Chapter Text
"Kick my ass after this is all over," Robert had promised Flambae over the intercom.
Then everything had gone from bad to worse, and culminated in a happy ending nobody on the Z Team would have believed in a couple weeks prior. Most of the shit they’d gone through was by now left in the past, fuzzy memories no longer feeling as scary as they had back then, mostly due to a healthy amount of repression and concussions.
But those words continued to echo in Flambae’s mind a couple days later as he made his way back to SDN, skin simmering and fingers twitching, still riding that adrenaline high of having successfully completed his last mission. Warm wind rustled through the trees as Flambae landed, the gravel crunching under his feet with every step.
The usual bustling inside SDN had already begun to simmer down. People packed up, ringing phones replaced with laughter and small talk about the survived workday. Flambae took in the more relaxed atmosphere, only fueling his own frustration while he strolled through the gradually emptying building.
"Hey, Bitchboy," Flambae called out as soon as his eyes landed on Robert, elated to find that Chase had already clocked out for today. The guy could really take the fun out of bullying someone. "I’ve come to take what you promised me back when everything went to shit!"
The dispatcher in question shoved his headset off, further messing up his already unkempt hair. Tired eyes fell on Flambae. It spoke to how shit Robert’s day must have been that he didn’t even put up a fight about the name-calling, just silently judging Flambae as they stared at each other. Waiting to see what Flambae’s first move would be.
"What did I promise exactly?"
"That I can kick your ass once we win," Flambae explained, trying not to sound too bothered by the fact that the former hero had forgotten about it. "What? Did you hope I would forget?"
"Ah, that. Right," Robert muttered, sounding mildly inconvenienced at best. It was a tone that had grated on Flambae’s nerves since the first day Robert had worked as their dispatcher, and now did so twice as much since he’d confessed to being fucking Mechaman. "Well, a deal’s a deal. You want me to check that there isn’t a water puddle around this time?"
"You fucking—" Flambae’s fist clenched, the heat inside of him rising as he attempted not to burst out into flames inside SDN. Mostly, because he’d recently learned the hard way just how sensitive the fire alarms in this building were. It took him a moment to wrestle down the rage inside himself, something that clearly didn’t escape Robert’s attention.
"Well? Are you gonna get to it?" Robert challenged him, lazily tapping his finger on the desk. "I have some other things I’ve gotta do, so make it quick."
"Listen here, you little shit—" Flambae started, unceremoniously cut off as a loud growl came from Robert. The former villain needed a moment to connect the dots, looking down at Robert with a mix of anger and disbelief. "Was that your fucking stomach right now?"
"Yeah. So what?"
"I just—" Flambae didn’t even know where to start. The nonchalant admission had thrown him completely off. "Don’t you have a designated lunch break or something? What the fuck are you doing instead of eating? Fucking…crying in the shower about what little bitch you are?"
"Uh, no? I used up the five dollars on the broken vending machine and got myself some—" Robert broke off suddenly, sighing in annoyance. "Why are we talking about my lunch break? Is this some elaborate masterplan to catch me off guard before you punch me?"
Flambae paused, considering what that might look like for a moment. He greatly enjoyed the mental image, Robert with a bloody nose, maybe a chipped tooth as payback… Flambae forced himself to focus back on the present Robert sitting before him, lest he get too excited: "I don’t beat up malnourished bitches who are probably too weak to even lift their skinny little arms and blow their noses."
"Yeah, well, being in a fucking coma will do that to someone. I can’t exactly help it that I currently have the muscle mass of a six-year-old child, asshole," the dispatcher shot back, turning around until he was facing Flambae, his dead eyes giving him a quick up-and-down. Whatever Robert found clearly didn’t impress him much; that ever-present frown on his face only deepened further.
"Uhh, wrong." Flambae looked down at Robert, considering whether the guy was dumber than he appeared to be. "My niece could fucking beat you in a bench pressing contest any time. Face it, Bitchboy, you’re just generally pathetically weak."
"Is that why you wanna fight me so badly? Because you know you actually stand a chance to win for once?"
The question was meant to goad Flambae, and if Robert had been in any other shape, the former villain would have probably fallen for it. But the man before him wasn’t some technical mastermind or actual superhero. Just a guy who wasn’t even capable of something even Flambae’s niece could do since she turned five: Feeding herself.
So instead of responding, Flambae beckoned the dispatcher closer, Robert flinching before he’d even laid a single finger on him, like the little bitch he truly was. Flambae pointed at his left ear, leaning so close he could feel Robert’s breath ghost over his lips.
Despite Robert’s fashion sense rivaling that of a homeless person, and his face looking as if he’d never been taught how to properly use a razor, his breath didn’t actually reek, as Flambae had secretly suspected. Instead, the only thing Flambae could pick up on was a faint hint of coffee ghosting through the air between them.
"What are you—" Robert was cut off when his stomach piped up a second time, even louder than before. Flambae stopped pointing at his ear and leaned back, a self-satisfied smile on his face. He watched as the dispatcher attempted to hide himself from any potentially judgmental stares from his coworkers, clearly unaware that the biggest embarrassment here was Robert's inability to take care of himself.
"Aww, is the little bitch hungry?" Flambae mocked him, patting the dispatcher’s surprisingly soft hair, grinning when Robert slapped his hand away. "Grab your fucking things, Bobbo. I’m gonna blow your fucking mind with what I’m about to show you!"
"Taco Bell?"
The gigantic neon sign hovered over them, like a consumeristic halo, heralding shitty food for reasonable prices.
"Yeah, you seem like the type that only eats disgusting, unhealthy take-out." He pushed Robert towards the ugly building, noticing that Robert didn’t protest his accusation, which just screamed sad and pathetic. "Besides. I don’t think you can afford the restaurants I like."
"When I said all you had to do was ask about taking me out for dinner, I didn’t think you’d take it seriously. Or, I guess, not seriously enough." Robert turned to look at him, genuine concern displayed on his face. "Do you take all your dates to Taco Bell?"
"Who said I’m taking you out?! This is about you not starving to death, bitch," Flambae scoffed, looking down at the dispatcher, who still looked unconvinced. "Can’t exactly kick your ass if you’re dead. Also, I think I already told you, you’re not my type."
Robert really wasn’t his type. Actually, Flambae would be surprised to learn he was anyone’s type. Which is why Invisigal’s crush on him had made her the butt of the joke of the Z Team for weeks before they’d finally dropped after Robert had earned the disgruntled respect of the team.
Flambae wasn’t quite sure where exactly Robert fell on the scale, somewhere between a twink and a twunk, if either of those two types was known for looking like a dysfunctional mess.
Flambae frowned as he continued to stare at Robert, the dispatcher growing slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny: "What are you doing?"
"Shut up. I’m trying to figure out who would unironically be attracted to this," Flambae waved his hand around Robert’s figure, making sure that the dispatcher understood he was referring to Robert’s entire being. "Whatever, it’s not like I need you to look pretty when I punch you."
"Thank god." Robert sighed in fake relief, holding the door open for Flambae as they strolled into the empty fast-food joint. "I left my makeup at home, and I would have hated missing out on you beating me up just because I don’t live up to your beauty standards!"
While continuing to bicker, they approached the counter with an anxious-looking cashier staring at them while Flambae continued to explain to Robert why he would never be a twunk, despite his shit physique. The former villain made sure Robert ordered something that would actually offer him more than just indigestion and sugar-fueled depression, before he paid for both of them, ignoring all of Robert’s pathetic whines about being capable of buying his own food.
"If you were capable, we wouldn’t be here. Now take your food like a good bitch and find us a table, alright?"
Robert surprisingly complied without further comment, wordlessly carrying his tray outside and unceremoniously dropping it on the cleanest table this establishment had to offer. The warm wind messed up his hair, something Robert clearly didn’t have to worry about with his military-style haircut. His own food almost slid off the tray as Flambae dropped it on the table, the support of the bottom of the tray weakened by the fact that he was missing two fingers on his hand.
There was an awkward moment of silence as they both stared at each other, both waiting for the other one to make the first move. Eventually, Robert’s stomach decided for both of them, growling so long it almost sounded as if it had stopped only to take a quick breath and continue.
Once he’d seen Robert take the first bite out of his very sad-looking taco, Flambae turned to his own order. Watchful eyes observed him, squinting when the former villain ripped open the second hot sauce packet.
"Isn’t your entire body being on fire enough?" Robert suddenly piped up, staring at Flambae while he dumped the third packet all over his food. "Do you need your mouth burning as well?"
"I’ve never tasted any food that’s too spicy for me." To make a point, Flambae threw his empty package aside and opened a fourth one up before Robert’s judgmental eyes: "My mother said I’ve always been that way. This is just so I don’t have to taste the pathetic excuse they call vegetables here."
"'Kay." Robert’s voice was already muffled by the taco he’d stuffed into his mouth. Flambae tried not to cringe as he watched the guy eat like a starved animal. Fucking disgusting. His eyes lingered on Robert’s mouth as he wiped off some excess sauce, the chili staining his lips just that tiny bit red.
"You good?" Robert suddenly asked, his voice ripping Flambae out of his thoughts before they could take a turn for the worse.
"Yeah, just…uhh…fucking wondering who let you eat like that as a kid. What, couldn’t afford table manners? Or did your mother not love you enough to care about how you ate?"
"Don’t know. I never had a Mom," Robert answered, immediately turning the mood from awkward to downright depressing.
The dispatcher’s response was followed by more chewing and rustling as he finished his first taco, turning towards his next one while blissfully ignoring Flambae’s silent stare. There wasn’t really any way to gracefully come back from that, which meant the former villain was forced to shove the verbal faux pas under the table and immediately change the topic.
"So you…uhhh…you watch any good movies recently?" The awkward question floated through the warm evening air, just as vapid and stale as it was. Robert finished his second taco, proving everything Flambae had said earlier about him enjoying junk food right before the dispatcher finally looked up at him.
"Are you asking me because you actually wanna know? Or because you’re uncomfortable sitting in silence for more than ten seconds?"
Sharp, brown eyes stared at the former villain, not expecting an answer because Robert wasn’t aware of it, but because the dispatcher wanted to hear Flambae admit it himself.
"I knew I made a mistake by not setting your fucking car on fire on your first day."
"Bold of you to assume that I would have cared." Another taco vanished, and more paper crunched between his slender fingers as Robert unwrapped his last taco, while Flambae’s order still sat before him, covered in hot sauce, and completely untouched.
"Bold of you to assume that I would have cared about you not…uhhh…not not caring about it…fucking bitch!"
By now, the sun had set over Torrence, leaving them sitting outside the fast-food joint, the dirty desk they were sitting at illuminated by a single faulty floodlight and the occasional car driving by. Police sirens howling in the distance and the wind rustling through the palms provided a constant background noise for a conversation that was as nonsensical as it was filled with swear words.
"So you don’t care if we don’t talk?" Robert’s tired voice clarified, his rough hand reaching over the table to grab a napkin from the other tray.
"Care? Who would care to talk to you, Robbo?" Flambae scoffed, sitting back and crossing his arms as he continued watching Robert eat, irritated by the faint hint of a smile on the dispatcher’s face. "I don’t fucking care! Who would care about a stupid fucking thing like that?"
"So you can sit in silence then?"
"Of course I can. Better than you, just watch! I can be the best at silence! The quietest guy in a six-mile radius! Like a librarian!" Flambae paused, beginning to put two and two together. "Wait a minute! You’re doing that reverse psychology thing again, you fucking asshole!"
"Too late. Show me just how quiet you can be, big guy," Robert joked, raising an amused eyebrow when the nickname made Flambae twitch for a second.
"Fucking easy. I mean, it’s literally harder to steal candy from a child. Who would even…" Flambae trailed off, finding Robert still staring at him, laugh lines showing as the dispatcher attempted to stifle a grin.
"Go on," Robert encouraged him, the humor in his tone sounding like mockery to the former villain.
Instead of following his sarcastic words, Flambae just flipped him off, biting down on his own food to keep himself from being provoked again.
The rest of the night turned out otherwise uneventful, Robert’s munching filling the quietness between them, Flambae’s own food toeing the fine line between food and just barely edible. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the bad sort of quiet. After Robert’s stupid remark had ventured into superficial psychology, Flambae no longer felt the need to fill said silence.
Instead, his eyes continued to linger on the dispatcher. Without the suit and mask, it was hard to believe that this guy had once been the Mechaman. The asshole who’d cut off his fingers and put him in jail. The bastard responsible for knocking out his tooth, and in the process, bruising his ego. The man so many people had looked up to, seen as an inspiration, thought to be a hero.
The guy before him was anything but.
His boring haircut, that pathetic stubble, and those bushy eyebrows that screamed for some basic upkeep. Robert’s entire persona practically declared to the entire world what a sad little guy he was.
So why couldn’t Flambae take his eyes off him?
"Ready to head home?" Robert asked, speaking the exact words Flambae usually used when he picked up a guy at the bar. Of course, the words only sounded half as smooth when they were uttered by a tall glass of unmedicated depression. "Thanks for the food. Pretty sure I can hold out not eating anything for the rest of the week now, thanks to you!"
The dispatcher must have noticed Flambae’s horrified expression, because he immediately broke out into a shit-eating grin, stifling his laugh. "I’m kidding."
"You fucking better be," Flambae muttered, not even pretending to find Robert’s joke remotely funny. "Otherwise, I wouldn’t have wasted any money on you."
"I’m thankful you did," Robert honestly said, those goddamn eyes looking up at Flambae without any hint of sarcasm or deceit while a faint smile ghosted over his lips. The sight caused Flambae’s insides to twist, an uncomfortable feeling he couldn’t quite place because it had always been overshadowed by his general annoyance with the dispatcher and outward hate for Mechaman.
Robert’s infuriating smile didn’t leave Flambae’s mind for the entire flight back to his apartment. He tried so hard to distract himself, to think of literally anything else, but every time his attention slipped, his mind returned to the last expression Robert had shown him before taking off.
By the time Flambae had managed to struggle out of his suit, he finally realized that he’d completely forgotten to collect his promised ass-kicking after their impromptu dinner.