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Robert was weird about touch.
He liked to deny it, a drawled word or a dry remark to deflect away from the fact that a brushed shoulder in the breakroom left him flinching. It worked well enough, especially amongst a group as distractible as the Z-Team, but Flambae noticed. He noticed a lot, actually.
It took him a long time to realize that anything was amiss in the first place. It’s not like the two men were touching frequently given their history— except for Flambae’s monthly allotted punchings. Eventually though, their relationship started to evolve, and certain things started… popping up.
Despite what Robert likes to pretend to believe, their relationship was never ‘boss and employee’, even before Flambae rediscovered their shared history. They were two people shoved into close quarters, constantly stepping on each other's metaphorical tails and having insult after insult raring to go.
Somewhere along the way that began to soften. Not too much, mind you, Flambae still thought Robert was an annoying bitch of the highest caliber, but those feelings no longer held that sharp edge that made him want to bare his teeth. Now, they mostly left him trying to suppress an upturned twitch of his lips. Fucking infuriating.
The first time he really noticed it was in the bar. It was nothing special, not even a hero or villain bar (they had gotten kicked out of all of those), but Flambae liked the way the lights were low and the music thrummed hard enough to make his skull buzz. They had managed to drag Robert out on this Friday night in particular because today Sonar was three months clean and they insisted that the occasion demanded celebration.
He complied with a weary sigh and rolled eyes but he complied nonetheless. Flambae found him leaning against the sticky bar, swirling his glass to watch the two ice cubes spin in the amber whiskey.
“Bitch.” He muttered in greeting.
“Jackass.” They smiled at each other for a brief second, Flambae nodding at the bartender and raising his empty glass in a silent request.
“What are you doing all the way over here? Waterboy and Phenomaman are doing karaoke and they fucking suck, it’s so funny.”
Robert just shrugged and took a small sip. He swallowed, Flambae’s eyes darting down to watch a pink tongue moisten chapped lips. “I dunno. Just needed a break, I guess.”
Flambae rolled his eyes. “We’ve been here for half an hour, what could you possibly need a break from?”
“You guys.”
“...yeah, fair.” The conversation faltered, a new drink sliding in front of Flambae in the meantime. He used a straw to stir the cocktail, watching as the layers of orange and yellow and red all swirled together with each downward stab. “You can’t hang out here the entire time though, that’s fucking lame. Come on.”
Flambae grabbed his drink and pushed himself off the counter, walking backwards to keep Robert in his line of sight. Robert hesitated, his shoulders still tucked in uncertainly as he cradled the glass between two hands. Flambae rolled his eyes, darting forward to make a grab. His hands landed on a wrist that was still far too bony, even after the team had been trying to fatten him up, and tugged.
The effect was instantaneous, blink-and-you-miss-it. Robert’s eyes widened a fraction, but not in surprise. They were too wide for that. The frantic shrinking of pupils in cocoa-brown eyes made it look like fear, almost.
His breath hitched, chest stuttering underneath that stupid fucking button-up they hadn’t been able to convince him to change out of. Robert moved, almost throwing himself back bodily and ripping himself out of the loose grasp. His back hit the bartop and he hissed, spine going ramrod straight.
The whole ordeal lasted five seconds, max, but Flambae knew what he saw. Robert had been touched and he reacted badly, even despite his later reassurances and brushed-aside concerns. The soft flush of his cheeks from the alcohol had fled in a minute, leaving his skin pale and pallid. So Flambae let him drop it, for now.
He started paying closer attention, though. He watched the way the man seemed to angle himself away from the potential for touch, placing himself in the sweet spot so he was still near enough another person to be inconspicuous but far enough that a casual touch would be unlikely.
He watched the way Robert seemed to duck away from a hand that was raising for a high-five or meant to fall on his shoulder in camaraderie. If someone was walking towards them he took a step back in a way that almost seemed instinctual, letting the person pass without even having to share air. Flambae always thought he was just being a bitch– he’d rather body someone than let them think he would move for them– but he was reconsidering. Robert really and truly avoided touch.
The deliberation over why lasted all of two seconds: the guy was fucking covered in scars. On the few occasions that Flambae had seen him shirtless he had a quip on his tongue about meeting the wrong end of a woodchipper, but he restrained himself. That seemed a little too cruel, especially given that those scars were earned over years of being an actual, real-life, bonafide hero. That wasn’t something to be ashamed of.
It made sense that Robert associated touch with something bad and given the way he made comments about his father being the ‘tough love’ type, Flambae was starting to doubt that much of the touch Robert received had ever been positive. How many times had someone laid their hands on Robert and didn’t mean him harm?
He came up with a plan. Yes, it was a plan, not a scheme, Alice.
He wouldn’t touch Robert, ever. He would place himself close, keep a watchful eye for when his closeness left Robert shuffling uneasily. He would make himself available, make it clear that his touch was offered, not demanded, and wait for Robert to approach him.
It-it’s not like he liked the guy or anything, he was still fucking annoying, thought he could boss Flambae around just because he was his dispatcher, he was still Mecha-bitch. But it was hard to ignore the uncomfortable churning of his gut whenever Sonar jokingly pet him on the head and Robert’s laugh was a thready, deeply uncomfortable thing.
He was going to help.
And that’s what he did. They didn’t actually see each other at work in-person very often, maybe for a couple of minutes a day in the breakroom or while clocking out, but Flambae tried to capitalise on that time.
On the first day of this new mission he found Robert in the breakroom during lunch. The man looked exhausted (although only the normal amount this time, thankfully), eyes skimming over the selection of treats in the vending machine like they didn’t all know what he was going to choose.
Flambae approached casually, making his footsteps a little louder than usual to announce his presence. He sidled up behind Robert as scarred hands were attempting to insert a five-dollar bill into the little slot and cursing when the machine kept spitting it back out.
“Hey, bitch. Need help?” Robert looked back and rolled his eyes at him before turning back to his fruitless endeavors. “I’m serious. That bill is all fuckin’ crumpled, the machine won’t take it. Give it here.”
He held out his hand expectantly, making sure to place himself just on the edge of not-too-close as Robert turned, bill grasped between his fingers. Robert eyed him suspiciously.
“How?” Flambae scoffed, shaking his outstretched palm as if to say ‘Give it here and I’ll show you’. “You’re not burning my money, I’m already broke.”
“Fucking- give it here.” He snatches the bill, careful not to let their fingertips graze before pressing the bill between his two palms. He let the sweat on his skin begin to heat, steaming the bill before pressing it to flatten. It wasn’t perfect by any means but it was a hell of a lot better than it had been before. “Here.”
He’s deliberate with how he holds the bill in offering. Much more of his hand is covering the bill than is strictly necessary but Robert could still pinch the edge between his fingers to pull it out without needing to make skin-to-skin contact. It’ll take a little more effort, though.
Robert hesitates, teeth worrying his bottom lip for a moment before he reaches out. His posture is rigid, tense, like he expects Flambae to go ‘Ha, fucking got you!’ and melt all of his skin off. His fingers hesitate in midair for a moment before he grasps the paper, throat bobbing as the tips of Robert’s fingers ghost over his own.
Robert yanks it back in a second as if he’s been scalded, frozen for a second before he clears his throat and forces himself to relax. “Thanks.” He says, voice more than a little hesitant as he turns around to continue his selection. The machine accepts the bill this time.
Flambae counts it as a win.
He keeps this up for a couple of weeks, conveniently creating scenarios that implore Robert to touch Flambae. He’s careful with it, though, making sure he never forces Robert into it. If the man ever feels cornered he’ll skitter away like an alley cat and they’ll be back to square one.
Flambae can’t help the pleased warmth in his chest when he notices that it seems to be getting a little easier for Robert. He still seems tentative, but it’s miles better than the man literally having an adverse negative reaction to touching him. It’s uncomfortable, not painful.
He decides to start pushing it a little. Not too much, never too much, but enough so the progress didn’t begin to stagnate. They’re standing in front of the leaderboard at the end of the day, waiting for the final calculations to come through before they officially clock out.
Flambae had reluctantly agreed to stop putting out his own fires for an increase in points, Robert promising that if he could keep it up he would try to send him on as many point boosting missions as he could justify. Flambae keeps his eyes firmly on the board, breath catching as it reorders and- yes. He’s climbed just above the lowest point earner on another team. It’s still low, far too low, but he’s made an improvement.
He turns back to Robert with a grin to find the other man grinning back, just as wide. His eyes are crinkled at the corners in a way that makes Flambae think he would look good with smile lines and then immediately mourns the fact that the man is past thirty and doesn’t have smile lines.
“Great job.” Robert congratulates, and Flambae can’t help the way his chest puffs out a little.
“Yeah, I know. I’m the fucking best.” Robert just shakes his head, still smiling as he turns back to the board. This is his window.
He shuffles to the side just a little, a mere centimeter of space between their shoulders. Flambae may run hot but he still feels Robert's ambient human warmth ghosting along his aramid suit.
Robert doesn’t notice, furrowing his brow slightly as he reviews the new points for the rest of the team. He sways slightly to the side and nearly jumps as his shoulder brushes against Flambae’s upper arm. Flambae is keeping his face completely straight, pretending to be studying the board and completely oblivious to anything happening.
He can almost feel Robert’s hesitation, the shaky breaths that begin to resteady after a few moments. He settles down, shoulders dropping as he returns to the board himself. They’re silent, Flambae wondering how long he’s supposed to be drawing something like this out, when he feels a feather-light touch against his shoulder.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t fucking look, if you draw attention to it he’s gonna bolt.
Flambae holds his breath, every nerve in his body vibrating at the sensation of the man beside him willingly letting the starchy material of his uniform come into contact with another person. It’s over in a few seconds, Robert pulling away to take a too-big step to the side and exhale. Flambae waits for a second before dragging his gaze away, nodding to himself like anyone else on the board matters to him in the slightest before looking over at Robert.
He’s still tense, his chest is still fluttering up and down rapidly, but the color in his face is still there. His eyes aren’t panicked. Flambae bites down a smile.
Then, Flambae starts noticing something new. When they’re with other people, with the team or at a bar or anywhere that holds a risk of an unsafe touch, Robert shuffles closer to Flambae. He doesn’t touch him, doesn’t let his breaths mingle with Flambae’s, but Robert falls into his orbit, almost. He angles his body towards the pyro in the same way a sunflower will always turn to find the sun.
Like if Robert had to touch someone, if someone got a little too close and Robert was stuck between a rock and a hard place, he would rather that touch be Flambae. It makes his stomach flop in all kinds of wonderful ways.
The biggest breakthrough happens after yet another bar crawl. What was supposed to be a celebration of the end of the week turns into Coop getting so drunk she literally can’t stand up, Punch-Up depositing her onto one of Flambae’s armchairs after they made an executive decision to crash at his for the night.
Technically Mal could just portal them all home but they had gotten drunk enough that they were really testing their ability to not get alcohol poisoning as supers, so Flambae did the honorable thing and let them all crash on his floor for the night. He was probably the least drunk out of all of them, actually. He didn’t like getting wasted as much these days.
Robert had stumbled and crashed onto his couch seconds after he fell through the door, eyes closed and body loose as he tucks himself into the corner of the plush material. Flambae eyes him consideringly before sighing, going to his bathroom to grab painkillers and a bottle of water. He’s no more drunk than anyone else here, but he’s a normie. He wouldn’t sleep off his hangover as easily.
“Bob-Bob.” Flambae kicks the arm of the couch Robert is slumped against and relishes in the bitchy glare it gets him. “Take this. Can’t have your bitching and moaning be the first thing I hear when I wake up tomorrow.
Robert rolls his eyes but complies, sluggishly pulling himself forward to have the offerings dropped into his hands. He swallows two pills dry and then drinks half the bottle (fucking freak), before dropping them on the coffee table and collapsing back.
Flambae drops onto the spot next to him, eyeing the way Alice is messing with his record player. He trusts her, loves her like he loves his own sister, but she was wasted and he wasn’t sure how much he trusted her to not drop his Adele records. He should probably intervene, actually. He’s getting ready to stand when-
He freezes. There’s a sudden weight on his shoulder, warm and firm with scarred muscle. He turns slowly, so fucking slowly, to see Robert slouched against his shoulder. His eyes are closed, cheek pressed into Flambae’s shoulder before his lips upturn in a happy little grin.
“Warm.” He mumbles, shifting again so more of his skin is pressing against Flambae. Flambae, for his part, feels like he’s going to fucking explode. His chest is tight and he can feel the way a blush is starting to dust the top of his ears as Robert yawns.
If pressed, Flambae would vehemently deny that he warmed himself up just a little bit more, eyes tracking the rise and fall of Robert’s chest as he drifts off to a contented sleep. That is what happened, though.
He replays that moment in his head over, and over, and over, laying in his bed after he had carefully pulled himself away to try and get some sleep with everyone else in his living room. He doesn’t succeed.
(He goes back out to the living room an hour later with a pillow and a blanket to fall asleep on the floor, just beneath the spot of the couch where Robert snores).
Later, he reasons to himself that yes, while Robert didn’t exactly choose to do that sober, the fact that felt safe enough to do so means that Flambae is making progress.
He sees it in the way that Robert slowly stops flinching away from the touches of the team, how his shoulders are still drawn tight but his breath is more even when someone claps him on the shoulder or brushes against him in the hall. Flambae is-he’s proud of Robert.
It helps that Robert seems to prefer his touch most of all. Robert isn’t quite initiating touch yet–Flambae wonders if they’ll ever get to that point, really– but he’s the only person who Robert allows to touch him. Flambae is the only person who can handle Robert and receive no reaction. He doesn’t miss the curious stares or the low snickers from the team, but he doesn’t care. He’s the only one Robert likes touching.
He’s surprised when the touches start lingering. Robert doesn’t pull away when Flambae bumps their shoulders, lets his fingers remain on Flambae’s arm long enough that he can feel the cold that he’s pretty sure is caused by iron-deficiency anemia. He finds a lot of joy in letting the fire beneath his skin flutter and watching the way Robert gravitates more towards him.
And, listen, Flambae is a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. He knows what that little rush of warmth every time Robert praises him over comms means, he knows what causes that little stutter in his chest that only intensifies when Robert sends him a conspiratorial grin. He knows he’s playing a dangerous game, but he’s not in this for his benefit. He’s in this to watch Robert be more comfortable in his own skin. That’s payment enough.
It all comes to a head not long after Mecha Man is approved for a return to field work. They’re on a trial basis for now— Mandy says it’s so Robert can reacclimate but they’re all aware that whoever takes over for Robert on the days he’s in the field is going to be needing a long training period— so he’s getting sent out on the tame stuff for now.
The mission itself was fine, some reports of a teenage shoplifting ring they were able to squash with just the landing of Mecha Man in the parking lot. Flambae didn’t advocate for frightening children, but it was a little funny to hear Robert describe the way the little shitheads scrambled away from the entrance. It was a little less funny to hear him climb out of the suit and give them a stern talking to about their futures.
The problem came after. Flambae had been checking his phone, taking a much-needed break after breaking up a parent fight during a dance recital when Mandy’s voice crackles over his comms. “Flambae, do you know where Robert is?” He wants to roll his eyes and scoff, he’s not the man’s keeper, but something in her voice stills him.
“I dunno, that grocery store?”
Her voice is frantic as she responds and he can hear the rapid-fire clack of her keyboard. “I’m sending you the coordinates, we need you there now.”
He stands up a little straighter. “The fuck is going on?”
“It’s Robert.” His heart drops out of his chest. “He got hurt. There were some former Red Ring goons with a grudge so when they saw Robert out of the suit they- they stabbed him.”
His chest feels tight when he snaps, “Okay, so get him back to SDN!”
“We can’t!” She snaps back. “He’s refusing to let anyone pick him up except for you. I need you to get over here and grab him before he bleeds out.” He’s moving before she even finishes the sentence, heart beating frantically as flames crackle to life.
He’s flying at speeds that would absolutely get his flight license revoked but he doesn’t fucking care because Robert is hurt and asking for him. Under normal circumstances he would have been thrilled, but these were not normal circumstances.
He lands in the parking lot a few seconds later to see Mal and Sonar at his side, hunched over the man a few yards away from the suit. He bodily shoves his way in between the two, maybe a little more aggressively than strictly necessary but he’s been able to hear Robert’s weak and panicked protests from the second he landed and it’s making him a little insane.
The sight makes him nauseous. Robert’s surrounded by a pool of red, the suit already soaked with it as he’s wheezing softly and curled into a ball on the gravel of the parking lot. He’s making these desperate little noises, muttered ‘no, no’s’ that make his heart lurch.
Flambae is able to clock why almost immediately. Sonar is hunched over him, pressing down on the wound in a bid to slow the bleeding. He’s doing the right thing, he’s probably kept Robert from bleeding out in this fucking parking lot, but the sight fills him with a visceral kind of rage as Robert is clearly trying to squirm away.
“Fucking move.” He snaps, shoving Sonar out of the way and replacing the hybrid’s hands with his own. Robert gasps at the renewed pressure, eyes squeezed shut and brow furrowed, but… he doesn’t try to squirm away. Flambae takes all of a second before realizing, oh. Robert can feel his warmth. He recognizes him.
He leans down, face inches away from Robert’s as he tries to staunch the bleeding. “Hey, Robbo.” He says, trying to speak loud enough to break through the pain-haze he’s sure Robert is muddling through right now. “I gotta pick you up so we can get you to SDN. That okay?”
He tries to keep the tremor out of his voice. He’s not sure it works.
Robert nods, letting his eyes drift open and Flambae feels his breath hitch at the tears that are gathering in the corner of those chocolate eyes. He doesn’t speak, Flambae doubts he can right now, just nodding frantically and squeezing his eyes shut once again.
Flambae gathers Robert in his arms, heart shattering a little more with every hitched breath and low curse. He tries to not jostle the man too much as he scoops him into a bridal carry and then he’s back up in the air, the only two thoughts in his head being ‘Get him to SDN’ and ‘Don’t fucking burn him’ as the air whips around them.
He’s flying at speeds that are absolutely illegal but they get there fast, Flambae trembling slightly as he drops into the landing bay of the SDN clinic. They’re already there waiting for him, a group of people in scrubs and a bed between them. Flambae sets him down as carefully as possible, moving to pull away when a hand darts out to grab his wrist.
“Don’t leave.” Robert rasps, the sheets of the bed already darkening with his blood.
“I’m not leaving,” Flambae breathes, lacing their hands together as they’re rushed through the entrance and into a trauma bay. He feels like he’s going to throw up.
They have to sedate him. There’s too many strangers touching Robert, pulling off pieces of the costume for access to IVs and monitors and he starts thrashing hard enough that the wound on his stomach starts gushing anew. Flambae tries, he tries so fucking hard to reassure Robert and let the heat bleed through their interlaced fingers, but it’s too much.
He doesn’t let go of Robert's hand once as everyone around him works, has to swallow back the bile in his throat as they begin to stitch together the blood-stained edges of a jagged wound. Eventually they finish, the doctor giving him a reassuring smile as he explains that Robert got lucky, that it missed any vital organs and the fact they got him here so quickly meant he lost much less blood. He wants to burn the doctor alive but he resists. For Robert.
Eventually they’re ushered into a different room, a smaller one. A quieter one. Too quiet, he thinks, with only the sound of the heart monitor to fill the silence. The terror in his chest has lessened somewhat but his breaths still feel a little too tight each time he looks over to see Robert with a thick bandage around his torso. Another scar, he thinks faintly, and wonders if all the progress they’ve made has been lost.
It doesn’t take long for him to come back around. Flambae is staring at the torso of his suit slick with blood and trying to keep himself from dropping into a spiral when he hears a weak little groan. His head shoots up in an instant to see Robert drag his eyes open and immediately wince at the light of the room.
“Hey.” He says, trying to keep his voice soft. Robert blinks up at the ceiling a few times before turning his head to see Flambae pulled up at his bedside in a chair. It takes another few seconds for his gaze to fall onto their interlaced hands.
Flambae expects him to pull away. He doesn’t.
“Wha’ happened.” He mumbles, voice weak and raspy as his eyes slide shut again. Flambae clears his throat, trying to dislodge the ball of emotion stuck there.
“You got stabbed when you were out of the suit. Fucking dumbass.” Robert opens his eyes to study him and for a moment Flambae is worried he’s overstepped, but Robert just smiles weakly.
“Mhmm, but you saved me.”
Flambae feels his eyebrows raise in surprise. “You remember?”
“Mhmm. It was cold, then it was warm.” Robert says, squeezing his hand lightly. He sighs, releasing all of the air out of his chest in a rush. “You’re warm. S’nice.” Flambae blinks away the moisture at the corners of his eyes.
They fall into silence once more, Flambae unconsciously beginning to run his thumb over the back of Robert’s hand. He’ll stay here as long as he can, as long as Robert will allow him, but he’s been here for-fucking-ever and he’s getting a little antsy.
Robert makes a little noise and Flambae glances up to see his gaze trained on their hands. Robert’s eyes are still a little hazy but they’re clearing, slowly regaining their typical sharp edge.
“I forgot," Robert murmurs, gaze never budging. “That it could feel good.” Flambae doesn’t ask for clarification. He doesn’t need it. “I know what you’ve been doing, by the way.”
Flambae tenses. He opens his mouth, not really sure what he’s going to say but he feels the need to fill the space somehow when Robert interrupts him.
“I’m not mad. If that’s what you think.” Robert looks away from their hands, letting it fall onto his lap beneath the thin blanket Flambae had tugged over him. “I’m… grateful. I don’t think I would have been able to do it alone.” He looks up and the softness in his eyes is nearly unbearable.
“Thank you.” Flambae nods weakly. He feels like he should speak but Robert beats him to it once again. This time, though, Robert sounds a little more apprehensive. “Can I ask you for a favor?”
“Anything.”
“I’d.” He pauses, closing his eyes to inhale and exhale before turning back. “Could you… hug me?” He pauses again before following it with a little, “Please.”
Flambae nods weakly. He’s not sure he could refuse Robert anything right now. He stands, still never disconnecting their hands as he pushes himself out of the uncomfortable chair to stand next to the bed.
He’s slow, telegraphing his movements as he leans over Robert. He’s so, so careful as he wraps his arms around Robert’s shoulders, trying his hardest not to jostle the wound as he helps Robert sit up properly. Robert’s return of the movements are hesitant, tentative arms wrapping around Flambae’s waist and eventually, a head burying in the crook of Flambae’s neck.
Flambae is… fuck, he feels insane. The sheer amount he’s touching Robert right now is making his neurons fire in the most insane way, like he can feel the oxytocin and dopamine flooding through his veins. It’s better than any drug he’s ever tried, especially when Robert makes this little sigh and properly relaxes into the embrace, his nose brushing over Flambae’s pulse point.
They stay like that for a while, neither really willing to pull away. They both need this right now.
Robert pulls away first, not fully out of the embrace but just enough so he can make eye contact with Flambae when he smiles a tired little thing. Flambae can feel his body warmth tick up a few degrees at the sight and can’t quite bite back a smile when Robert sighs into it.
Looking back on it, Flambae isn’t really sure who leaned in first. All he remembers is that one moment he’s noticing the little flecks of gold in Robert’s eyes and the next he has those chapped, torn lips on his own. It’s a soft, slow thing, his tongue darting out to wet those lips and earning a pleased little noise in return. They’re both flushing when he finally manages to pull away.
“Goddamn, bitch. We’ve got to get you Aquaphor or something.” He gets an annoyed little eyeroll in return, but he still gets pulled back in for another kiss.