Chapter Text
Robert sits on the floor in front of an old, busted couch that's more springs than fabric. He has small, twisted tissues shoved into his nostrils to soak up the blood, but he's constantly rubbing the side of his head against his lips in a refusal to taste the excess. He would pay more attention to his nose if he wasn't intently focused on bandaging the rest of his body, hoping to keep the stains left on his living room floor to a minimum. He's out of cream, so the bruises will just have to heal on their own... if he ever lets this patchwork of discoloration he calls skin heal.
When he's finished, Robert grabs the edge of the couch. He's more concerned with keeping his hand from getting stabbed by a spring than he is with keeping the mess off the cushions. Honestly, he can't even remember what color the couch originally was after all the times he's curled up on it, seeking a comfort that will never come.
The couch, however, is able to give him just enough support for him to stand up. Blood loss and starvation (and likely some dehydration, too, just as a treat) leaves his head cold and his vision blurry. His hands aren't as shaky as they could be when he starts picking up the bandages, cotton balls, tissues, and other poor excuses for medicinal care off the ground and couch. He gathers them all into his arms and brings them to the closet, arranging the pitiful amount into something that could, in theory, be an acceptable first-aid kit.
Before Robert can spiral or even go deal with the nosebleed (that he wouldn't mind so much if the dripping blood would at least take his headache with it), there's a firm knocking against his door. Robert frowns slightly. He approaches his front door, expecting to see an angry landlord here to harass Robert about rent again.
But when Robert opens his door a crack, it is not his landlord who looks at him or even one of his neighbors. It's an older man—at minimum, forty years old, but likely even more than that. He has a few black strands in his short ponytail, but his hair has mostly gone ash gray. It frames his deep, amber eyes and dark skin. Possibly Middle Eastern? Somewhere sunny, at least. His clothes fit and are well-worn, so it's between those being his actual clothes or him getting lucky with finding someone of his exact body type (broad-shouldered, muscular, heavyset) to steal the clothes of. Neither option disqualifies him as a spy, but Robert can't figure out what his cover would be since he's openly holding grocery bags filled with... well, it looks like actual groceries.
"...can I help you?" Robert asks, trying not to sound as distrustful as he feels. He doesn't know who this man is, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's a bad person. Given his age, maybe he's just confused, or maybe Robert has a new neighbor or—more likely—one of his neighbors has a few friend/paramour/something.
"Oh, Robert," The man whispers. There's a familiarity to his tone and a wonder in his eyes. Robert immediately wants to question that, but the man takes a step forward. Robert is about to slam the door shut when his body instinctively releases the door handle. He stumbles back, realizing belatedly that his skin feels hot. The man forces his way into the apartment. He shuts the door with his heel, but Robert checks and—the handle isn't hot. It likely wasn't in the first place... so why did he let go? Why is his skin pink from the lingering heat?
Robert whirls around. The man is... in his kitchen. He's unpacking the groceries because that what they are—groceries. For some reason, the man knows where to put everything like he's familiar with Robert's apartment. Antsy, Robert keeps his composure, "Who are you? What do you want?"
"Ah," The man throws his hands up. He sets one over his heart and lets the other reach toward Robert without touching. "I forget, I forget. I am Faizan." He has a thinned Afghanistan accent, so he's likely been training it away or it's naturally gone away through time in America. There's no telling which it could be, especially since 'Faizan' sounds like a normal name. It isn't something a supervillain would call themselves. "I brought you food. I wanted to bring more, but very, very hungry stomachs make for small ones. We must make more room, and then I will make you your favorites."
Favorites? What the hell is this man talking about? Robert doesn't have a favorite food, and even if he did, why does Faizan sound so confident that he knows what it is?
"Look, Faizan, sir, I believe you're confused. I'm not the person you're trying to find. There must be another Robert you've mixed me up with. It's fine, though. I'll help you find the other Robert."
The amber-eyed man shakes his head. "There is no other Robert, silly. Only you. What other Robert would live like this because he is Mecha Man?"
Faizan laughs humorlessly. Robert feels all the blood drain from is body. Okay, maybe Faizan isn't confused. No, no, he's well-informed. Robert doesn't know how sold him off, but as he quietly pulls open the drawer beside him, he's about to find out.
When Faizan shuts the refrigerator door, he turns around. Robert aims a handgun at the man. His hands are steadier than he thought they would be given everything he's gone through today (and because he really, really doesn't like guns). "Who are you? What do you want from me? Who sent you and why?"
Faizan frowns. He's upset—more sad than angry. Robert swallows thickly. He's not afraid to shoot. This man broke into his apartment. He poses a threat to Robert. It's self-defense. And he won't do anything if Faizan would explain himself and get the fuck out.
"I'm sorry. I did not mean to scare you." Faizan's amber eyes narrow at the gun. A soft glow appears in the irises. It doesn't take long for Robert to realize why when the metal starts heating up in his grasp. Robert tries holding on for as long as possible, but his body rebels against his mind when the pain becomes too much. He drops the gun, pulling his hands to himself. The outer layers of the bandages are ashy, and his skin might have a first-degree burn.
Faizan caught the gun, so it did not hit the ground. He sets it away, showing no signs of feeling the heat. Robert prepares himself for a fight, pushing down the mounting terror at the situation. He reminds himself that this isn't all that different from his usual fights—it doesn't matter that the mech isn't ready for him or that this enemy knows his identity.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Robert," Faizan promises, far too honest and downright wholesome for this situation. Robert tenses as he approaches. He doesn't step away even when Faizan's hands cradle both of his cheeks. There's nothing forceful or painful about the touch, yet it hurts so awfully all the same. "I'm here to take care of you."
Why the fuck does he mean that?