Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Z-Team is in Robert’s apartment.

Again.

For some reason.

Well, because Courtney invited everyone over and promised to pay for pizza. She then conscripted Bruno and Herman to actually go and pick it up, which means everyone else is bored and hungry and tired after a long shift. Work wasn’t bad today, but it was busy. Back to back calls kept everyone on their toes and spoiling for a quiet evening, so they were all too happy to accept Courtney’s proposal.

Robert is doing his best as far as the boredom goes, but because his second- or third- or probably fourth-hand- TV only gets three channels, they’ve had to settle on a soap opera for entertainment. No one is paying attention, scattered in various corners. Or counters in Colm’s case. Victor snagged the lawn chair, which is now missing a whole arm because of its frequent use.

Barstools next, Robert adds to his mental list of shit to get now that his paychecks are coming in.

Given that he is also happy for this relatively mellow night, he reads the shitty auto-generated subtitles on the TV. An unfortunate drawback of having no speakers. The show is called Withering Trees or something equally dramatic, and Robert is one of only two people in the room that are actually paying attention to the plot. It’s only to sit and laugh to himself about the inaccuracies, he thinks, shaking his head faintly at the screen. One of the main characters - the only surviving witness to a murder - has just woken from a coma. Not only is she entirely cognizant, but the first thing that the subtitles say she asks for is a lawyer.

“What are you fucking giggling about?”

The other person that’s been paying attention is Flambae. He’s right next to Robert on the couch, his arm slung over the top behind his head. One foot is propped up on the other knee, also pointing towards Robert, which has him caged in the corner by the arm rest. It’s probably some fucked-up power move. Robert has been ignoring it just to spite him.

“It’s just not how comas work,” Robert shrugs.

“Right, and you know because you’re a fucking doctor,” Flambae quips back.

“I know because I was in one, asshole,” Robert chuckles, only half paying attention on account of the fact that he’s trying to read what the coma lady is saying to her lawyer.

Flambae laughs. “You mean the fourteen hour nap you took after your bitch-suit blew up?”

Robert’s smile falls. This bastard remembers the exact amount of time he’d been knocked out, but he doesn’t remember the coma that brought him here in the first place? Flambae is many things, but outright stupid isn’t one of them. He’s an impulsive asshole, yes, but he’s not an idiot.

Which means he doesn’t know.

In fact, everyone here aside from Courtney is probably unaware. They know that he fell, that he got hurt, but to what extent, Robert hasn’t divulged. That hasn’t been on purpose, it’s just never come up.

Well, Robert isn’t going to pass up on the opportunity to make Flambae feel like a dick. “Actually, it was the one I fell into the first time I blew up,” he explains with a facetiously bright tone and smile.

“Yeah-fucking-right.”

“I broke my back, too. Wanna see the x-rays?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and waves it slightly as a threat. Flambae’s eyebrows shoot up. Bingo. “I’ve got metal pins in there,” Robert sing-songs, grinning conspiratorially.

“Alright bitch, I believe you,” he snaps, slumping with an indignant huff, his attention turning back to the TV. Almost. His gaze lingers on Robert’s phone as he tries to put it away. “Do you actually?”

“Huh?”

“Have pins in your flat ass,” Flambae clarifies petulantly.

“Not in my ass, but yes,” Robert unlocks his phone and taps into the photos app. His camera roll is almost exclusively Beef, except of course for the small collection of x-ray copies the hospital sent him through email so that the doctor could explain what they did while he was unconscious. He taps into the first one and hands his phone over so that Flambae can scroll through. There are four of the initial damage; back, front, and both-sided views. The next four are the initial failed attempt to get it all repaired without going the pegs and screws route. Then, the final four are intensive ones of Robert’s current hardware.

“Shite, who’s the poor fucker?” Colm asks, claiming the cushion on the other side of the couch. His relocation captures Janelle’s attention, and she leans over the back rest to get a look as well.

“Is he still alive?” She asks, snatching the phone to squint critically at the carnage.

“I think so,” Robert deadpans, making a show of taking his own pulse at the wrist.

“Jay-sus, lad,” Colm chuckles. “Fine kick in the pants, there,” and somehow he makes it sound like a compliment.

“Du-hude, that’s sick,” Victor adds, appearing beside Coop. He sounds like a little kid; equal parts impressed and grossed out. It was a similar sentiment that propelled Robert to save copies of the pictures at all. Some morbid sense of fascination, he supposes.

Alice squeezes herself between Flambae and Colm, which of course sends Flambae scooting flush to Robert’s side to make room for her. She’s the next to get a look when Janelle hands her the phone. “Damn, Robert, all this is in you?”

“Mecha Man in more ways than one, ha-hah!” Colm says.

“Let me see,” Mal says, coming around to the front of the couch to hold her hand out. Alice passes it on. She whistles low.

Courtney sidles up beside her and cringes, looking over at Robert with yet another apology on her face. Robert tilts his head to catch her eyeline, smiles, and gently shakes his head. He’s well past hard feelings for what happened. Her pained look eases into something warm and appreciative.

“Bet that hurt like a bitch,” Alice comments.

Robert shrugs. “I was out for the worst part of the recovery,” he explains.

“Medically induced coma?” Janelle asks.

“Explosion-induced,” Robert corrects when Courtney doesn’t don another wounded glare. She even laughs lightly with the others in response, which makes Robert feel light in his chest at the fact that water is finally flowing under that goddamn bridge.

“You’ve been blown up too many times to still actually be alive,” Victor quips, jamming two fingers up under Robert’s jaw like he’s making sure his heart is beating. Robert swats him away, grinning. “More like Rob Zombie, amiright?” Victor jibes. Mal laughs a little extra at that one.

“So that’s from Shroud? No wonder you caved his face in,” Alice says.

“If there ever was a guy who had it comin’, it was him,” Colm agrees.

“Awww, can I send this picture to myself?” Malevola asks, flipping the screen around to show Robert a picture of Beef as a puppy.

“Go for it,” he acquiesces, followed by a string of ‘me too’s and ‘send me that one’s.

While the majority of the room becomes enamored with acquiring photos of the almighty Beef, Chad wriggles his way out of the fray, muttering something about being smothered. He’s been completely quiet throughout the whole exchange, and the fact that he fucks all the way off to the balcony doesn’t bode well. Robert wracks his brain trying to remember if there’s anything blackmail-worthy on that phone before he leaves it with these morons. Unable to remember and trusting Malevola enough not to allow anything too heinous to happen, Robert slips away too.

“You good?” He asks Flambae, who leans forward on the railing.

“Fuck off, mecha-bitch. I just needed fresh air after being swarmed by all those-”

“Uh-huh, yeah, defensive means of deflection don’t work on me anymore,” Robert informs him. “What’s wrong?”

Flambae’s nose screws up, the same face he makes every time he’s called out on his bullshit. “Does it still hurt?”

And that catches Robert wildly off-guard for a multitude of reasons.

The thing about Flambae is that he isn’t as much of a douchebag as he lets on; he cares about people. Just… certain people. Most of the Z-Team included. Until just now, Robert was of the opinion that he was definitely not on that list. Hence, the indiscriminate doling-out of insults and tomfuckery between them and Robert’s ability to lean into it.

After Robert revealed his identity as Mecha Man, Flambae hasn’t given one single shit about whether he was in pain or not. Hell, he’s been an active participant in causing it. Luckily he gave up on his retribution scheme around the third month of knuckle sandwiches. He got bored, apparently, and finds more joy in doling out comeuppance at the gym. Robert endures Flambae’s malicious assistance as a spotter because if that aggression doesn’t go somewhere, it’ll be rerouted to Flambae’s missions. Robert definitely doesn’t want that.

In the continued interest of maintaining peace within his ranks, Robert assumes, just for a moment, that Chad has added him to the list of other people he’s decided to give a shit about. He’s glad the built-in shades on the doors are drawn. Maybe it’ll inspire the death of Flambae’s showboating.

“Sometimes,” Robert answers cautiously, because lying won’t get him anywhere.

“Is that why you’re so weak?”

The claim that he’s weak would probably sting worse if Chad hadn’t reiterated it literally dozens of times since he’d rescued Robert from getting crushed by a barbell. It doesn’t, so Robert tries to explain as earnestly as he can. “That’s probably closer to the coma’s fault. Muscle degeneration and shit.”

Unlike what the shitty soap opera playing inside would have the audience believe, you don’t just get to wake up from a coma and be fine. There are plenty of issues that Robert has been made painfully aware of for… what, has it been a year yet? Nine months. Close enough.

“What’s ‘and shit’?” Chad asks, strained, like he’s trying to sound uninterested and is definitely failing.

Robert joins him at the railing, mimicking his posture. “I was lucky,” he prefaces, sifting through his thoughts for what he’s actually willing to share. The UTIs will remain out of this conversation, he decides. The fact that he still does circles in his apartment looking for his socks, too. “I wasn't in it too deeply. Or long enough to have to relearn how to walk or read. The fatigue was a real pain in the ass. I had a hard time with short-term memory for a few weeks,” he rattles off. “I think I had a seizure?”

“You fucking think?”

“Look, I was on a shit-ton of drugs-”

“Yeah, I bet, because you got busted into a million fucking pieces,” Chad snaps, turning rapidly to poke Robert a few times in the shoulder as he talks. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Didn’t come up.”

“Bullshit. I’ve been running your skinny ass ragged for months. I thought you were struggling to gain because you’re a bitch, not because you had… fucking-” he growls, a hard rasp, his eyes flicking back and forth like he’s trying to remember-

“-muscle degeneration and shit?”

Chad deflates. “Yeah. That. I could have hurt you, man. Like, actually fucking hurt you,” he says, to which Robert does not reply with ‘I guess a bruised jaw doesn’t count as actually hurting me’.

“It really just didn’t come up,” Robert reiterates. Chad scowls at him hard, so he backtracks a little “But, you know, maybe I just didn’t want to be treated like I was broken.”

Chad seems at least a little more satisfied with that answer. “I still would have pushed you. That’s like, my job, you know? As your babysitter.”

“You’re not responsible for-”

“Fuck you, yes I am. We all are. Because you don’t take care of yourself, Robert,” Chad pokes him squarely between the eyes this time to punctuate that claim. A claim which, unfortunately, Robert has no worthwhile rebuttal for.

“I also didn’t know you gave a shit,” he says, because it’s also true.

“Of course I do, you bitch,” Chad grabs a handful of his hair and shakes him by it.

“Getting conflicting messages here, man,” Robert squeaks.

“Oh, please,” Chad huffs. “Just because I care about what happens to you doesn’t mean I like you,” he says it like it’s obvious, shoving Robert when he lets go of his hair. “You’re responsible for keeping this team together. If you fall apart, so do we, so… Someone has to keep trying to put you back together or whatever.”

Robert’s brow creases as he rubs over his now-tender scalp. “That doesn’t have to be you,” he offers.

“What, you want a chiropractor or some shit? Lame.”

Robert can’t help a breathy chuckle. “They’re mostly quacks anyway.”

“Damn right,” Chad confers. A beat. He relaxes next to Robert again, both of them looking out over the city. “You said it still hurts sometimes. Your back.”

“Mhm.”

“You should tell me when it does so I don’t make it worse and stuff.”

The thought rubs Robert’s self-reliance issues all kinds of the wrong way. “I’ll think about it,” he replies.

“Fuck you. Tell me, or I’ll kidnap you and take you to a chiropractor. A lame one,” Chad threatens. Robert gets the feeling that he’s not kidding in the slightest.

“Fine. I’ll tell you if it hurts more than I can handle.”

“Dude, I’m so fucking serious-”

“Take it or leave it, Chad,” Robert deadpans.

“…fine.”

The glass door slides open, and both of them turn to see Courtney sticking her head through the gap, her eyes covered, an impish grin on her face. “If you two are done making out, pizza’s here,” she informs them, dipping back inside and closing the door behind her. If the food’s here, then so are Herm and Bruno. Robert turns to go back inside, intent to thank them both and congratulate Herman specifically on how well he did on his shift today. Poor guy needs all the encouragement he can get after another sewer spill last week. Actually, in the same vein of thought, he wheels on Chad and points at him for a change. “Be nice to Herman.”

“Or what?” Chad challenges, grinning and planting his hands on his hips, even stooping to look Robert in the eye.

“Or you’ll make him very upset.”

Chad’s bravado cracks, his face falling into quiet horror. At this point, even he knows the devastating consequences of making Waterboy cry. Nevermind the small flood that comes with the waterworks; not even Chad can stomach the subsequent stab in the heart. Robert knows this because he had to personally hack into SDN data to bury a customer complaint about how Flambae broke his nose for calling Herm a pussy.

Chad blows past him and as soon as the door is open, he shouts wassahhhh to the room at large and attacks Herman with a rough hair-ruffle.

Chapter Text

Robert doesn’t know where his socks are.

Which is bullshit, because he knows exactly where they are.

He just… can’t find them.

The doctors told him that he should expect weird symptoms from having his brain switched off for an extended period of time. Selective lapses in recollection was one of many such symptoms included in the neatly printed packet of aftercare information that he left at the hospital. More specifically, dumped in the hallway trashcan as he’d hobbled his way out. It’s not like there were any solutions to those symptoms in there, so why bother?

This. This is why he should have bothered.

Fucking coma…

It’s like a bullet hole in his head; a tiny little void in his skull that opens like a pitfall under sufficient stress. If what happened last night is considered sufficient stress, Robert might have bigger problems.

The drop wasn’t even that bad. Twenty feet at worst.

Where are my fucking socks?

He knows that he knows where they are. He keeps them in one specific fucking place for this very reason. He definitely knows they’re not under the couch, but he bends to check anyway, which triggers a series of sickening cracks to remind him of the other consequences of the evening prior. His back hurts and his feet are cold and he needs to stop feeling sorry for himself right this second-

They’re in the top drawer of the dresser.

It just takes Robert multiple trips around the apartment suffering cold concrete on his bare feet to actually remember that he knows that.

This little song and dance of questionable sanity takes a grand total of ten minutes according to the analog clock on his microwave. Just a ten minute lapse in sound mindedness.

There really are worse things.

So, Robert gets on with his life.

He slips into his socks, feeds his dog too much expensive wet food, puts his shoes on one foot at a time, and locks his apartment on the way out like any other motherfucker.

Robert collects his beautiful, fat little dog from where he’s sniffing the hallway carpet before there can be any unseemly accidents. Evidently too tired to remember to lift with his goddamn knees, Beef’s weight in his arms turns into a carving knife that lodges itself in his lumbar. The dagger only drives deeper as Robert stands.

“Agh, fuck…” he murmurs to himself once he’s upright, taking a moment to blink at the flickering light on the ceiling. That’s going to hurt all day, isn’t it?

After pausing on the complex lawn to let Beef do his business in a socially acceptable area, Robert cleans up after his dog and suffers through picking him up again. He’s going to walk to work to try and loosen things up for a shift parked in a shitty rolling chair. He’ll be late. He doesn’t have to fear recourse from his job; his actual shift doesn’t start for another three hours. No, the consequences of his tardiness will be far worse.

It’s Wednesday.

He’s about to get his ass handed to him at the gym.

After months of working for the SDN, and recently moonlighting as Mecha Man, improvement in his physical strength comes so slowly that Robert often feels he’s barely made any at all. It’s why he pushes so hard. It’s why he allows himself to be pushed. Deep down, he knows he’ll never be up to par with who he was at his peak. Those days are gone in more ways than one. Traded for better things like friendship and a reliable paycheck, mind, but that doesn’t mean Robert doesn’t grieve them.

He lengthens his stride and deepens his breathing to try and work out the hot-pokery-ness of his lingering ache as he walks to the office. It still doesn’t feel great by the time the giant SDN logo on the outside of the building is in sight, but at least he can skip a treadmill warmup.

Well, knowing Chad, he just might make him do it anyway. He enjoys a routine. He also enjoys inflicting routines upon people who would seriously rather not. He’s been like that even before their conversation on Robert’s balcony. Hell, he’s kept Robert pinned to the same regimen since the Wednesday after their first encounter at the gym. After Shroud, Flambae pushed him through his injuries when everyone else was shooting pitying glances or telling him to go home and rest.

It’s why he keeps coming when he could easily just… not. He can afford a gym membership elsewhere now. Which would raise his chances of getting crushed by dumbbells, which Chad hasn’t allowed to happen, so-

“Well, if it isn’t, Mecha-Dick. You’re late, Bob-Bob.”

Chad’s loitering around the back door of SDN headquarters with his sunglasses on in the dark like a douchebag, all easy confidence and insufferable swagger. All normal. If Robert can keep up, maybe he can keep it normal.

Chad’s threats of subjecting him to lame chiropractors still ring in his ears, especially today when tapping out might actually be on the table. He’ll try not to. He can do this.

“Oh, really? Didn’t notice,” he smirks, just to rile Chad up for some extra normalcy.

“Then pay more attention, you little shit,” Chad snaps, cuffing Robert over the back of the head.

“Hey, hey, baby on board,” Robert shoots back.

Flambae gestures at Beef, making grabby-hands. He does so urgently as if they haven’t done this exchange a million fucking times. Like he doesn’t expect Robert to fork the dog over. Robert does hand Beef over, and the pint-sized hound is lavished with a ‘good morning, mecha-dog’ and ear scratches. It leaves Robert’s hands free to root around for his keys.

Supposedly, Wednesday is the one singular day a week that Chad has to spare to grace him with his presence. Robert had known that to be a lie since the jump. He knows that Chad knows that he knows. If Chad really wanted to hide his reason for being here, he would actually work out. Instead, all he does is coach and spot and fucking comment-

Pain swells hot when Robert pushes the door open and has to hold it so that it doesn’t swing back and hit Beef when Chad blusters past him to get through.

God fucking dammit-

“If you’re gonna be late, you could have at least brought coffee,” Chad gripes as they parade down the hall. “Right Beef?” He slips into a cooing sort of baby voice that is definitely worse than Robert’s own rendition of his dog’s inner monologue. “If he’s gonna be late, he’d better make up for it, uh-huh, yeah.”

“There’s coffee in the break room,” Robert reminds him for the nth time, but yeah, bringing better coffee from one of those stupid-expensive cafés probably would have been a good move.

Next week, then. He’ll get Chad a fancy coffee next week.

“Yeah, and it tastes like actual garbage water,” Chad decides. He sets Beef down on the gym floor to snuffle around as he likes. When Robert meanders over to the bench, his lumbar shrieks as he sits. His cadence and expression don’t shift, because he won’t give Chad the satisfaction or the opportunity to call him a bitch just yet. Not before he even stretches, anyway.

Because he claims to be above such menial things as stretching, Chad immediately removes his sunglasses to watch critically as Robert cycles through a series of upper body stretches.

Robert is very careful to keep his face schooled to a minimal amount of reaction; the exact acceptable amount of small grunts and groans offered to someone who’s up this early and working out.

But god, it hurts.

It hurts like hell.

The movements that he hopes will loosen his muscles only serve to screw the pain above his tailbone that much that much tighter. Robert tries to twist, focusing on breathing some ease into his middle-back, using the bench behind him for leverage. He has to stop halfway when his spine screams. He resolutely does not make a sound, but the pain shoots up into his head and rings in his ears.

“You’re all kinds of fucking lazy this morning,” Chad accuses, because of course he noticed the lack of follow-through. “Why don’t you do that again and actually mean it this time?” He grins, crooked and daring.

And Robert rises to it like instinct. Like a compulsion. He whips around with a grin and forces his vertebrate to contort just to wipe that smug fucking look right off Flambae’s face with something clever and self-amusing.

His retort - fuck, his breath - gets stolen with the resulting flare. A bitten-off groan rattles from his chest as he bows forward far enough to have to lean on his knees for support.

“Can’t,” he intones through his teeth, quick and sharp.

Chad’s sadistic mirth evaporates. At least Robert’s succeeded in one aspect. At least he got rid of that goddamn smile.

“Fucker, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now,” Robert chuckles, pleased with himself for his minuscule victory.

“I mean why didn’t you call me and tell me earlier so I didn’t have to drive all the way over here for nothing? We have a deal.”

Robert waves flippantly at him. “I can still-”

“You can’t even stretch, robo-back,” Chad spits. Low fucking blow. It’s just too bad that he’s right. “You can get fucked if you think I’m going to let you do anything else.”

You don’t ‘let me’ do a goddamn thing, Robert thinks bitterly, now returning Chad’s angry glare. He briefly wonders just how far he could take a fistfight with a pyrokinetic meta-human before he actually collapses. However, the fact that he hadn’t vocalized that retort says a lot about how little he actually wants to fight right now.

He’s tired.

He’s in pain.

His brain has a hole in it.

Fucking… socks…

“You were fine, like, all day yesterday,” Chad points out. Robert winces when he sits up to make eye contact like an adult. Chad pulls a disgusted face. “Dude, I watched you fight Shroud after being tortured and you weren’t this much of a bitch about it. What the fuck did you do?” He insists.

Though Robert doesn’t want to give Chad ammunition against him, he really doesn’t want to be badgered about it. He gets shit for being an idiot all the time. What’s one more incident? “Royd put new thrusters on the suit. They’re more responsive than the old ones, and I mistimed the cutoff. Fucked up the landing, hit the ground hard,” he explains quickly.

“Look, I’m not a robot suit designer or anything, but you need a better chair in that thing if one little drop fucks you up this badly,” Chad says, crossing his arms.

“Probably,” Robert agrees, even if that isn’t the entire reason the impact was as bad as it was. He could have reengaged the thrusters and caught himself like a proper fucking mech pilot. However, that sickening lurch in his stomach when the suit hit freefall transported his mind elsewhere. He was in the past just long enough to miss his window to save the landing.

That doesn’t mean Chad is wrong about the chair. It’s maintained the same design since grandpa Bobby’s iteration. Whether or not Robert actually makes time to sit down with Royd to come up with something a little more supportive is anyone’s guess. Dad had given him a lecture about kings and thrones and cushions or some shit once, so he probably has to unpack that before yielding to comfort in that suit. Why add padding when he can just pilot the damn thing like he was trained to?

“Lay back, I have an idea,” Chad flaps his hands at Robert like he’s shooing a bug.

“Uhh… No thanks,” Robert says immediately. He all but jumps to his feet and propels himself forward to make his escape.

Bad idea.

Really bad idea, actually.

He makes it all of two steps into his rushed egress before an absolutely diabolical twinge rips the breath from his lungs yet again. The sound he makes is not at all dignified, and he pitches forward another step. Chad must think he’s about to fall, because he shoots forward to grab Robert by the bicep and wrist to prop him back up.

“Why don’t you ever fucking listen?” Chad asks.

“It’s genetic,” Robert grumbles.

“Mecha-Dick the Third,” Chad replies, carefully releasing his iron hold.

“Something like that,” Robert confirms. He takes stock of himself, and comes to the abrupt and all consuming realization that there’s no way in hell that he’s going to make it through today. Not at this rate. He fixes Chad with a questioning look. “You said you had an idea?”

He looks surprised for a moment, and then, “You and your giant fucking cow eyes, fucking shit…”

That’s a new one. The insult is original at least; Robert will give him that.

“…yeah, go lay on the bench like I told you the first time.”

Robert goes. Straddling the bench and sitting down is easy enough, but as soon as he shifts his weight to lean aft and lie down, his body gives him a resounding fuck you. “Mind helping me down?” He asks, holding his hand out for a little assistance with the leverage.

Not only does Chad not utter a single word of complaint, he forgoes clasping Robert about the wrist or forearm entirely. What he does instead makes Robert’s stomach flip in a manner that isn’t entirely unpleasant. With his expression strangely blank, he reaches up to splay his fingers around the back of Robert’s neck. With his right hand, he urges Robert backward by pressing lightly on his chest.

Robert doesn’t fight it.

In fact, he relaxes into the slow, short fall and is deposited supine with no added discomfort.

He should have noticed sooner, but Chad’s hands are warm.

It’s nice.

Huh.

“Thanks.”

“Whatever,” Chad’s touch lifts away, and he refocuses. He stoops, grabbing hold of Robert’s left ankle. “Tell me when it hurts, yeah? Hey,” Chad snaps twice, “this isn’t an endurance test, bitch. I need to know where the pain is so that I can do it right.”

“Got it,” Robert intones evenly. With his free hand, Chad urges Robert’s knee to bend. Then, he simply and slowly starts to bring his bent leg up in a neat arc like he means to bring it to Robert’s chest. He doesn’t quite make it to a ninety degree angle before Robert informs him, “There.”

Chad nods and withdraws a bit. Then, he just… holds Robert’s leg like that. He firmly keeps it at the very edge of where it becomes uncomfortable.

“Is that it?” Robert asks.

“Yeah, it’s a little baby stretch for your little bitch-baby back,” Chad quips, flashing a grin.

“I definitely could have done this myself,” Robert informs him, tensing to hold the position of his own volition, only to be very rudely informed by his spine that he definitely could not. He hisses, and Chad scoffs.

“See?”

“Shuddup…” Robert mutters, throwing his elbow over his eyes. While memories of PT are shrouded in a drug-induced haze, he feels like most of those initial sessions went similarly. He feels weak. Incapable. Vulnerable.

He doesn’t know if he ever told the therapist to shut up, though.

“Fucking dipshit,” Chad retorts. “You should be in some bitch-normie facility in recovery or whatever.”

The therapist definitely never called him a fucking dipshit. If she did, Robert may have stayed like he was supposed to.

“Already was.”

He left too early.

He couldn’t stand the looks he was getting in that goddamn hospital, so the minute he could walk again, he walked himself out. Sure, sleeping on a concrete floor so soon after having invasive spinal reconstruction wasn’t the best move, but he doesn’t regret it. His choices brought him here, however mundane they seemed at the time. If he’d spent the recommended amount of time in recovery, he wouldn’t have orchestrated an ill-advised press conference. He wouldn’t have gotten into a brawl in front of the electronics store. He wouldn’t have met Blazer.

“Well you’re still weak and fucked up, so obviously not for long enough,” Flambae replies, setting Robert’s foot back down to the floor quickly but carefully. What a fucking deduction. He’s weirdly observant when he wants to be, isn’t he? Chad picks up the other one and begins the process again. The right leg goes a little further up before Robert calls it.

“There. Where did you learn how to do this? I thought you didn’t get hurt,” he smirks.

“Pffft, I don’t. Because I don’t fight like a feral fucking animal. I just know my stuff. How do you think I got this body, eh?” He croons, suave and proud.

Robert removes his arm to arch an eyebrow at him. “You mean you could have been nice to me this whole time?” He asks, sidestepping Flambae’s vanity entirely.

“Yeah, I just didn’t fucking want to because you cut off my fingers and burned off my eyebrows,” Chad fires back easily, flexing the remaining fingers of his right hand into Robert’s thigh for emphasis.

“Right. I still did that, and here you are, being different because you know I’m broken,” Robert points out.

Chad actually seems to carefully consider his reply, his jaw working before he speaks.

“It’s not because you’re fucked up, alright? You got this fucked up, and you’re still trying to help people. It’s… inspiring or whateverthefuck. Makes me uh… Makes me think I can do it, too. And be less of a fuckup than you,” he adds bitingly.

Too late.

Warmth blooms in Robert’s chest. A tiny, proud smile spreads across his face. He might be crawling uphill with broken arms trying to get his physique back, but at least his work in the phoenix program is making progress where it matters.

“Careful. You’re starting to sound like a hero.”

“Whatever, mecha-dick.”

However much of a firewall Flambae puts up, he cares. He cares so deeply that it burns him up sometimes. Robert can relate. And that’s what all this is, isn’t it? Finding common ground, reaching compromises, trying to be better. Even if it’s just to keep his employment situation stable, Chad is putting the work in.

He’s trying.

That’s worth more than Robert can properly express. Not without the threat of being hit again, anyway. Chad has made it very clear that the “inspirational shit” should be kept to a strict minimum.

Maybe Robert can go get that fancy coffee for him on his lunch break instead.