Jin's Shitpost

Well, Mecha Man is no stranger to fans. One doesn't exactly become the protector of LA without attracting some attention, not to mention everyone still in love with the late Bobby and Robbie. Robert himself is unknown to the public, but at SDN, he hears the occasional mention of his name in conversation. To say people sing his praises is a little excessive, but they know Mecha Man’s a damn good superhero, and therefore have at least a grudging respect for him. So he’d say he’s pretty well-liked overall.

Put simply, he’s aware of the concept of a celebrity crush. No, he wouldn't say that he knows much, but he's become familiar with the pop culture articles and social media edits and the fanfiction, the latter of which presumes quite a great deal more about what he’s capable of than what he can actually do with his perpetually pained body. It doesn't take much to faze him, at this point.

Even still, the revelation that someone he actually knows is a fan of his surprises him more than he thought.

In his defense, he doesn’t initially intend to eavesdrop, but it happens during his scheduled break (and here’s another new aspect of office life that he’s getting used to — break time, that you get paid for). With Chase and Beef getting grandpa-dogson time, he’s making himself a cup of coffee and shotgunning it to chase away the rampant ache in his bones, when the end of a sentence cuts through the brain fog and pierces his eardrums.

‘…cha Man again? Really?’

He's alert upon hearing his name. You would too if you’ve heard it constantly for fifteen years, though it doesn’t sound like this is any sort of distress call. If anything, the way the person says it — incredulous and a little amused — makes him think they’re probably calling him washed up, which he’s heard plenty of in the past few weeks from his team.

The voice practically cackles, and this time it’s not hard to discern that it belongs to Invisigal before she trails off, listening to the other side of the conversation. Whatever answer is given is too quiet for him to hear, which means either you're trying to avoid Galen, which isn’t possible, since he hears everything, or you’re frantically trying to shush her, which is even less possible since she will not let a thing go.

He might as well try to see what’s going on. If you’re making fun of him, he needs to workshop new insults anyway. Taking his coffee in hand, he strolls leisurely to the source of the conversation.

It doesn’t take him long to find that it’s coming from your cubicle, a few rows down from his own, and he pauses to observe the scene from across the room. He's heard correctly — you’re not alone: Invisigal leans over the thin partition, a delighted expression on her face, and you're sitting in your office chair, a mortified expression on your own.

A magazine is clutched in your hands. As you attempt to prevent the Z-Teamer from getting a better look at it, the chair swivels so that the cover, the print thick and glossy, reveals itself to Robert.

Oh. That’s him on the cover. The photoshoot he’d done out of the Mecha Man suit a few years ago that had the hashtag #mechahot trending for three days. He’s got a box of them somewhere in his warehouse, still. What do you want with that? Target practice?

Oblivious to his presence, but very tuned into yours, Invisigal grins as she leans over and deftly plucks the magazine from your hands, whistling as she turns it over. ‘Who even needs lobby catalogs? What, did you steal this for jerk-off material or something?’

Blunt as always, Visi, Robert thinks amusedly, taking a sip of his coffee.

‘Shut up,’ you hiss, bristling. ‘I didn’t steal it, okay? For your information, I was going to make a copy of it and then very respectfully put it back.’

‘What happened to the last one?’

‘I spilled water on it.’

‘Water. Uh-huh, yeah, sure.' She snorts. 'Listen, it’s fine. Lots of people want to fuck him. I would, and I'm not half the fan you are.'

You make a choked, indignant noise and put your head in your hands.

Oh.

Well. He didn’t see that coming.

And, see, he must have been blind, because he’s suddenly picking up on so much more about you that he hadn’t seen before. Your cubicle has a little Mecha Man bobblehead on it. Your water bottle has an M sticker plastered on the side, buffed and faded with age. And while your shirt is the same as every other dispatcher’s in the department, the little pin you’ve affixed to it is not…

Higher reasoning, as well as the other kind of HR, would dictate that this would be an excellent opportunity to leave now and pretend he didn’t see anything. But curiosity gets the better of Robert, and so he remains where he is. His grip on the mug grows slightly tighter.

‘That’s not the only reason I like him,' you mumble, face still obscured by your palms.

The woman eagerly fans herself with the magazine. ‘Oh? What else does he have going for him?’

'God, isn't it obvious?'

'You're the superfan. You tell me,' Invisigal says smugly, handing you back the magazine. You stare down at it petulantly, leaving Invisigal and Robert both with bated breath.

‘…I just think he’s nice, okay?’ you mutter, quieter than before, but loud enough that every word screams out at him clear as day. ‘Like, yeah, of course he looks nice, sure, and I’m into that. Obviously. So’s half the fucking city. But he’s also just — nice.'

Oh, Robert thinks for the third time now, and absently slurps much too loudly from the mug trying to get at the dregs, his teeth clinking on porcelain.

The sound might as well have been a gunshot. Silence descends upon the office.

Invisigal’s head snaps up, and the look on her face is first surprise, then pure mirth, a smile broadening on her face. You glance over, stiffen, and swivel in your chair, turning your back to him without a word.

‘Well,’ Invisigal chirps cheerfully — much too cheerfully — ‘keep at it, and I’m sure he’ll notice you eventually.’

‘Go the fuck away,’ you grumble, and, for once happy to comply, she walks towards Robert, giving him a gleeful expression — just try to fucking get out of this one — before sauntering off. Only after her footsteps have receded well into the corridor (and you've glanced around for equal measure, because you simply never know with her) do you gain the courage to straighten back up, your face burning.

Robert walks over, coming to a stop at your cubicle. He might as well, at this point. He’s been caught red-handed, or mug-handed, in this case.

He's about to say something when you look him directly in the eyes, and he's struck by your expression: your stare does not hold an ounce of regret, and you’re jutting your chin out a little shakily, ready to defend your favorite hero to the end. The magazine is clutched tightly to your chest.

‘What,’ you say flatly.

‘Nothing.’ He fights the urge to grin, schooling his face into nonchalance. ‘I think he’d appreciate that.’

Your eyes narrow at him, and then you swallow and turn back to your monitor, pausing just long enough to delicately place the magazine down before you resume work.

Robert's no stranger to fans — has never really gotten the appeal of fans. But he thinks that you might have just changed his mind.

(A mint edition of the magazine appears on your desk later that week. Signed.)