Chapter Text
Waking up in the infirmary, Robert's first thought upon learning he's only lost half a day is that he's one lucky son of a bitch. To walk away from the center of an explosion with a few scrapes, a broken rib, and a mild concussion? Sure, getting blown up the morning after that shit-show of a bar fight isn't the best time to sustain new injuries on his already battered and bruised body, but truly, he knows he had worse and came out of the other side standing on his feet anyway. After a four-month-long coma, that is. Eh, semantics.
Royd's discouraged rumbling about how they will never succeed in rebuilding the suit without a proper power source is mildly upsetting to wake up to, to say the least. Still, Robert isn't thinking about the implications of that right now as he untangles from the various cables attached to his chest and rips off the IV line from the inside of his wrist.
A few months ago, this would have been just another Tuesday morning. Just another day in which he wakes up with a battered suit and a bruised body to match. So he sees no reason to change his routine as he methodically reassures Chase about his well-being and makes his way to his cubicle right after changing out of his hospital-issued robes. It's not the first time he clocks in right after a mildly incapacitating event, and he figures it won't be the last either. Desk work might not be comparable to his previous line of work pre-come, but it's still work. And Robert tends to get a single-minded focus when it comes to handling his job, whatever that may entail.
Chase and Blazer's poorly concealed worry upon seeing him up and going is as comforting as it is strange to deal with. It's been a while since he had anybody, other than Beef, to worry about his recovery from his gig as a non-super hero or otherwise. He supposes he only has himself to blame for it if he really thinks about it, which he doesn't. Not often anyway.
The Brigade was quick to disband after his father's death, and sure, he can't reasonably be held responsible for the breakup, as he was just a clueless kid then. He wasn't even an official part of the group, just his father's son, next on the line to assume the mantle. But he could've tried harder to keep in contact with the other members instead of wallowing in his misery and trying to learn the ropes and fit into his newly acquired hero persona all by himself.
Robert knows this is the life he chose to live, with or without the suit. He never once complained about it when he was still Mecha Man. Even when the debt of maintaining the reparations of his suit and his daily expenses kept piling up like small mountains without a day job to support himself, he just kept going.
He sees no reason to change anything about that just because somebody dropped a well-paying gig on his lap over some drinks.
As much of an interruption as it is to his routine to have company after waking up after an incident, Robert's hands pick up the headset as he's been doing every other morning since he walked into the SDN building, and he adjusts. It is Tuesday, after all.
Crime never waits for him to heal, so he's learned to just roll with it. He might not have superpowers like others, but he's got one hell of a pain tolerance. It has to count for something.
He can sleep when he's dead. Or in a coma. Same difference, if this really ends up being the death of his secret identity, it seems.
See, Robert isn't in a habit of lying to himself. He never really needed to, when all he had to rely on for so long was just himself and his rotund puppy.
The allure of being a part of a team is familiar to him from his years of observing how his father worked with his teammates, and he never really forgot how it felt to be a part of that family, even by proxy. That childlike wonder it inspired in him as he watched how the individual heroes worked as a whole against a common threat. Each one a cog in the machine, but no less significant than others in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes Robert dreamed about having his own team when he grew up and took his father's name, fighting crime and saving the city with his own bunch of supers he would perhaps one day see as his new family. He wouldn't call himself stupid, even as a child, but he's ready to admit that he'd been embarrassingly naive.
Precisely because he's true to himself can Robert recognize the difference between that and the position he holds now, as the dispatcher of the Z-Team. Essentially, being on shift sometimes still feels a little bit like being the kid waiting for his father to return home, watching the live feed of the fight taking place on the TV from his spot on the couch, away from the fight and safely tucked away at home. He's once again on the sidelines, staring through the looking glass, as the real heroes put their hands under the rock and go out there to get the job done.
No matter how Blazer puts it, he knows he's not a part of the Z-Team in spirit. He's the voice that guides them through dark alleys and out of tricky situations. He's the one with the pep talks and final decisions. But he's not naive enough anymore to believe this rag-tag bunch of ex-villains would ever consider him to be a part of their fucked up found family in progress just because he stood up for them against management once or twice.
He's fine with that, really. At the end of the day, it's all means to an end. Making friends is not in the field manual. Having his team's respect is more than enough to keep things rolling, missions going, and everyone still employed and out of prison.
So he adjusts his chair to his height. He takes stock of the dispositions of his team as his fingers run free on the keyboard to manage the calls that appeared in his absence. Soon enough, the perpetually present chatter on the comms lulls him back to familiar territory. It's amusing how quickly he started considering this to be his new normal, but honestly, answering calls and figuring out the best combinations for the missions come to him naturally by now.
It's not the same as being in the suit, punching villains with metal fists and slicing through rubble and debris with his sizzling blades. Doesn't compare to the adrenaline rush he gets, standing back up right after being thrown through several layers of walls, still breathing, heart still beating, a never-ending presence in the fight.
But it's still something. Beats watching the sunrise and the sunset on his plastic chair in a single sitting back at home any day.
And if his breath comes out a bit labored as he guides his team through calls, courtesy of his decreased lung capacity due to the smoke inhalation, well, that's just par for the course. And if he has to tap on some keys twice when hacking, or moves the mouse too far or too slow here and there, his team's good enough to make up for it today.
And despite the truth Robert believes to be undeniable, if a small, private smile blossoms at the sight of the get-well-soon gift sitting on the side of his desk with a handwritten note…
Well. That's nobody's business but Robert's.
"Hello? Earth to Robertoson? Is this thing still working?"
"I'm betting 50 that the pencil-pusher fell asleep on the job. Anyone?"
"Hell nah, I'm not taking that bet. It's already half a miracle the man's back so soon after getting smoked up his ass like a salmon roll."
"True."
A cacophony of voices sings in his ears as Robert comes to, blinking rapidly to clear the blackness at the edges of his vision and free his mind of the fog. His eyes are dry. One of his hands is still on the keyboard, unmoving. The little ping on the top left of the screen informs him that the shift is almost over.
"…Robert?"
He clears his throat, opens his mouth to reply, but hesitates. His eyes drop to the digital clock of the computer just to be sure. The numbers don't match his internal clock.
The conversation he just heard suddenly registers before he can do the math, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. Did he really fall asleep on the job? He doesn't remember closing his eyes.
It's weird, but Robert is too tired to give it further thought. He taps a few keys to finalize the last of the runs his members completed, then finally finds his voice to inform them of the end of their work day.
"Alright guys, wrap it up. Good work today. See you tomorrow."
He doesn't hear the inquiring voices of his teammates overlap on the line as he removes his headset mechanically. He turns off the computer, pushes his chair back, but doesn't get up for a few more seconds.
It's been a long day. A long few days, considering. He just needs some rest to get his shit together.
And if he has to round back to the office from the stairs when he remembers he forgot to pick up Beef from Chase's cubicle, well. By the time he got off the chair, anyone else had already clocked out anyway. It doesn't count if nobody saw it happen other than himself.
"Robert, be honest. When was the last time you had a proper meal?" Blonde Blazer says as she leans down and collects the package of sweets from the dispensing tray. She raises an eyebrow as she hands it to Robert. "For the record, Twinkies don't count as a meal."
Robert blinks back at the vending machine he's standing in front of, then at Blonde Blazer, and then at her extended hand. His curled hand that was holding the five-dollar bill just a second ago twitches involuntarily. He reaches with his other hand to hide the nervous tick, and if the blonde notices, she doesn't comment on it. He's suddenly glad the kitchenette is practically empty at this hour of the morning, save the two of them.
"Hey."
Despite standing just a foot or two apart, it takes a few seconds for Robert to realize he didn't respond to Blazer's earliest remark. He opens his mouth to spill some friendly snark, but Blazer beats him to it as she puts a warm hand on his shoulder and gives an encouraging squeeze.
"You can take a day off, you know. You've been standing in front of the vending machine, staring at it like it owed you money. Which I realize isn't out of the realm of possibilities, but…" She trails off, and Robert feels a lump form in the middle of his throat at the revelation. He ignores it.
"I'm fine. Just having a hard time getting used to the new mattress."
"Too soft for your liking?" Blazer jokes, withdrawing her hand to her side, once again standing away at a friendly distance. Robert is secretly grateful for it. He doesn't know how to handle where the conversation was going otherwise.
"Certainly beats the chair, that's for sure."
Blazer chuckles warmly at that, shoulders shaking, and Robert's rigid posture finally relaxes a little. He didn't even notice he was that tense. She's just worried. Friends look after each other, don't they? And… They're friends, Blazer and Robert. Or coworkers. Maybe even both.
Luckily for him, someone calls out for the blonde before Robert can get stuck over-analyzing basic human interactions and embarrass himself in front of her by giving voice to his findings. He shrugs off the conversation, checks the clock as he waves her off, and reroutes to his cubicle.
The pack of Twinkies lay forgotten on the kitchenette counter, no doubt to be snatched away soon by one hungry superhero or another. They'll be long gone by the time Robert's stomach grumbles as a reminder of his lack of morning snacks, but even then, he won't remember the good five minutes he'd spent standing in front of the vending machine, hollow gaze staring at his reflection on the glass barrier, seeing nothing. Perfect picture of a man who's been lost for too long that he doesn't even realize it.