Chapter Text
For all of Flambae's issues with the whole situation, he at least physically feels a hell of a lot better, this time. His body likes sex pollen much better than whatever mess of badly-cut rohypnol and/or GHB that dirty bastard had given him all those years ago. He wakes up on the floor of the isolation room, alone except for Prism, all cuddled up to his back for warmth. She's cute as shit when she's asleep, like a kitty-cat.
The room is mostly dry, no sign of Waterboy. He's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed, just that he might die if he doesn't eat something. He sits up, making Prism make the most adorable little complainy noise--sometimes he could just die, she'd have him completely ensnared if he weren't gay--and catches sight of a cafe bag and a coffee cup on the table/block/bed/thing. Whatever the fuck people actually call it.
Like a gift from the heavens, but obviously really a gift from Prism, are his matcha with stevia, and half a dozen savory pastries. Flambae can get away with more bullshit in his diet than other guys maintaining the same body thanks to the caloric demands of his flames, but devouring every single one of those beautiful, buttery bastards is still definitely a splurge, allowable because he has been Through It, today. He loves to get fucked, and... Jesus, fucking Waterboy was really careful with him, but there's only so careful a guy that big can be, with a pollen'd-up freak demanding all of it. He's not the sorest he has ever been, but it is... noticeable.
Holy fucking shit. He got railed by Waterboy and it was good, even through the pollen. What is his life? Once he has absorbed every single calorie available to him and gunned through two bottles of water, he flexes his hands and feet, and then walks to the opposite corner from Prism and makes sure that he has full control of his flame once again. He lets it flare up, all over, and then brings it back down under his skin, in the tiny, careful increments that Prism always says remind her of a stove. Again, and then again, breathing slowly. There we go. Everything in order.
Ugh. All he wants is to go home, be by himself, and sleep in his own bed, but it's probably a dick move to leave Prism to wake up alone. He might not even be fucking allowed to leave yet. "Robert?" he calls quietly.
"Here. Monitoring is intermittent, but I have it set to ping me for my name, if I'm not on. How are you feeling?"
Flambae snorts. "Like, not hungover, somehow? Okay."
"...I meant emotionally, Chad."
"Do we have to get into this shit? I'm fine."
"SDN is gonna insist on some post-incident evals, but also have you considered that maybe I care?"
"...Oh," Flambae says, and he hates how small his voice sounds.
"Yeah," Robert says, and there's a kind of restrained tenderness in that single word that makes Flambae's chest ache and actually pisses him off because how dare Robert fucking do this to him? "Anything I can get you?"
"I really just want to go home, but I feel like a dick leaving Prism when she didn't leave me." He refuses to ask where Waterboy is. He has his pride, after all. "And I bet I can't leave, can I?"
"Nope. They took your vitals while you were out, and they're going to want another set in half an hour before they even think about it."
"Fffuuuck," Flambae grumbles, pulling his hair out of the ponytail and ruffling his fingers through the roots, steamed dry but still so greasy with old sweat. "I can walk around, right?"
"Yeah. Want a shower?"
"So bad," Flambae confirms, and wraps a clean towel around his waist, looping another around the back of his neck.
"I'll let Prism know where you are if she asks."
"Thanks, bitch," Flambae says, with absolutely no venom to it.
The halls are deserted, not that Flambae gives a shit who sees him in a towel. He works hard to have the kind of body that never has to cringe in a towel. Still, it's nice not to see anyone when he does still feel so... raw. He's not sure if he's relief or anger or, oh no, some kind of godawful unnamed sadness, that Waterboy isn't here. He is not going to examine that. At least not now. Fuck. And he's not going to remember, either. It's okay. This shit happens to heroes and villains alike, life gets weird with superpowers.
Stepping into the locker room, Flambae sets his feet on fire, because whatever else is going on in his life, he is not catching Athlete's Foot off these nasty motherfuckers, careful to keep the flames too low to singe his towel. He is perfectly normal about the shower. He keeps it scalding, nowhere near the blood-warm of Waterboy's water, and gets out soon as he has gotten himself clean, a surgical strike. Fuck, what in the hell. He doesn't want to think about it. The hazy quality of the memories themselves makes him sick, and it only helps a little that Alice was there, holding his hand and making sure Waterboy didn't degrade him any more than the situation did, intrinsically.
He shudders, and dumps the towels on the bench, letting a nervous flare of his powers dry him completely before he pulls a tank top and sweatpants out of his locker and puts them on. He hates not remembering sex with crystal clarity. The idea always bothered him anyway, beyond the slight golden blur of a few drinks, and then... it's embarrassing, how fucked up he still is when nothing even happened, but the idea of how that night would have gone if Prism hadn't stepped in is just so fucking scary.
Back in the isolation room, Prism is starting to make wakeful, complaining little noises, huddling under the piled towels and shivering. Flambae sighs, and goes to cuddle up to her, gathering her into his arms. She cuddles close to his chest, and sighs happily.
"Mornin', bitch," she murmurs, not opening her eyes.
Flambae chuckles, eyes suddenly full of tears. "God, I love you so much," he whispers, and she chuckles, hugging him tightly.
"I know," she says.