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Flambae, despite what people liked to say, was very in touch with his emotions. A little too in-touch, his court-mandated therapist said. Whatever. You had to be, with powers as emotionally volatile as his. Which was why he could pinpoint the exact moment he realized something was off.
It was in the gym. He watched Robert, noodle-armed idiot that he was, struggle under a pathetic amount of weight and gave it a solid two minutes before stepping in. Letting their new dispatcher choke to death under a bench press probably wouldn't do wonders for his redemption. Phoenix, flaming pile of shit, etcetera.
He was super nice about it too. Showed him where the sign was and everything. Then showed him perfect squatting form. Really, because Bob-Bob was kind of a dick, he wasn't expecting much in response-- the price of heroism, he supposed.
But Robert sighed and said thank you, even if it sounded a little bit sarcastic. Tilted his head and looked at Flambae with his big old brown eyes. Like a cow or a dog or a pig or some other unseemly animal.
Flambae felt the gears stutter for a moment. He felt-- strange. Itchy. Not quite angry, but he still felt the need to... do something.
Why the first thing that came to mind was squish Robert like a grape, he couldn't explain. Again, he wasn't even angry. Far from it. It was a little disturbing, actually. Robert was irritating, but it was usually in a skin rash way, not in a crush-to-death way.
His hands twitched briefly with that same vaguely aggressive buzz. He did the next best thing to squashing Robert like a tomato-- he patted his head and was only mildly condescending about it. Robert's hair was surprisingly soft for someone who definitely used 18-in-one shampoo/conditioner/bathtub cleaner. Straight men were hopeless.
The gesture made Robert glare up at him, dark eyebrows furrowed. It made Flambae fleetingly think of an angry kitten. Horrifyingly, it did nothing to quell the strangely violent notion in his head. He allowed himself the barest squeeze of the brown hair under his hand, then withdrew.
Then Robert brought up Mecha-Dick and the feeling vanished, its place taken by a much more familiar and comfortable anger.
--
He settled into anger like an old shirt. Fraying, ugly, full of holes, but it felt good to wear. That’s what he told himself when he turned his flames on Rob– Mecha-Man. The fucking liar. Bought him a drink, laughed at jokes, took his eyebrows and fingers. Even with the sad little pit in his stomach, the phantom ache in his fingers, the anger was what shaped it all. Made it powerful. He chased it. Tried to hold onto it. Even at the fucking home improvement store.
He still walked out with a lamp. The punch only made him feel a little better.
Point being, Flambae knew exactly what anger felt like. Especially when it was directed at Robert. That was how he knew this… wasn’t it. This was what he felt back in the gym. Weird and toothless, but still combative somehow. It was sporadic, but the spikes were always associated with Robert. Normally Flambae would relish in a taste of destruction, but he just couldn't figure it out. Robert was Mecha-Man and a little part of Flambae would probably always hate that (and admire it in equal parts), but mostly, he was… Robert. Someone he would (begrudgingly, only ever in the company of Prism, and likely under severe duress) call a friend. An annoying, self-righteous hardass with a remarkable talent for getting under Flambae's skin, but not worth the bizarre aggression.
Especially not for something as innocuous as rubbing his nose after he sneezed.
Even if the sneeze was right next to him.
Flambae squinted as Malevola and Sonar laughed.
"Robert, that was so cute." Malevola was practically cooing through her giggles.
"Dude, you have the sneeze of, like, a field mouse in an orchard. One that carries around a picnic basket," Sonar said.
Flambae would normally join in on the ribbing, especially because Robert's sneeze was, in fact, ridiculous. Like a squeaky toy for that sausage-shaped dog. But he was too busy focusing on the itch in his hands.
"And how would you know what that sounds like? You eat a lot of field mice carrying picnic baskets?" Robert replied, deadpan as ever.
"I can't tell if you're being speciesist or not, but yes, actually."
Robert sighed and stood to toss his Twinkie wrapper in the garbage, ankle briefly tapping Flambae’s as he got up. Flambae couldn't look away from the tip of his nose, entirely pink from where he'd rubbed it.
"Don't be ashamed, Robert, I thought it was adorable," Malevola said. She stood to her full height and her tail curled affectionately around his shoulder.
"Thank you. It's every adult man's dream to be told how cute his sneeze is."
Malevola snickered as she followed him out of the break room. Robert's face didn't betray anything, but he didn't shrug her tail off. For some reason, that made the... feeling worse.
When Flambae turned back to his own (home-cooked, Michelin-star worthy) lunch, he couldn't ignore the big bat eyes boring into him.
"What?" he snapped.
Sonar tilted his head. "You're really giving ol' Bobert a thorough visual inspection. Going TSA all over his valuables, if you know what I mean."
Flambae struggled to ignore the heat crawling to his fingertips. "Sometimes people are so hideous it distracts from my lunch. Present company not excluded."
"I think he means he can't tell if you wanna fight him or fuck him." Invisigal popped into existence right next to him. Flambae swore and accidentally scorched the table.
"Stop fucking doing that--"
She started rifling through the fridge. "When you figure it out, lemme know. I've got a camera ready."
She vanished before Flambae could send a jet of flame at her, taking Blonde Blazer's BLT with her.
--
Flambae hated being so emotionally intelligent and self-aware, really. It was a curse sometimes, because now he couldn't stop noticing. At all.
Robert yawned at his desk and it happened. He gestured while he was talking to Flambae about something stupid and it happened. His freckles scrunched up when he was filling out paperwork and it happened. Sometimes all he had to do was look in Flambae's direction with those big stupid cow-dog-deer eyes and it happened.
And the thing was-- even with this urge to just randomly squeeze the everliving life out of their dispatcher, the thought of Robert actually being hurt bothered Flambae. Enough to make his teeth grind. It made no sense. Even if he was a normie, he was literally the most famous superhero in California and probably had more combat experience than all of them combined except Punch-Up and Coupe. He saw firsthand that Robert could take care of himself. It took one scary bitch to bite someone’s thumb clean off.
But still. Every signal was getting jumbled.
It got to the point that he quietly confided in Prism one day over their weekly dinner.
"So you wanna kill him? Thought you were over that."
"No! That's the problem!" Flambae angrily stabbed a scallop with his fork. "I don't want to kill him, but I feel this fuckin'-- it's not anger, it's this weird... aggression. Can't explain it."
"So you wanna fuck him?"
Flambae pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, fuck off. This might be a real problem for me. What if I give in to the urge and just crisp him at his seat, huh? What then? Supermax for life, that's what."
“I mean, you tried that. It was fine.”
“Yes, well, we can’t always hope for a convenient 7-foot brick wall to step in, can we?” he snapped.
Prism flicked a piece of bread at his head. "Stop whining. So you don't actually wanna hurt him at all?" she asked. "It's just like... a thought that comes up?"
"Bit stronger than a thought, but yeah."
She shrugged. "Maybe it's just an intrusive thought. You know, like when I said I was gonna burn that girl's hair off in elementary school."
"Okay, but you did do that."
"Ooh, yeah, bad example."
Flambae groaned. Prism patted his shoulder. Or, well, an illusion patted his shoulder while the real Prism continued eating her dinner.
"Don't stress too bad. You've been doing way better," she said. She sounded too sincere. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Coop would probably have to stick knives under your nails to get you to admit it, but you like Robert now.” Flambae made sure to make a gagging noise. “Shut up. You wouldn’t snap like that on him. Especially if you're not actually angry."
"Thanks," Flambae said, forcing the syllable to come out as smooth as possible. No asshole defense mechanisms, his therapist said. "But I still don't know why I feel like this."
Prism tilted her glasses down to stare at him right in the eyes. "You sure you don't wanna fuck him?"
Flambae boiled his glass of water.
--
It all fell into place one terrible, fateful day at the SDN offices.
The Z-team was huddled around Robert's walking dumpling, cooing even more than usual. As the crowd parted, Flambae saw why. The little dog had been outfitted with his own little cape. It was, admittedly, pretty cute. Prism was trying to direct him with poses, but he seemed to only know how to show his belly and waddle. Waterboy was applauding the effort anyway.
Coupé knelt on the ground, petting the butterball with an intensity she usually saved for missions. Golem gazed longingly, like he was trying to figure out if he was allowed to pet Beef too.
"She's got a major case of cuteness aggression right now,” Punch-Up said with a chuckle.
"Hm." Flambae discreetly glanced around the office for Robert, then paused. "She what?"
Punch-Up looked up at him. "Cuteness aggression. You know. When you find somethin' so stinkin' adorable, you need ta squeeze the love and life outta it like a lemon." He raised a fist for emphasis.
"Sounds made-up," Flambae scoffed.
"Nah, it's real." Sonar was actively trying to get Beef to chase a ball, but the dog remained uninterested. "I feel it towards my breakfast all the time. Like, aww. Look at your little tail. I just have to have you in my mouth."
"Not the same thing," Coupé said. There was an edge to her voice. "I'd sooner cut off your fingers than let anything happen to this dog. You're just hungry."
"Why my fingers? Why not your fingers? I feel like you'd cut off my fingers for ten bucks."
"She's outta line, but yeah, that's not cuteness aggression, babes." Malevola knelt to give Beef a few pats too. "You don't wanna hurt the thing at all. It's the opposite, even if you feel like you wanna grab it and shake it around. Sorta weird."
Flambae felt his stomach roil a bit. Prism, uncharacteristically quiet, gave him a look.
Surely not.
But--
"What's all the ruckus?"
Flambae whipped around, hair flying with him, to find a 5'7 dispatcher trying to peek around his shoulders.
Robert frowned and made a little pleh sound. His tongue peeked out. "Watch where you fly that thing. I can taste the gel you use."
"Then you know it's the highest quality thing you'll taste today, Twinkie-loving bitch," Flambae taunted, even as a low-simmering panic started to stir in his gut. He couldn't stop thinking about the little peek of tongue. Like a cat.
Robert smiled, all cheeky, and gave his ponytail a light pull.
Fucking hell. He kind of wanted to strangle Robert. Not hurt him. Just--
Squeeze the love and life out of him like a lemon, Punch-Up's voice rang in his head.
No no no.
"Woah, you calling Robert a twink?" Invisigal called from her perch on Golem's shoulder. Flambae was almost thankful for the spark of anger that went sizzling down his spine. Anything to get away from-- whatever it was his brain was doing when Robert tilted his head.
Robert sighed and scooped up Beef. He deposited him gently on Golem's lap. Golem's whole face lit up.
Of course he noticed. Stupid, observant, kind Robert. Not cute. At all. Flambae still wanted to wring his neck. Even moreso, he wanted so badly to be angry at him. Getting angry at the lack of anger felt counterproductive.
"Shift starts in ten," Robert said. He adjusted Beef's cape and left for the break room, muttering something about "Chase" and "spoiling".
Coupé went back to petting Beef with singular intensity. Golem hovered one rocky finger hesitantly over the little dog until Invisigal gave him an encouraging punch to the shoulder.
"So," Flambae coughed. "So. Ahem. This... cuteness aggression. How do you deal with it?"
Coupé turned to look at him. Her direct eye contact was deeply unsettling, which was impressive considering several of their teammates didn't even have pupils.
"Touching or petting helps," she said. "If I can't do that, I find something to throw knives at. Not the object of my aggression, of course. Like I said, I'd rather cut off Sonar's fingers than see this dog harmed."
"And like I said, I don't think there's any real stakes there. Pretty sure you'd cut off my fingers for a tuna melt."
"Have some faith, lad," Punch-Up said brightly. "Coop doesn't even like seafood."
Flambae left them to their bickering to make his way to the bathroom for a silent freakout. Maybe a light trashcan fire. At least, he tried, but Prism intercepted him on the way.
"Sooooo..."
"I know," he hissed. Sometimes he wished she wasn't so perceptive. "No need to rub it in."
He would never figure out how she managed to be so expressive with the huge glasses.
"You basic bitch," she sighed, shaking her head.
"I know. I think it's the freckles," Flambae said weakly.
"All the men in the world," she lamented. "And the one that looks like toast made a wish to be human does it for you."
"Listen."
"Unbuttered toast."
"He does nothing for me." Robert's eyes, big and pretty and defiant, flashed in his head. He pushed it far, far down. "Apparently, I just think he's cute enough that I want to squeeze him to death. That's a normal thing to feel about someone as small and weak as him."
"Flat as a piece of toast, too," Prism said sadly.
"Can you just--"
"Five minutes," Robert's voice rang over their comms.
Flambae aimed his best glare at Prism before trudging away. Naturally, it didn't work.
--
Surprisingly, the problem didn't magically resolve on its own after Flambae's terrible, horrible realization (because really. Robert? Cute? The NPC? The default Sim, as Prism put it? Fucking Mecha-Man?). Making even bigger fires also did not solve anything. To be fair, he knew that wasn't going to work, but it was fun anyway. If anything, it got worse. Now that he knew the cause, it felt like his heart and stomach had unionized against his brain. Robert sneezing? Cute. Robert spinning around in his chair after a long shift? Cute. Robert smiling at him after a job well-done? That one was the worst of them all.
In one humiliating instance, Robert went to the vending machine (no doubt for another one of his sickening chemical cakes, even though Flambae put lunch for him in the fridge that he didn’t see, dumbass), noticed they were out of stock, and actually pouted a bit. And as much as Flambae wanted to say, “a grown ass man shouldn’t pout like that, no matter how much of a bitch he is,” all he managed to do was evaporate his coffee and leave the breakroom before he squashed that dumb face in his hands. And also maybe tell Blazer to contact the vending machine attendant or whoever restocked that dumb thing. Robert was ruining his whole shtick.
Flambae was physically restraining himself at this point. It was embarrassing. He held back by entertaining thoughts of crumpling their dispatcher like a piece of paper and pocketing him. Or squishing him in a trash compactor to make a Robert cube. Again, with zero desire to actually harm, which made the whole thing more jarring. He also wasn’t sure how to feel about having anything more in common with Coupé. Flambae was willing to admit he’d made some unsavory choices– the stumps on his hand reminded him of that every day– but Coupé tended to treat human life with the same coarse apathy she’d probably afford a fly. She was also scary as hell.
He knew Robert could tell something was up, too. Flambae wasn’t… avoiding him, exactly. He wasn’t. That would be cowardly. But he kept a healthy distance. Realigned his gym schedule. Didn’t bother Robert at his desk anymore. The itch in his hands didn’t exist if it couldn’t happen. It only came to “actively dodge Robert in the halls” a few times, but oh well.
Sometimes he could feel the dispatcher’s eyes on him, curious and watchful. But he never broached anything and Flambae kept doing his job, so nothing ever came of it. And he intended to keep it that way, Prism’s protests be damned.
He was proud of himself, honestly. The Flambae of a year ago would have handled it far more explosively. The Linda of yesterday’s therapy appointment called it avoidant, but it wasn’t his fault she couldn’t recognize improvement.
He just wasn’t expecting the whole “handling his emotions healthily” thing to suck so much.
Robert was annoying and bitchy and the stick up his ass was immovable. But he was also funny. He was kind. He always listened, even if Flambae just wanted to complain about the soap opera he caught on TV. Their arguments nowadays were devoid of real heat, just verbal sparring more than anything. Making extra lunch sometimes made Flambae feel good, especially when Robert looked up at him with huge eyes and no manners to tell him how delicious it was through a mouthful of rice.
He was man enough to admit that maybe he missed Robert. Just a little bit. The way anyone missed a… work friend. The gym felt empty. The spaces in between shifts were quiet. And seeing Robert huddle with Invisigal in the break room made his stomach turn a little bit.
But he was doing his job. He solved his problem. Simple and effective. Couldn’t ask for a better solution than that.
To his dismay, the Z-team picked up on the shift. They had varying solutions, not seeming to realize that what Flambae was doing was the solution. Malevola said that shitty reality TV was a great conversation starter, which Flambae already knew. He used to be Robert’s sole source for Romance Archipelago, since the weird fuck still didn’t own a TV. Sonar said that experiencing a bad LSD trip together forged bonds that couldn’t be made in the trenches of war. Coupe didn’t say anything, which was appreciated, but left a book in his locker with a half-naked elf on the cover, which was less appreciated. Invisigal brought out a video camera and waggled her eyebrows at him. Punch-Up said a good spar could always get people talking again. Phenomaman and Waterboy left him two separate empty subscription forms to Melon Monthly, which he promptly used as spitballs against both of them. Golem, in his quiet way, sat with him. “Robert’s pretty sad, too,” he said. Which, fuck. That was the most effective, even if he had a hard time believing it.
Prism just kept calling him a dumb fuck. Whatever.
What he was doing was working. He would get over it once he could be super normal about Robert again. Maybe he’d look at pictures of the dispatcher while dropping dumbbells on his foot or something. Pavlov or whatever the hell.
It was fine. This was fine.
He made a mental note to stop by the medbay at some point. His chest hurt.
–
Flambae had his gym schedule lined up perfectly. Robert was a creature of habit. He arrived at work at the exact same time, ate the exact same “lunch” unless Flambae intervened, and asked Chase to walk Beef at the exact same moments throughout the day. Naturally, this applied to the gym.
Which was why Flambae nearly did drop a dumbbell on his foot when a “Hey, asshole!” caught him off guard.
He dodged the weight and winced as it clanged to the ground.
“What the hell– Bob-Bob?”
Robert stood there looking furious in his usual workout gear.
Flambae found himself at a rare loss for words.
“Robert, what–?”
“Hit me.”
What?
“What?”
Robert stepped closer. He smelled like his usual. Shaving cream with a hint of dog. Flambae inhaled it a little greedily.
“Hit me.”
Flambae scoffed a little to hide his growing panic. Did Robert hit his head?
“Kinky shit goes two ways, Robbo. I’m not into smacking around normies unless they’re in big metal suits.”
Robert’s eyes flared. Flambae barely had time to block before a bandaged fist came flying at his face. He always forgot just how fast Robert could be.
“What the fuck, Robert,” he spat. Anger, easy and dear, came bubbling to life.
Before he could throw a punch of his own, Robert twisted his hand out of the grip Flambae had, grabbed Flambae’s fist, and held it to his face.
“Hit me,” he said again, a little wildly.
Flambae felt the anger seep out of him like a deflating balloon.
“Robert,” he said. He didn’t move a muscle. His knuckles were scraping Robert’s stubble. “What the hell is going on?”
Robert’s grip on his wrist tightened. “At the party. You said you’d relieve your hatred of me sometimes. Do it.”
“I’m not gonna fucking punch you, idiot!” he sputtered.
They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Flambae, true to his word, didn’t move.
Then he had to watch in real time as Robert’s face crumpled. It felt worse than a punch. Who the fuck looked that upset over not getting hit in the face?
“I–” Robert swallowed. Flambae watched his throat work. “I thought it was a Mecha-Man thing. I thought if you– fuck.” Flambae felt him run his thumb briefly over the two stumps on his hand before letting it go entirely.
“Sorry,” Robert said hollowly. He wouldn’t make eye contact. Flambae’s heart sank. “Fuck. Sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking. You can file a report if you want. Not sure if the HR department exists, but. Yeah.”
And then he was leaving.
Flambae’s body moved faster than his brain. He caught Robert’s wrist and held fast.
“It’s not a Mecha-Man thing.” The words came spilling out before he could think anything through. He watched Robert’s shoulders hunch up like he’d been struck. “But it’s not a Robert thing, either.”
Robert turned around, mouth set in a tight line. “Pretty sure it’s a… me thing. You pretty much run away from me nowadays. Had to get your gym schedule from Visi.”
Flambae had expected anger. More than anything, Robert looked hurt. That strange, toothless thing in him shrieked at the sight.
“What, so the options are you and you? Selfish asshole, maybe it’s a me thing,” he said defiantly.
Robert’s eyebrows furrowed. Before he could say anything else, Flambae gave his wrist a squeeze.
“I’m not gonna punch you,” he said again. “Can I try something else?”
Robert’s eyebrows drew together even more, but he nodded slowly. Flambae wanted to smooth out the little wrinkle with his thumb. God fucking dammit, avoiding him didn’t solve anything at all. His hands still itched. His chest still ached.
Coupé better have been right.
He released Robert’s wrist and– just like he’d been thinking about– took his face in his hands.
Robert stared at him incredulously.
Fuck. Touching helps. Coupé was on the money. He felt an ease in his hindbrain, a blunted thing laid to rest. He gave the face in his hands a little squish and swiped his thumbs over Robert’s freckled cheeks, which were rapidly turning pink.
“What the fuck,” Robert squawked indignantly, though he didn’t make any move to stop Flambae. “What are you doing?” His hands came up to hold Flambae’s wrists. Not to pull away, just hold.
The little pout made Flambae think of how upset he’d looked just a few moments earlier. In an odd little surge of desperation, he couldn’t stop himself from wrapping around Robert and squeezing just this side of painful.
Robert wheezed a bit. But then his noodle arms were coming up and wrapping around Flambae in a surprisingly tight grip, clinging to the back of his workout shirt.
“I’m not complaining,” he said, voice muffled by Flambae’s front, “but what is happening?”
Flambae took the chance to bury his face in Robert’s hair. Still stupidly soft, even though he confirmed he uses a bullshit 26-in-1 shampoo. At least it smelled good. Like lemons.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Robert’s grip on Flambae’s shirt tightened. The body in his arms started shaking a bit and Flambae felt his stomach drop.
Then–
“Can you say that again, but on record? Otherwise the Z-Team will never believe–”
The fucker was laughing.
“Shut the fuck up. Okay? I owe you an explanation.” He tangled a hand in Robert’s hair, just because he felt like he could get away with it. It was awful how easily Robert melted into him. It’d make it really hard to stop hugging him.
Robert nodded against his shirt.
“So. You. Uh.” Wow. Saying it out loud made it so much worse. He cleared his throat and spoke into Robert’s hair as much as he could. “IwasfeelingweirdaroundyouandIthoughtIwantedtokillyouagainbutIwasgettingcutenessaggressionbecauseyou’resmallandweakorsomethingIdon’tfuckingknowsoIstartedavoidingyousorry.”
Robert was dead silent. Flambae knew, technically, that he was bigger and much stronger. He also knew that Robert had ripped someone’s cybernetic implant out of their skull bare-handed, so chances were 50/50 here.
Finally, a pair of brown eyes met his own. They looked angry. But mostly exasperated, which Flambae counted as a win.
“You avoided me. All this time. Because you thought I was cute and didn’t know how to handle it?” One hand let go to punch him lightly in the side with each sentence. “Are you in second– fucking– grade?” Punch punch punch.
Flambae spluttered. Before he could think of a comeback, Robert groaned and buried his face back into Flambae’s chest.
“I have such terrible taste. Fuck.”
Flambae grinned. Oh, definite win.