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— Hey, Flameboy! One more arson for easy points and you'll be the first on the chopping block!
— Oh, Roberto, I may have just set your ass on fire. Might need a firefighter soon.
The whole team erupted in catcalls. Robert rubbed the bridge of his nose, cursing the Walking Fireball's sharp tongue. This briefing was doomed from the beginning.
Then a rather risky idea came to him. A cheap trick, unacceptable in a normal working environment, but might be just right for these rejects. First, he needed to exhale, lower his eyes, put on a sorrowful face, and adopt the most dejected tone possible.
— Oh I think you're right... I really was being too emotional. — After scanning the now-quieted Z-Team, Robert savored the effect and, to everyone's surprise, smirked right at his opponent. — If my ass ever needs a roleplay partner, I'll give you a call.
He couldn't resist winking.
The meeting room filled with explosions of laughter and a buzz of voices again, but the dispatcher was only looking at one of the villains gathered around. The Sunglasses-Indoors-Guy, wearing his tight, fiery bodysuit with a neckline almost down to his (likely nonexistent) underwear, was sprawled in his chair, feet on the table.
Robert expected anything — anger, embarrassment, retort, or a fireball to the face — but none of that happened. Propping his chin with a fist, Flambae narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and gave him a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
It was hard to say what it meant, but the next shift SDN didn't receive a single report of a fire.
×××
— You need some help?
Robert grunted, lying on the bench as his ribs creaked under the weight of the barbell. He shouldn't have let his emotions and memories of their last fight with Flambae cloud his judgment like that. If there had been any air left in his collapsing lungs and his muscles weren't burning from the effort, he might have felt ashamed.
— You're not supposed to lift without a spot, idiot.
After a few agonizing moments that stretched like hot mozzarella, the torture ended.
— So weak. So so weak...
Flambae graciously freed Robert from the trap, moving the barbell back to the rack.
— Didn't expect a safety lecture from you, Flameboy.
— Hey, if I'd known you'd call me that again, I'd have left you under the bar. But whatever... You normie need a babysitter so you don't hurt yourself thinking you're a hero.
He stopped a couple of steps away and started doing irritatingly fast weighted squats.
— Thanks for being my babysitter. I'll... be more careful next time.
— Fuck off... — He paused mid-squat, his expression changing. — Wait. That was genuine?
After putting his barbell back on the rack, Flambae walked over to the bench and gave Robert a little pat on the head.
— Come on, Bob bob. No more hero stuff without supervision. You could get injured! And we need you behind that desk, helping the real heroes.
— Speaking of injuries... — Robert tried to ignore the fact that Flambae's hand had moved to his shoulder. — Remind me, how did you lose your eyebrows again?
Flambae leaned in and launched into a story about tangling with a Actual Real Actual Hero™. Robert would have loved to tease him more and gloat, but a stray lock of hair from Flambae's ponytail was swinging right in front of his nose and being very distracting.
So were his lips, and his yellow eyes, and even those stupid half-burned eyebrows.
Flambae suddenly lost his train of thought mid-sentence and fell silent. They just stared dumbly at each other — the lingering touch making the scene even more awkward.
Robert snapped out of it first.
— Right. I should probably go.
— Yeah. Right. I mean... — For the first time in Robert's memory, Flambae looked genuinely flustered; he pulled back. — Get your flat ass off my bench.
×××
Robert stepped onto the balcony of his tiny apartment, which now resembled more of a party van than a serial killer's lair — thanks to the crowd of friends, music, and abundance of lamps. He stopped by the railing.
— Didn't expect you to come.
The fresh night air pleasantly cooled his head, buzzing not just from the bass but also from a powerful punch to the jaw.
— Why not?
Flambae was surprisingly calm, considering everything that had happened between them.
— Well, for one, you nearly roasted me to a crisp.
— Oh, Mechadick, you know what they say — it's all in good fun. Besides, that was ages ago!..
— Yeah, a whole couple of days.
— Well, you said it yourself, we're all phoenixes. So maybe you're one too? And I just helped you be reborn.
— Sure, except Bruno should've been reborn, since he's the one who shielded me from your fire.
Robert turned around, spotted Golem in the crowd behind the balcony door, and saluted him with his glass. Golem smiled and returned the gesture.
— Roberto. Are you flirting with me? Or picking a fight?
This was new.
— Why only two options? Maybe I'm planning to report you to HR, or just making conversation? And even if I am picking a fight, so what?
Meeting his companion's gaze, Robert automatically took a sip from his glass. Almost instantly rememberes that it contained only melted ice.
— My, so many words. Maybe my punch was too hard... Or you've already had too much to drink. My bet's on the first.
Flambae's half-whisper sounded almost intimate, as if in a moment you could feel his breath on your skin. A gust of wind from the street stirred a dark lock of hair on his forehead.
Robert shrugged, admitting defeat, and pressed the glass to his swelling cheek.
— Oh, by the way. The name's Chad.
The hand with stumps instead of a pinky and ring finger froze in the air above the railing. Robert, too emotionally charged to laugh, clasped it.
The handshake was pleasantly firm, the palm was dry and hot. They froze for just an instant, lingering for a second before letting go, and a hot wave rushed from dispatcher's fingertips straight to his heart.
— Careful, Robbo. — Flambae pulled closer, lowering his voice. — I almost believed you really do love playing with fire.
After he left, Robert stood on the balcony for a while. The soft, insidious whisper echoed in his tired head.
×××
Watching the medics fuss over the stretcher, Robert caught a painfully familiar accent out of the corner of his ear.
— ...Can't believe Visi actually took a bullet for him. Couldn't be me!
— That's the most desperate bullshit I've ever heard, Flameboy, — he answered without turning around.
The author of the emotional monologue was, of course, the superhero in the ridiculous red-orange bodysuit and sunglasses.
— Where's this confidence coming from, Mechadick? Did you suddenly get X-ray vision and saw right through me?
— Your whole demeanor screams: «I'd die for you, Robert Robertson!» And the guy who dedicated a whole song to me couldn't possibly mean what you've just said.
The yellow irises behind the tinted lenses sparkled mischievously.
— Hell, no one else could ever think of that. Way more creative than taking a bullet... You loved it, didn't you, bitch? You probably even liked it when I called you that.
— You have no idea.
Amidst the Z-Team boisterous reaction, Robert looked at his former enemy and felt tiny tongues of flame dancing again in his long-dormant eyes.