucking happens.
And the fucker just keeps getting bolder. The touching starts as casual as a hand on Robert’s shoulder, his neck, or the small of his back. Not even massaging, just holding, pressing down slightly until Robert relaxes and leans into the warmth. It never lasts more than a minute, and Flambae slips away so easily, off to his next shift or to gossip with Prism when she waves him over or to fly off at the end of the day.
But then there are a few times where Robert really begins to question whether it’s truly just Flambae’s touchy nature or something more.
There’s one morning when Robert is finishing up his morning workout set. He pumps his final reps of an incline bench press, hooking the bar back onto the rack with a huff. As he wipes his brow, he hears chastising tutting from behind him.
“What did I say about lifting without a spot?” There’s faux disdain mixed with amusement in Flambae's voice as he walks over. Robert just hums.
“Don’t need a babysitter.” Robert reminds him as he sits up. And it’s also the exact moment when his shoulders start twinging like they’ve been personally hired to torment him after every workout.
“Looks like you do.” He says, like he’s been correct since his birth. “You’re benching too much too fast.”
Flambae walks around the bench, duffel bag with flame designs along the strap over his shoulder. He’s not in his costume, instead in dark sweatpants with matching corny flame details down the sides and a black tank top that isn’t a v-neck for once. The latter of which Robert is desperately trying to tear his eyes away from because all of those arms are on clear, hairy display and fuck, he needs to pull himself together.
“What the fuck are you even trying to do, kill yourself?”
Robert offers a half-hearted laugh at that. “Not today.” He says as he tries to stretch out the strain in his shoulders.
“Okay, calm the fuck down, emo boy.” Flambae narrows his eyes above him. He puts his bag down. “Turn around.”
Robert stares at him, lowering his arms slightly. “Why?”
“So I can help with the. . .” His hands gesture at literally all of Robert before he gives up and mutters, “Just let me help.”
“Okaaay.” Robert says skeptically. He faces the rack, entirely not expecting Flambae to take a seat on the bench nearly right behind him. Close enough for Robert to instinctively sway forward when he feels Flambae’s body heat.
“You have something under this?” Flambae asks. Robert suddenly feels a hand at his side, and one of Flambae’s fingers is alright under the hem of his hoodie.
“Right, so, typically I’m a wine and dine first kind of guy—“
Flambae flicks him in the ear. Robert hisses, leaning away. “Not like that, idiot. Just need to get— y’know what, no, I’m not explaining this again, take it off.”
Robert rolls his eyes, grinning. “So demanding.”
He takes off his hoodie anyway, holding it in his lap and leaving him with a white tank on. Flambae grips his shoulders, drawing a small inhale. His hands sweep across the width of his shoulder blades, pressing into the muscles. Then, he forces Robert’s shoulders down, which he didn’t realize he had been flexing until that moment.
“Relax. I can’t do shit if you’re so tense.” Flambae's voice is much too close to Robert’s ear, and he suppresses a shiver, breathing out instead to get himself to relax as Flambae asked.
So, Robert finds himself straddling a bench while Flambae’s increasingly warm hands caress his shoulders. Flambae’s thumbs digs into the trapezius, and Robert pulls forward with a short hiss. Flambae just pulls him back in, and Robert goes easily until he feels a solid chest against his back. Flambae’s hands barely falter in their ministrations, moving to simply holding Robert’s shoulders and pressing his heat into them.
Robert doesn’t realize how deeply he zones out until a rolling, accented voice speaks low in his ear. “Feel better?”
He nearly jumps as Flambae squeezes his hips and gets up from behind him like nothing happened. Then, there’s a broad hand carding through his hair, messing it up. Robert shakes it off, turning around and staring at Flambae’s too fucking smug smirk as he hoists his bag up.
However, as he rolls his shoulders, he finds he’s pleasantly buzzing with warmth, and this is now the best he’s ever felt after a workout since he got out of the coma. “Yes, actually.” He says, then after a second of pause, “Thanks.”
Flambae’s smirk grows a bit wider. “See you on shift, Mecha Man.”
Robert watches entirely unsubtly as Flambae leaves for the locker room. Well. I guess we’ve moved on from Mecha Bitch then.
He lifts his hoodie, glancing down at his lap.
“Shit.”
Similar pictures of this scene continue to happen. And Robert is beginning to get very confused, both with Flambae and with himself.
There’s a day where Robert is de-armoring his suit after a day in the field, sliding off pauldrons and unclipping his breastplate in the locker room. Every single part of his body is killing him and the deep-seeded exhaustion has only intensified. Then, Flambae is striding up and carefully warming his hands to Robert’s lower back, and the hero suddenly has to carefully manage his breathing.
He squeezes his waist that time, and Robert has to press his face to the metal to get it to stop burning. He takes a very cold shower.
Then another when he simply lies down next to his desk on break, his legs deciding to wage war against movement at all. Beef licks at his face and he cannot find the will in himself to stop the pudgy little dog from doing as he pleases. It’s actually Galen who observes his plight and walks off, and less than a minute later, in strides Flambae, who mysteriously knows exactly what’s bothering him. He talks Robert’s ear off about his niece, an “adorable little demon child” of a 10 year old, detailing her next dance recital and the headband he made for her. All while wrapping his hands around Robert’s legs, massaging down the length of his calves and lower thighs.
Robert trains his laser focus on Flambae’s words. It actually doesn’t prove very difficult beyond the obvious distraction. His legs already feel functioning again halfway through the break. He doesn’t tell Flambae that though, letting him keep talking. Robert finds that he likes the sound, the affectionate note in his voice when he goes on about Mahsa and her routines and her passion for dance.
“Well, you’ve told me so much about her, I guess I should probably be meeting her.” Robert muses.
Flambae hesitates for a moment. “Eh, maybe I’ll bring her to meet the team sometime.”
Robert smiles. “She’d love them, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I know she will.” Flambae says, almost like he’s having flashbacks. “She’s made that quite clear already.”
“Then even more reason.” Robert says sincerely. “I know I’d love to meet her.”
Flambae blinks, almost surprised. He stares at him for a second too long, Robert’s legs still in his lap.
Then, the computer’s mission alert sounds. Flambae’s touch is gone and he’s rushing out to the field. Robert reaches and gropes around for his headset, finding it and slipping it on as he picks himself up off the ground.
Flambae doesn’t fail a single call that shift.
~~~
With how short their, uh, intimate interactions tend to be, Robert never gets the chance to reciprocate, to see how Flambae would react if he touched him in the same teasing, wanting way.
That is, until the Z-Team was gathered in the conference room, discussing the game plan for an organized hit on an up-and-coming arms dealing ring in South Torrance.
Robert had been standing as he presented the location, goal, and expectations, and now as they were actively planning, his lower back was beginning to burn badly enough for him to grimace and straighten.
As he’s turned to the board and discussing optimal positions of stealth attack with Visi and Coupé, he feels a presence approach the board, and suddenly there’s a hand pressing into the curve of his spine. Robert flinches, unintentionally leaning back, his voice wavering before he recovers. He hears a wolf whistle from behind him, definitely from Prism. Robert side-eyes Flambae, who was way too close to the dispatcher, but he—probably intentionally, the asshole—isn’t looking at Robert at all.
Both Coupé and Visi’s attention turn to Flambae, who’s leaning over Robert’s shoulder and pointing at the map, suggesting another entry point that would have better concealment and more strategic access to the ventilation system if need be. Meanwhile, Flambae’s thumb smooths over a knob in Robert’s spine, and Robert is praying for strength.
It’s at that moment that he decides two can play at Flambae’s game.
As Coupé is adjusting their route, Robert presses himself to Flambae’s side, slotting himself in the crook of Flambae’s arm. Flambae’s body heat ticks up, flaring like Robert’s touch was oxygen stoking him to burn brighter. He doesn’t acknowledge it, only verbally approving of the change in plan and checking in with Visi, who’s staring intently at the lack of any personal space between Flambae and Robert. Her eyes slide to his with a brow raise, and he only responds by nodding to the board. She smirks, then agrees to the new plan.
As Coupé and Visi walk away, the two already beginning to whisper conspiratorially, Robert doesn’t move away. Neither does Flambae.
He looks over the board several times more than necessary, wondering who might move first.
Eventually, he feels his knees locking up painfully, and forces himself to move. Robert steps between Flambae and the board, his hands finding Flambae’s hips as if making to move him out of the way. However, he puts none of the power behind the action, letting his hands settle, thumbing along the hem of the deep v-neck of his hero costume. He chances a glance up at Flambae, curious.
And the look of barely concealed mortification on the elemental’s face gives Robert a self-satisfied smirk. Flambae’s pupils, minutely darkened and blown, flick to Robert’s eyes, then a bit lower. God, Robert finds that he kind of likes when Flambae is nervous like this.
It’s an unexpected but very welcome change. And hell, if Robert isn’t going to take this sliver of weakness and run with it.
Flambae’s hand closes around one of Robert’s wrists, barely even holding, just touching back. The temperature rises, and Flambae’s skin is nearly searing.
“Thanks for the suggestion, Flambae.” Robert says simply, voice low and rough for only Flambae to hear, and the taller man’s breath hitches at the sound.
Then Robert, like nothing happened, slips out from the space between the board and the man he just left flustered. He lets his hands trail across Flambae’s stomach just to feel the muscles there contract.
Well. This just got really fucking interesting.
He quickly wraps up the meeting and sends everyone home to get ample rest before their mission the next day.
Before Robert can react, Flambae has been swept up by Prism, who was already launching into a conversation on the cuisine they’d want to go to that night.
And Flambae says nothing about it. And Robert says nothing about it.
It becomes almost like an exchange. Flambae spots him on his morning workouts, gives him a new dish to try, or soothes his aching pains. And Robert grants him a knowing smile, a genuine compliment on his cooking, and a fleeting touch just to see Flambae brighten, feel the temperature rise.
Robert has always had Flambae beat in the playful banter/flirting ballpark, and lays the praise on thick after every shift.
Even as Flambae’s vitriolic insults fly, he performs better every time.
But nothing is perfect. Robert still sees the stubs on Flambae’s hand and the stab of guilt returns. He pulls back on his experiments unconsciously. He doubts and reconsiders whether he’s actually been reading too much into Flambae’s actions, that maybe it was exactly as he said. “Trying to be nice to everyone.”
But, come to think of it, Robert has never actually seen him act in the same fashion with anyone. Prism is a different flavor of playful, a distinctly familial one.
Besides, well, Robert. Which was already intensely complicated given their history that they still hadn’t actually talked about. Sure, Flambae has decked the shit out of him for three consecutive months. But did they have a constructive conversation like adults about anything that happened between them in the past? Technically, no.
Between all the shit that happened with Chase, then with Shroud, there was so much going on that, by the time everything died down, it felt more than awkward and uncomfortable to bring it up now. Especially when Flambae doesn’t explicitly hate him beyond the monthly knuckle sandwiches. But even those have started feeling more like obligations than fueled by actual hatred.
He still feels the missing fingers in every hit though. And that guilt probably won’t go away until he confronts it and gets some semblance of closure, even if he figures out that Flambae still wants to torch his ass and is only playing nice because he’s being therapied to do so.
But then his mind trails back to the touches, to Flambae’s hands on his shoulders, the back of his ribs, the nape of his neck. He remembers how they were always gentle, gentler than he’s seen him be with most anyone. He remembers the uninhibited adoration on his face when he talks about his niece, about designing and making clothes for her.
And he wants to see more of it. He selfishly wants to see that soft side turned to him. To have seen all facets of that complicated man shimmering and treasure all of them.
Staring up at the ceiling at 2am in his decent, not-stolen bed, he realizes something.
He is definitely, one hundred percent, screwed.