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Out of the blue, during the morning shift of an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday, Malevola says, "I'm betting on sleepy."
Golem hums. "I think grumpy."
"What, really?" Punch Up, in the middle of beating the shit out of the stragglers from a trafficking ring they'd busted last week, continues, "My money's on secret. He's, hah, a tough nut to crack."
"Clear the line, guys," Robert drawls, though he's nowhere near caffeinated enough to actually berate them for the nonsensical conversation. Of course, it doesn't work.
"I say grumpy, too," Prism immediately chimes in. Robert drags a hand down his face.
"Are we listing the fucking...Sleeping Beauty's seven dwarves?" he asks. "Prism, you're on air with The Bone Zone in less than a minute, shouldn't you focus on that?"
The Z-Team elects to ignore him, which isn't all that surprising. "Grumpy is so tame," Visi complains. "I'm calling actually angry." Then, "Did you say Sleeping Beauty?"
"Great, so you can hear me," Robert sighs over the chorus of laughter. "Visi, you're on a stealth mission right now, why are you talking. What is it?"
"It's fr—the seven dwarves aren't—they're fr-from Snow White," Waterboy answers helpfully.
"That's what I said?" Robert frowns. "Are they not the same thing?"
"This is either deeply pathetic or just plain sad," Prism snorts. "Girl, you don't know your Disney princesses?"
"Probably all of Bob-Bob's comas catching up to him," Flambae's icon is racing back towards SDN's building—the dampened sound of air rushing by diminishes, then cuts off, as he continues, "I bet reckless. He is a stupid idiot, after all."
The likelihood that he's the current topic of conversation—and betting pool—increases somewhat. Robert sighs again. "Why are you guys talking about... is it the seven dwarves?"
"There's no dwarf named Reckless or Secret, Bobby," Sonar says, tacking on, "I'm with Mal."
"H-Happy, Grumpy, Sleepy, Bashful, Sneezy, Dopey, and...Doc," Waterboy rattles them off almost without stuttering. Robert thinks for a moment that he might stop there, but he says, "I—he—m-maybe bashful?"
"That's not a thing, Wetbitchboy," Flambae retorts. "I want to change mine to dopey. It amuses me to imagine it."
"That's not a thing either, Bae," Prism says. "Are you thinkin' clumsy?"
"Sure, whatever. Tomato potato."
"Not how the saying goes," Robert responds with a tired roll of his eyes. "You can go have fun hauling bricks for the laundromat's renovations."
"Fuck you, bitch," Flambae snaps, nearly drowned out by the rest of the team's laughter, grumbling as he sets off towards the call. Something clicks over Malevola's headset—a pen.
"So Sonar and I said sleepy, Punch Up said secret, Golem and Prism say grumpy, Visi is betting angry, Waterboy said bashful, and Flambae said clumsy," she lists. "Coupe and Phen, you guys wanna get in on this?"
A level hum. "Clumsy," Coupe says, adding nothing else. Punch Up grumbles something about her not taking his side, but he doesn't sound particularly incensed.
Phenomaman booms, "I am unsure of what the topic is, but I will join our smallest comrade in his mission!"
"So Phen's going with secret," Sonar clarifies. Malevola makes a noise of assent. Robert can picture them with their heads bent together over a slip of paper in the rec room—and makes a mental note to send them out on the next tedious call that crops up. Idle hands, or whatever.
"Really?" Visi asks the call at large, marking her mission of clearing a warehouse of hidden recording devices as completed. "You guys are making a huuuge mistake. He's got some real pent-up aggression, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah," Flambae says dismissively. "You are wrong, anyways."
"Rub it in our faces when we lose, then," Golem suggests. "If we lose."
"Whatever," she grumbles. "Lieutenant, we still on for drinks this Friday?"
At the non-sequitur, Robert blinks. "Yes?" he draws out uncertainly. "As long as we're going to Chili's."
"You and your Chili's," Prism mutters. "What is it with white people and Chili's?"
Robert is choosing not to respond to that. "If you all get me banned from this Chili's," he says.
A moment passes. "Is there an end to that sentence, Bobby Boy?" Sonar asks tentatively.
"Use your imagination, Mister Harvard," Robert says, right before his screen lights up red. "Alright, guys, let's get going. We’ve got a bunch of calls coming in—look alive."
"Shite," Punch Up groans. "And here I was hopin' for an early lunch."
When he'd brought the idea to Blazer—under great duress from the Z-Team—she'd beamed and called their weekly bar visits a fantastic team-bonding initiative, which was essentially a corporate blessing for their drinking habits. Other than that, though, it hadn't resulted in anything material—which means that, devastatingly, the team does still have to pay for the aforementioned drinking habits out of pocket. Regardless, Friday night drinks have quickly become a new staple in Robert’s otherwise mundane routine: work, then drinks, then getting banned from the venue.
Which brings them to this: Friday evening, after a bit of overtime at the office filling out the damage reports of the day (for Robert) and a quick change of clothes (for the rest of the team), and they're all crammed into the two cornermost patio tables at the local Chili's, tucked behind the fibreglass divider that hides them from the parking lot.
"When we get unbanned from Crypto Night, I swear," Prism grumbles, sullenly flicking the discarded paper wrapping of her straw across the table, where it burns up before it can hit Flambae. "I'm gonna kick someone's ass." Robert watches the ensuing paper-wad war with tired amusement, sipping his Texas Twister through his own straw, interspersed with the occasional fry pilfered from Punch Up's plate.
"Someone in particular, or...?" he asks dryly. "Hit the wrong person and we’ll just get banned again, y'know."
Prism points a fry at him. "Keep talking and that someone'll be you, Mister Dispatcher."
"Oh no," he drawls out. "Putting me out of commission so that I don't have to haul anyone's drunk ass home. Terrifying." He swirls his glass around, the ice cubes rattling hollowly in his near-empty cup. "What do you have against Chili's?"
She gestures broadly. "It's a family chain restaurant," she says accusingly. "Small children. Fake-ass southern food. Horrid lighting!"
A passerby father with his two children gives their general direction a cranky look as they head into the building. Robert coughs lightly and hides behind his cup, only for it to be snatched away from him.
"Hey, I was—" another cup is set down in front of him. "Drinking that? I didn't order another one."
"On the house, lad," Punch Up winks. "By which I mean Mal."
Robert leans over until he can see Malevola at the other table, who is engaged in a surprisingly intense arm wrestling match with Waterboy. "Uh, Malevola?"
"My turn to pay, babes," she calls without looking at him. "Get whatever you want!"
"So you can quit stealin' my fries," Punch Up tells him. "Only Coupe's allowed to do that."
Robert looks him in the eye and takes another fry. Coupe drifts over with her own plate, settling into the seat next to Punch Up.
"But you won't let me mix blood into the ketchup," she murmurs, surprisingly sullen. Punch Up winces.
"Darlin'..."
Robert takes a sip of his new drink as the two pick up what is obviously an age-old argument, markedly domestic. It's a little charming, ignoring the subject matter, actually, and the new drink is good, something sweet that he hasn't had before, disguising the burn of liquor beneath.
A heavy arm drapes across his shoulders, bringing with it the smell of frying oil and cheese. "Bobby, my man!" Sonar cheers, far too loudly for the proximity. Robert tries and fails to lean away from him. "Here."
"And why are you giving me..." Robert looks down at the plate Sonar sets down next to his elbow. "Your half-eaten quesadilla?"
"Hey, man, I only had like, one piece," Sonar points out. "So it's my eighth-eaten quesadilla."
"...right," Robert says. "If this is a bribe, it's not a very good one."
"Who said this was a bribe?" Sonar argues with the immediate defensiveness of someone caught red-handed. "A bat can't do something nice for his dispatcher every now and again?"
"Your idea of 'something nice' is trying to invite me to do, quote, non-suspicious substances, end quote, with you."
"I meant weed," Sonar gasps, faux-scandalized. "What did you think I meant?"
Robert gives him a tired and unamused look.
"Okay, it is a bribe," Sonar admits. He sets a glass down next to Robert's other elbow, something pale and citrus-scented. "I really don't like my drink," he draws out with a whine, arms bracketing Robert like a warm and slightly fuzzy cage. Robert takes a slow sip of his current drink, eyeing the other. "Bobbyyy."
"...you want me to finish your drink for you," Robert summarizes. Sonar nods, an action Robert feels rather than sees, fur brushing the top of his head. "And...no one else will?"
"They keep laughing at me," Sonar sniffs, overdramatic. "I know Mal said I wouldn't like it, but she won't even take it off my hands now that I've ordered it."
"Actions, consequences," Malevola calls over from the other table.
"C'mon, Bob-Bob," Sonar wheedles. "I'm even giving you food so you're not drinking on an empty stomach anymore! Aren't I considerate?"
"I ate," Robert says.
"Twinkies don't count as dinner," everyone in the immediate vicinity choruses. Robert sighs.
"Fine," he takes the glass, sniffing it before taking a tentative sip. For how much Sonar has complained, it's not bad at all—a normal drink, as far as he can tell, even if it is strong. He'd sort of expected worse. Robert squints up at Sonar. "What is this?"
"Don Julio marg," Sonar replies cheerfully, thumping Robert on the back. Robert barely manages not to inhale his next sip wrong. "Thanks, Bobby Boy, you're a real one."
"Would it kill you to use my name?" Robert asks Sonar's retreating back, more amused than annoyed. At the other table, Waterboy has lost his best-of-three arm wrestling tournament against Malevola.
"Me next!" Sonar slides into the seat next to Mal without missing a beat. She gives him an incredulous look.
"When has that ever worked out for you, babe?" she asks,
"Uh, never," Sonar gestures. "I meant Waterboy."
Robert chews idly on his plastic straw as he works on his second drink, keeping an eye on the other table in case Sonar escalated (the manager of the Chili's location closest to SDN had been less than thrilled to meet the bat monster—Robert had been equally thrilled about the subsequent ban). The clustered chatter is a comfortable volume, aside from Phenomaman cheering Waterboy on; Prism has her legs kicked up in Flambae's lap, leaned back so she can recline against Golem's bulky shoulder to show him her most recent Instagram posts, and Punch Up and Coupe are absorbed in their own conversation, one of Punch Up's ketchup containers conceded to Coupe.
He's in the middle of taking a bite of the still-warm quesadilla Sonar had foisted onto him when a lithe hand appears beside him, snatching his unguarded, nearly-empty cup. A little sluggish, Robert makes half of a protesting noise as Invisigal takes a long and obnoxiously loud drag from his stolen glass.
"Hey," he frowns, plaintive. Visi rolls her eyes, keeping the straw pointedly in her mouth as the ice cubes clink in the otherwise empty cup. "I was in the middle of—"
"There was like, a single drop of liquid left," Visi says, incorrectly. "I just wanted to try your drink, chill out."
"You could have asked," Robert sighs, reaching for Sonar's discarded drink. Invisigal rolls her eyes harder, a feat Robert hadn't known was possible, and slides another glass over from across the table, full of some bubbly, shimmery liquid that's an unnaturally electric shade of blue.
"Geez," she grouses. "Just take this one, she's not even drinking it." Prism looks up.
"Um, I totally was going to," she says. Robert makes to push it back towards their side of the table, but she waves him off. "Ugh, it's fine, Flambae will just buy me a new one."
"I never said that," Flambae argues, even as he pushes her legs from his lap and stands. "Fine, bitch, what d'you want?"
"Get me one of those," Prism points at Robert's second cup, the unnamed drink Punch Up had handed him. "Strawberry something or other, or whatever. Damn, Bobbie, if I'd known you had good taste in drinks, we coulda been having so much more fun by now. You're always drinkin' beer, I didn't think you were a cocktail guy."
Robert shrugs, trying a sip of the concerningly blue liquid. Sugary sweet and refreshing, he goes for another, pleasantly surprised. "I'll drink anything," he says around the straw. "Beers jus' cheaper. No real preference."
"Liar," Invisigal sings as she sprawls herself into the seat next to Robert. "You have a total sweet tooth. Don't worry, it's cute."
"I don't," Robert denies, choosing to ignore the latter part of her statement altogether.
"Sure, man," she grins at him, cheeky and as insubordinate as ever. "Oh, your ice cubes are melting. That's gonna be so watered down."
Sure enough, the ice cubes in the drink Sonar had brought over are significantly smaller than they had been, and Robert sighs, swapping cups to work on his now-diluted margarita. Visi watches him drain half the glass at a steady pace, something flashing in her eyes—almost pleased. He raises his eyebrows at her, but she just stands, leaving his side a little chilly in the cooling night air.
"Let me know if you want another one," she tells him, before strolling over to the other side of the table, flopping down in Flambae's abandoned spot next to Prism. Robert watches her go, idly confused at the sudden departure. The margarita tastes more like water and lime juice by now, just the last few drops caught in the ice at the bottom, and he fishes one of the small cubes out to crunch on as he pushes the emptied glass to join the rest on the farther end of the table. It’s a satisfyingly cold shock in his mouth, cooling his warm face, and he chews it slowly, savouring the feeling.
There's music playing from the outdoor speaker, some slower-tempoed pop ballad that he doesn't know the name of. Polishing off the rest of the quesadilla and working through his fourth drink of the night, Robert sways to the beat, bumping elbows occasionally with Punch Up, who says nothing about it but offers him another fry. The conversations around him dull to a pleasant haze, indecipherable words mixing with the music and the city night coming to life around them.
It's nice. Robert props his head up in his hand, content to do nothing more than listen in on his team as they chatter, pulling his jacket a little tighter around himself for warmth.
"So..." Malevola draws the word out, arms crossed and expression complicated. "Did literally anyone bet on Robert being a happy drunk?"
"No," Sonar says, a little awed, the crumpled piece of paper that they'd written their original bets on smoothed out and pinned flat beneath half-empty plates and cups. He watches as Robert curls forward, giggling into his hands, eyes squinted shut with the force of his laughter. Flambae's eyes dart around, panicked and flushed; his arm is trapped over Robert’s shoulders, dragged there to be used as a personal space heater against the encroaching night. "I didn't think he could, uh..."
"Laugh like that?" Punch Up offers.
"I didn't think he could laugh," Sonar says. "Like, y'know, maybe he just can't! Except I guess he can—"
"We've seen him laugh before," Coupe says.
"Right, but not," Sonar waves a hand in Robert's direction, "like that! I didn't know that was an option!"
"Have you tried being funny."
"Rude. I’m totally just being hyperbolic, look it up." Sonar gesticulates again. "Is no one else surprised by this? Seriously?"
"Um, I—well, a li-little, but he—Robert can—he knows how to...!" Waterboy defends ineffectually. Coupe pats him on the back.
At the other table, Golem says something, making Robert throw his head back, shoulders shaking. Flambae, arm still slung over those shoulders, whips his head around to look at them, clearly mouthing help.
"I don't think I've ever seen Bae that red before," Prism remarks, not sounding particularly concerned as she blows a cotton-candy scented cloud of smoke. "And I've seen him hold his breath for like, two full minutes."
"What the hell were you two doin' that needed him to hold his breath for two minutes?" Punch Up asks.
"Baby numbers," Visi mutters.
"Girl, shut up," Prism flips Visi off. To Punch Up, she says, "I'm not gonna lie, I do not remember."
"Is someone going to save our fiery friend?" Phenomaman asks as Flambae does something very expressive with his face. Robert is leaning heavily against him, either oblivious to or uncaring of Flambae's silent cries for help. "Should I extricate him...extricate Robert Robertson the Third from his grasp?"
"Nah," Prism shrugs. "This is good for him."
"G—how, how is this good for him?" Waterboy looks nervous, like they might have a repeat of their first Mega Fuego incineration attempt. Prism shrugs again.
"Exposure therapy?"
"H-he wouldn't set—he's not going to—"
"Your whole thing is water, and you’re worried about a lil’ fire?" Waterboy opens and closes his mouth a few more times. Prism continues, "C'mon, look at how happy Mister Dispatcher is right now. You really wanna drag him away?"
Waterboy deflates. Malevola stands, tail swishing with anticipation.
“Well, mission success, mates,” she says, wagging her fingers mischievously at them. “I’m gonna go reap the benefits. Who knows, I might even get a turn cuddling him—I run pretty warm, too," she winks, sauntering off.
Robert greets her with a cheerful wave, somehow managing not to dislodge Flambae's arm in his enthusiasm, grinning as she drops into the seat next to him. He doesn't shake off her tail as it comes to wrap around his torso, leaning closer instead when she says something to him. There's smoke curling out of Flambae's ears as he's dragged along, their flushed faces side by side. Robert looks carefree and surprisingly young, the tension in his body dissipated by warmth.
"Shit," Invisigal realizes. "He's never gonna get drunk with us again."
She's absolutely correct. The Z-Team exchange glances, hesitant and eager, expectant and resigned, before scrambling to join them.