#(sadly)

What is a good excuse for not texting your—alleged—best friend friend for what? Has it been a week now?

Shit hit the fan on Friday, then it was Saturday, Sunday… Monday…

All the way to today, which is Thursday…

God, Robert. Great fucking job.

You went several days wallowing in self-pity and self-flagellation, so consumed by your own spiral of 'me, me, me' that you let a whole damn week pass. He can't remember a time he's ever done this—let silence stretch this long, let the distance grow this wide. After all, the terror of one of his (or rather Mecha Man's) enemies getting their hands on you had jolted him from sleep more times than he could count.

Speaking of nightmares, his have been worse lately. He blames it on the stress of the new job and everything that comes packaged with it. That's always the convenient culprit, isn't it?

Stress, stress, and even more stress.

Stress (and anxiety) that promises to make both sleeping and waking moments a consistent stream of Hell and 'fuck-you's. It's not that Robert is generally anxiety-prone—at least not in the way most people understand it—though hypervigilance hits closer to the mark.

Paranoia too. A rightfully earned trait given his history. A childhood with a father who was a superhero—the Mecha Man of Los Angeles—was already complicated enough. But add in an upbringing of tough love, the kind that stripped away any semblance of normal childhood (at least from how he remembers it), combined with those formative years that kept his estranged father even more distant to people trying to kill him (even as a growing child).. Well, it certainly teaches you to keep those walls high. To build them thick enough that showing vulnerability feels like inviting shame for failing at something so 'basic.'

It didn't help that just this morning, he'd erupted from that sorry excuse of a 'bed'—that damn plastic chair because any form of an actual bed, something comfortable, something safe, something vulnerable—in a cold sweat. A name breathless on his lips, eyes wide and muscles trembling as his brain struggled to catch up with his racing heart.

It was early morning, that’s the first thing he processed. The sun just beginning its climb across the apartment floor—inching higher and higher toward his stiff form as his chest unsteadily rises and falls. The light felt both comforting and exposing, like he was being forced under a spotlight that existed solely to catalog his daily failures. Or his simple existence, which could also be marked as the biggest failure of it all.

Exhaustion pulls his shoulders into a defeated hunch. He scrubs his hands over his face, feeling the growing out scruff against his calloused palms before pressing his hands against his eyes. He looks every bit the sorry sack of humanity he feels like. His shirt—one that feels more like stolen skin with each passing day—hangs loose on his frame, paired with boxers that should probably have been replaced years ago.

His phone finds its way into his rough, unsteady hands, heart still racing from the nightmare. Your contact—'HB 🏡'—comes up with familiar speed, but his thumb hovers over it. The emoji choice had been its own ordeal: he'd typed a heart, deleted it.

Tried a different colored heart, deleted that too.

Cycled through options until settling on something neutral, something that couldn't be misinterpreted.

Not like… he would mind having a heart in your contact. But how does he explain that to someone else who could possibly meet you—initially believing you two were possibly together only to cause an awkward moment that was the reveal of the opposite. Where you’ll have to find out in that moment that, damn—this person I saw as a best friend for years really is just weird. Sees me different. Sees me in a way I don’t see him.

He opens the thread. The last conversation sits there like an accusation—just your messages, your responses to him from before you'd hurried to help him off Phenomaman's billboard. Despite how well that night had started, it makes Robert feel hollow seeing how it all ended the following day. Seeing the absence of the easy back-and-forth that used to define your friendship.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard, thumb circling the air before he types smoothly:

Hey

He deletes it immediately. Too casual. Too dismissive of everything that's happened.

Can we talk?

No. That sounds ominous. Like a breakup text, which is ridiculous because you can't break up with someone you were never actually dating.

Hey, sorry I was a complete asshole for no reason and then ghosted you for a week?

Closer, but it reads too flippant. Like he's trying to joke his way out of real accountability.

His fingers move again, slower this time. More deliberate. His body feeling as heavy as knowing stones:

I miss you.

The words sit there on the screen, cursor blinking.

Then, his thumbs are typing faster, like if he doesn’t get it all out he never will. The speed gives him a sudden spike of anxiety, like when something feels oddly too fast—or too slow.

I'm sorry for Friday. I have no excuse for what happened other than me being a stupid asshole who can't think about anyone but himself. Who's so selfish that I tried to make your life worse simply because I fucked up. I miss you, [Name]. I'll do anything to have you back in my life. Please.

Just don't disappear. Don’t leave me.

His throat tightens as he stares at the words.

Don't be like me, he adds mentally, unable to type it out. Let me be selfish one more time just so I can have you in my life again.

He continues typing, brows furrowing in concentration. His face contorts with expressions that would echo if he spoke these words aloud—his voice would crack, break completely. He'd drop to his knees and plead pathetically while you stared down at him. In his mind, you'd look disgusted. But he knows the real you would be startled instead. Surprised. Trying to tell him to stop, that it's okay, that he needs to get up. Not because any of it would be true, but because you're simply too fucking nice to him. Too kind for your own good.

The paragraphs multiply on his screen.

Confession after confession,

apology after apology.

Words spilling out in a desperate cascade that grows more unhinged with each passing second.

I can’t handle the thought of living a life without you. I can'‘t handle a life without you in it.

His thumbs are moving faster now, barely keeping pace with the thoughts tumbling through his mind.

You could ruin everything for me, you could try to kill me and I’d still find myself begging for you to stay. I would even pay you if it got to that point. If you just couldn’t stand me without needing something. I would give it all to you.

He knows he sounds insane. He can see it even as he types, but he can't stop.

I would sell my kidney, give you all the money, and more if it meant you could tolerate being around me. I’d do everything. Give you Everything.

His vision is blurring slightly. He blinks hard, fingers never stopping.

Remember when were younger and you said you wanted to see the northern lights someday? I looked up flights that night. Did you know that? I had the tab open for three weeks, just... looking at it. Trying to figure out if I could afford two tickets. I couldn't, obviously. But I kept that tab open anyway, like if I stared at it long enough the price would magically drop or I'd suddenly become less of a broke disaster.

The memories are flooding now, each one demanding to be acknowledged, to be confessed.

I still have that tab bookmarked. 'Iceland - Northern Lights Tour.' Right there in my browser. I look at it sometimes when I can't sleep. When things get bad. I imagine us there, you in one of those ridiculous puffy coats you hate but would need because it’s fucking freezing and you’ll let yourself get sick because you love the cold even when it makes you shiver and chatter your teeth. Me pretending I'm not also freezing my ass off because I'd probably forget to pack warm enough clothes. You'd make fun of me for it. I'd deserve it.

His breathing has gone shallow. Chest tight.

I think about all the small things. How you drink coffee—too much cream, way too much sugar, basically a diabetes risk in a mug. How you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating. That stupid little sound you make when Beef does something cute, that half-gasp half-laugh thing. I think about that sound a lot. More than is probably normal.

The words keep coming, each one more raw than the last.

I memorized your coffee order after we first met. Did you know that? Before we were even that close. I heard you order it once at that shitty café near the library and I just... remembered it. Told myself it was because I have a good memory. That's bullshit. I remembered it because it was YOURS. Because some pathetic part of me was already mapping out ways to be useful to you. To be needed.

He pauses, thumb hovering, then continues.

I thought of kissing you so many times. Too many times. At the hospital when you fell asleep in that chair with your hand in mine. When you brought me coffee that first morning after I woke up and your smile was the most beautiful thing I'd seen in months. When you laughed at my stupid jokes even when they weren't funny. When you stayed. And way before that. Where you just looked so perfect that I wanted you, that I wanted to touch you in a way I fought myself from doing.

He's spiraling now, the words becoming less filtered, more raw.

I think about waking up next to you. Not like that night on the floor, though that was perfect in its own way, but in an actual bed. Our bed. Where I could watch you sleep without feeling like a creep. Where I could pull you closer when you get cold. Where "good morning" means something more than just greeting the day.

I think about holding your hand in public and having it mean something. Not just comfort between friends but a statement. A claim. This person is mine and I'm theirs and everyone can see it.

I think about you meeting me after work and kissing me hello like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like we've done it a thousand times before. Like we'll do it a thousand times more.

His breath catches as he types the next part.

I think about more. So much more. Things I definitely shouldn't be thinking about my best friend. Like how your skin would feel under my hands without the excuse of checking for injuries. Tracing my scars, kissing away the pains. How you'd sound saying my name when it's just us and nothing else matters. How you'd look in my bed, in my shirt, in nothing at all. How you'd taste. How you'd fit against me. How we'd fit together.

I think about the weight of you in my lap, your hands in my hair, your mouth on mine and everywhere else. I think about learning every sound you make, every place that makes you gasp, every way to make you say my name. I think about mornings after and lazy Sundays and shower steam and tangled sheets and all the intimate details that exist in the space between friendship and whatever this is that I'm feeling.

He's gone too far now, way past the point of casual friendship confession.

I think about the life we could have. Coming home to you. Cooking dinner together. Fighting over stupid things and making up. Building something real. Something that belongs to just us. Having Beef and maybe more pets. Maybe a better apartment. Maybe a future that isn't just surviving day to day but actually living.

I think about introducing you as my partner and meaning it in every possible way. I think about people seeing us and just knowing. That kind of obvious, comfortable love that doesn't need explanation.

I think about forever with you and it doesn't scare me. That scares me. Nothing has ever not scared me before but the thought of having you, really having you, for the rest of my life just feels right. Like the first thing that's made sense since the accident. Since before the accident. Maybe since I met you. You make me want things I never thought I could have. A normal life. Happiness. Peace. Love. Fuck, [Name], I think I love you. No, I know I love you. I've probably loved you for years and been too stupid and scared and emotionally constipated to admit it even to myself.

And I've ruined it. I've ruined everything because I couldn't just be honest. Because I had to be jealous and possessive about something I never had the courage to ask for. Because I pushed you away instead of pulling you closer. Because I'm a fucking coward who only knows how to sabotage good things in my life.

His hands are shaking now. The phone screen is blurred by something—maybe unshed tears, maybe just exhaustion distorting his vision.

Please come back. Please let me fix this. Please give me another chance to not be a complete disaster of a human being. I'll do better. I'll be better. I'll tell you everything, all of this and more, if you just give me the chance. If you'll just let me try.

I miss you so much it physically hurts. My heart aches. My apartment is too quiet. Beef keeps looking for you. I keep looking for you. In every room, in every moment, in every breath I take. You're everywhere and nowhere and it's killing me.

I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. For Friday. For this week. For every moment I made you feel like you weren't the most important person in my life. Because you are. You always have been. I was just too blind to see it or too scared to admit it.

Please.

If anyone saw how he looked right now—hunched over his phone at dawn, face contorted with emotion, thumbs flying across the screen with desperate intensity—they'd probably think he was having some kind of breakdown. They'd see the growing wall of text and think he was as serious as his increasingly unhinged message suggested.

And they'd be right.

Because in this moment, in this pre-dawn confession that no one will ever read, Robert is dead serious. Even in his slightly delirious, sleep-deprived, emotionally compromised state, every word is true. He would do it all—sell his kidney, give you everything, destroy his life, beg on his knees, anything to have you back in his life.

The message sits there on his screen, thousands of words of raw confession and desperate pleading. His finger hovers over the send button.

One tap.

That's all it would take.

One tap to lay everything bare. To risk everything on the chance that maybe—just maybe—you feel even a fraction of what he feels.

His finger hovers.

Hovers.

Then, with a press…

He ‘Selects All’ and deletes.

Every word. Every confession. Every desperate plea.

Gone in one simple swoop.

He stares at the empty text field, cursor blinking mockingly.

"Coward," he whispers to himself.

But, instead of putting the phone down, of stopping himself from… himself. He navigates to his photo album, seeking to ground himself somehow. Because whatever is wrong with him in this morning light, he needs to relax.

Is this really the way? No.

But his conscious flags as he looks through the album dedicated to you. Most of them are pictures, candid shots—moments he'd captured on impulse, along with others that remain startlingly vivid behind his eyes even without photographic evidence.

An ice cream night despite both of you shivering in the cold, because ice cream doesn't discriminate based on weather. To you playfully perched in the Mecha Man suit with that sly smile, mocking and acting like him, followed by several photos clearly capturing your embarrassment when you'd noticed the camera.

It's a video that he swiped on that gives him pause. His thumb hovers over the play button, hesitation warring with desperate need.

He presses play.

His eyes immediately squeeze shut at the sound of your laughter escaping the tiny speaker.

His chest tightens, emotion springing sharp and immediate behind his eyes. When he forces them open again, they lock onto the screen—watching, listening intently to your giggles and laughter and that breathless quality that always left you light-headed and even more giggly. The jingle of Beef's collar mingles with it, the dog scurrying around with surprising speed for something so compact, dressed in the lobster costume you'd randomly brought home one day. Beef had loved it more than either of you expected.

A soft sound—a whuff he's been hearing far too often lately—draws his attention to his dog. Beef has lifted his head from his bed, the one patch of real comfort in this barren apartment. His head tilts, a soft whimper escaping as his tail gives a brief, hopeful wag at the familiar sounds.

But when those dark eyes dart around, seeing no sign of you actually being there, Beef huffs. His head drops back down with a little whimper, sadness twinkling in those wide eyes as they fix on the door. Waiting. Expecting. Hoping.

Robert's phone screen goes dark with an audible click.

"...Sorry, buddy," Robert whispers, shame stabbing through his chest even as the words escape like something tired of being ignored. "It's my fault."

Arguments—or perhaps just more one-sided situations like Friday—had caused tensions before. That was during his revenge-fueled spiral, his desperate attempts to prove to himself, to others, to the dead, that he was worthy of the Mecha Man mantle. But back then, instead of doing anything remotely close to what he did on Friday, you'd simply existed in his orbit while he kept his mouth shut. You'd cared too much to let him self-destruct before your eyes.

And it had worked, hadn't it? You'd ensured he got at least some rest and actual food. You'd created pockets of joy and comfort that he'd initially argued against.

"You need to eat," you'd say, unpacking whatever goodies you'd brought that night.

"I eat." A rebuttal that always earned you That Look—the one that made him unable to maintain his serious facade because he couldn't help but laugh.

Cereal is a perfectly acceptable food group in his mind. You've argued this point countless times, standing in his kitchen with your hands on your hips in a way that had him a little more tingly than appropriate for best friends, listing off nutritional deficiencies like you're reading from a medical textbook. Which, knowing you, you probably were at some point.

But those little back-and-forths aren't the same as what happened Friday, are they?

He thinks about your pep talks during those late-night conversations when Robert struggled to find his footing. When he questioned the difference between living and dying. Whether breathing was worth the effort. Whether taking up space was justified when he couldn't even protect the city properly, when he'd failed his father's legacy so spectacularly that the whole world had watched him fall.

You'd sit there—sometimes on the floor with Beef between you, sometimes on 3 AM walks when neither of you could sleep—and you'd talk him through it. Remind him that worth wasn't measured in heroics or legacy or living up to impossible standards.

That he was more than the suit.

That Robert was enough…

He hadn't believed you then. Clung onto your voice, your reassurance, your simple presence—the beautiful contrast to his own cruel internal voice that sounded disturbingly like a mixture of a father he didn't know if he truly loved and every comment section he'd ever read about his failure.

He's not sure he believes those words now either.

But those conversations had kept him alive, hadn't they? Kept him breathing through the worst of it. Kept him from doing something stupid and permanent when the darkness got too heavy to carry alone.

And how had he repaid that?

By being a jealous, possessive, emotionally constipated asshole who'd driven you away over—what? A guy being nice to you?

The thought makes him want to punch something. Preferably himself.

And if he’s being honest, that 'fight' wasn't even a fight. You didn't argue. You didn't get angry or react in any of the ways he'd half-wanted, half-feared. It was one-sided, all manipulation on his part.

One could call it jealousy induction—also known as "counter-jealousy induction"—that toxic behavior where you try to make someone jealous to gauge their interest. But you can't really do that when you never made it to the 'partners' stage of a relationship, can you?

At least not in the way both of you had—

Robert cuts that thought off viciously. He's not ready to acknowledge that particular thing yet. That would require being honest with himself about feelings he's been aggressively ignoring for years (as if the message situation moments ago didn’t just do that). Feelings that have gotten increasingly difficult to shove into the mental box labeled 'Just Friends' when the box is overflowing and the lid won't close anymore and everything keeps spilling out at the worst possible moments.

Like when Royd mentioned seeing you in a towel.

Or when he'd tried to ask Blonde Blazer to dinner and felt disappointed—no, scratch that—felt suspiciously jealous when she'd mentioned her boyfriend. Which is utterly stupid. Stupid because he'd been trying to use her as a cover for these suffocating feelings about you. Trying to convince himself he could want someone else, could redirect this consuming affection toward literally anyone other than his best friend.

And because he was so irritated at his own failure to do that—instead of being a reasonable person, he took it out on you. Ignored the way his conscience hissed and clawed at him for every stupid sentence that formed on his malicious tongue. Ignored how even his own mind and body struggled to understand what he was doing and why, even as the damage was being done in real-time.

Damage that left nothing but a note behind. Damage that made the apartment feel lifeless. Damage that made him wallow in self-pity instead of trying to fix it.

Damage that has him now, standing in the bathroom, staring at his reflection with pure contempt.

"Go fuck yourself," he murmurs at the mirror.

The motto carries him to work that morning. He's started arriving early now—a habit developed after realizing the Z-Team was more than happy to use unsupervised time to plot new and creative ways to make his job difficult. He greets passing faces with casual nods—some he's talked to, others not so much. Because if it isn't Galen (and even that's stretching it), he still doesn't really know any of them.

He's far too focused on his own wallowing to consider that he should probably try to make at least one work friend. Besides Chase.

Beef trots happily ahead of him, the dog's presence a comfort. At least the pup isn't molding into loneliness and sadness in an apartment that's never been truly furnished. That his presence worked out fine with his job. Especially if it means Beef gets extra love—even if it's a little too much through Chase's spoiling—it's the best for everyone.

He's mid-sip of his coffee—something he'd actually bought with what little money he has—when commotion reaches his ears.

"Give me that, you little shite!"

"Who are you calling little?"

The voices carry down the hallway with enough volume that probably the whole floor can hear them. He recognizes Malevola's accent and—yep, that's Punch Up, voice rising in indignation.

He debates on whether this was worth investigating or if he should just let them sort it out themselves. The Z-Team squabbling wasn’t exactly unusual. They fought about everything from mission assignments to who got the last snack from the vending machine to whether Punch Up’s workout routine was “inspirational” or “compensating for something.”

"The last I remember, I was the one to suggest Operation: Banana Bread! That means I get dibs!"

Robert's eyebrows do something complicated between furrowing and raising.

Operation… what?

His approach is slow. Cautious. The kind of approach you'd use when you suspect you're walking into something you don't want to be involved with but probably should supervise anyway.

The break room is chaos when he reaches it.

The entire Z-Team—or most of them, anyway—are crowded around the small table, which is covered in… baked goods? Muffins, cookies, and some kind of pastry that might be homemade… Pop-Tarts?

"I did all the work!" Sonar argues, his blazer disheveled like he'd been scruffed once or twice like some troublesome kitten. Or like he had made a beeline to work in his Mega Bat form and redressed much quicker than usual just for this occasion. It's both, actually. Both had happened. “That counts for everything!"

"You didn't even make contact," Coupé points out, delicately holding a muffin like it's made of glass. Or explosives. With her, either is possible. "Punch Up and Waterboy both successfully engaged in conversation. They earned priority selection."

"I got called 'Knockout,'" Punch Up says proudly, puffing out his considerable chest. Teresa and Susan flexing like they have minds of their own of reasonably, share the same body as knucklehead over here. "That's gotta count for extra."

"Nobody cares about your stupid muscle names," Flambae mutters, but there's no real heat in it. He's too focused on the cookies in his hand, examining them like they might contain secrets of the universe. Maybe his niece would like some. If that happens, he'd have an even bigger reason to interact with you more than the rest. Do a take your kid—or rather, your sibling's kid—to work day becuase his niece loved the treats so much!

"You're just jealous because you didn't get a cool nickname," Malevola points out, her tail curling at the end in what might be delight as she selects a muffin. Her solid yellow eyes gleaming at the treasure.

"I'm not jealous of—"

“Do I want to know?” Robert asks finally yet slowly, taking in the spread of baked goods.

His voice instantly sucks the sound from the room.

Several pairs of eyes snap toward him. Defensive postures shoot up, bodies going alert like a colony of odd-looking meerkats.

Several eyes snap toward him.

Prism actively tries to hide something behind her back while Golem has already retreated sluggishly through the other door with handfuls of Pop-Tarts, leaving behind scrapes of earth that Waterboy will have to clean up later. But let's not blame Golem—blame the doorways and their complete lack of accommodation for heroes who are just larger than average.

“Not like we’d tell you even if you did,” Invisigal remarks, but there’s something different in her tone. Less hostile, more… evasive? It doesn't help Robert's suspicion at all.

Robert’s eyes narrow. “Where did all this come from?” He nods toward the table.

“Secret admirer?” Flambae suggests with a smirk, the cookies he's hoarding now even more pointedly protected.

“Found it,” Sonar offers, but his tone sounds a bit more like a question than a statement.

“Made it ourselves,” Malevola counters at the same time.

The team exchanges glares, clearly not on the same page about their cover story.

“Okay…” Robert looked them over. “So which is it?”

The Z-Team exchanges glances. Some kind of silent communication passes between them that Robert isn't privy to, and he feels that familiar frustration rising. They're hiding something. Something organized, something planned, and he has no idea what.

"Does it matter?" Coupé finally says, her voice measured. "There's food. We're eating it. Nobody's committing crimes. Isn't that what you want? For us to act like normal people?"

It's such a reasonable statement that Robert can't actually argue with it. He should be thrilled that they're bonding over something that isn't illegal or dangerous. This is technically rehabilitation progress.

So why does it feel like he's missing something important?

“You’re all acting weird,” Robert stated flatly.

“We’re always weird,” Malevola pointed out, protecting her muffin from Sonar’s grabby hands. “That’s kind of our thing.”

“Weirder than usual,” Robert clarified. “And you’re hiding something from me.”

“Paranoid much?” Flambae scoffed, though his posturing spoke more volume than his words.

“I dispatch criminals for a living now,” Robert countered. Although for a living is… eh. Not entirely accurate. The dude has no pay. “Paranoia is a survival skill.”

“Reformed criminals,” Prism corrected primly, colorful bob swooshing pointedly with her words. “We’re reformed now. Mostly. Kind of. We’re working on it. That’s like the whole point.”

“The point stands.”

No one argues with that, or even tries to explain themselves further. And seeing that he’ll be getting no where… he resigns with a sigh.

"Fine," he says, even though it's not fine. "Just… try to keep the noise down."

He turns to leave, shaking his head slightly. Maybe he'll need to bring this up with Blonde Blazer if it becomes a real problem. But right now, at the start of the day, after their clear resistance to him just yesterday, he doesn't have the energy to interrogate them further.

What he misses, as he walks away, is the collective exhale of relief.

Misses the way Prism pulls the banana bread container back to her front—both because she was fighting for it too and because if Robert saw it, he'd definitely recognize where it came from. The homemade nature of it, the specific way it's wrapped. That's what she thinks, at least. If you love someone that much, you probably love their cooking just as much. Could recognize it from a mile away. Especially by a man, that’s like the key to their heart… Banana Bread to the stomach.

If not love, if he's truly a best friend, he'd at least recognize the handwriting on the container's note:

You’re all doing great. Keep it up!

- Your friendly neighborhood Medical Liaison

“That was too close,” Punch Up mutters, heavily exhaling.

“He’s suspicious now,” Sonar remarks, even as his fingers wiggle toward the banana bread container.

Prism rolls her eyes behind her visor. “He’d always been suspicious. That's his default.” Followed by Sonar’s yelp of an ‘ow!’ as she smacks his hand away.

"Good," Invisigal says firmly, claiming one of the chocolate chip cookies. "Let him be suspicious. Let him wonder. Let him realize that maybe, just maybe, he's not the center of everyone's universe and there are things happening around him that he's completely oblivious to."

“How petty of you, Visi,” Malevola noted with approval. “They truly grow up so fast.” She whispers, earning an eyeroll—more playful than annoyed—from Invisigal.

"I have layers," Invisigal replies, taking a pointed bite of the cookie. A hum escapes her as she properly tastes it this time. "Damn. These are pretty good."

"Not poisoned?" Coupé questions dryly, still examining her selected treat with survivor's wariness.

Invisigal shrugs, “Pretty good poison if it is.”

“Hm.”

An odd calm settles over the group—a calm they've all been finding in each other more frequently lately.

Yet, just like always, it’s a fleeting calm.

“Dibs!”

Punch Up leaps, snatching the banana bread container. The moment his feet hit the ground—shorter leap just means meeting the floor quicker—he flees, laughing in triumph with his newest acquisition.

"Oh fuck no! You come back here, you damn Humpty-Dumpty!" Prism yells, her voice definitely not quiet and absolutely disruptive.

Needless to say, there's chaos that follows—sounds of crashing, maybe something (or several somethings) breaking, along with the distinctive voices of the Z-Team that make it abundantly clear who the culprits are. Applaud to Punch Up though, despite being rather slow to the others, he's giving them a run for their money.

Robert, meanwhile, groans at his desk as the disorderly uproar streches on. Embarrassment crawls up his neck knowing his team is doing little to demonstrate maturity and emphasizing just how much of a circus they are for everyone to see. The dispatcher chooses to ignore Chase's rather amused chuckle as the older man stands at the windows, watching where the chaos had moved and began to unfold in the garden below.

"What the hell is going on now?" Blonde Blazer appears from her office, confusion evident. "Are they fighting over… baked goods?"

Chase chuckles, because chaos that doesn't cause him trouble is the best kind. "Yep."

"Shouldn't we… I don't know, do something?" She murmurs, arms crossing as she watches the game of cat-and-mouse mixed with what could only be described as violent hot potato. If the hot potato was a person.

"Let them have their fun. At least they aren't harassing anyone or killing people. Maybe they'll tire themselves out and we'll have fewer problems once their shift starts." If anyone else said it, Blazer probably would’ve been hesitant to listen. But Chase is just logical sometimes. "I'm not getting in the middle of that fucking stampede either."

“Huh.” Her head tilts. “It does… look pretty fun. They’re even working as a team—”

Golem swipes Punch Up toward Malevola, who strikes him with her sword like she's batting a ball and not a human. Sonar swoops in to catch the flying Irishman with his back talons, having transformed without concern for his suit.

The other flying heroes—Flambae and Coupé—try to steal the prize like a bunch of bizarre birds fighting over prey. Except their prey weighs as much as a mini giant and has a death grip on a Tupperware of banana bread.

"Looks like a twisted game of Quidditch," Robert appears on Chase's other side, finding reluctant amusement in the scene.

"Quidditch?" Blazer frowns, brows furrowing. "I know I'm not that into sports, but what's that?"

"A fictional sport from a nerdy-ass wizard franchise," Chase side-eyes Robert. "When did you become a Potterhead?" Of course Chase would know ‘Potterhead.’

Robert shrugs, nerves from this morning momentarily distracted. "I'm not really. Did a marathon one night randomly. Wanted to see what the hype was about… I don't think they showed this in the movies though." His gaze bobs as he watches Punch Up get tossed around in the sky for what seems like the fun of it—at least for the tosser and catchers and not the tossed—rather than whatever the team had initially been fighting for.

He doesn't mention how that marathon had been with someone else. With you. How the two of you had been sailing the high seas (pirating) instead of doomscrolling on TikTok—something he'd had trouble grasping, which had caused you to tease him for being an 'old man.'

The memory stings now, sharp and sudden.

Later, when the shift finally begins, he hears the team's banter filtering through the comms.

From Punch Up's indignant "I don't scream like a little girl!" to the chorus of 'yes, you do' that follows—Rob can't help feeling oddly fond of the idiots. Even with all the shit they give him.

“You screamed particularly high when Flambae dropped you.” Coupé added matter-of-factly.

“It was an accident. Honestly!” Flambae doesn't seem quite apologetic though.

“Was it though?”

A pause. “Mm, No. But he’s heavy and Sonar dropped him so high. There was no point in catching him.”

“Like a mini meteor.” Prism muses, followed by the laughter over the communications. Because honestly, yeah, that is hella accurate.

It was during a brief break that Robert finds himself staring at his monitor without really seeing it. A tab displays an incident report field—some weird new tracking method he'd been unaware of until today. Leaving him to do it now given the other dispatchers and their teams are answering subscribers calls before he could. The cursor hovers mockingly in the empty text box, waiting for input he can't seem to provide because his brain is elsewhere.

He's supposed to be writing a detailed account of Golem accidentally stepping on someone's car while he was patrolling a neighborhood after there had been a call about suspicious people in the area. It resulted in minor property damage, luckily no injuries, and their insurance said they would (thankfully).

Overall, simple, straightforward documentation.

The kind of thing that should take five minutes.

He's been staring at it for twenty.

The words won't come. Every time he tries to focus, his thoughts drift back to his phone. To the bone dry text thread. To the messages he'd typed and deleted this morning. To the growing certainty that he's fucked everything up beyond repair.

"I didn't get to say it earlier so I'll just say it now." Chase appears at his cubicle like a specter of workplace wisdom, materializing with that uncanny ability that makes Robert think he has developed the ability to teleport after losing his speed. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," Robert deadpans, not looking up from his screen. His fingers rest uselessly on the keyboard, not even pretending to type anymore. "Your inspiring words of encouragement are exactly what I needed today."

"I'm serious." Chase leans against the cubicle wall, arms crossed over his chest. His reading glasses are perched on his nose, making him look even more like the world's most judgmental grandfather. Robert can only wonder if it would’ve been better or worse if Chase actually looked his age. Would the pep talks sting a little less? Or sting worse and be just as embarrassing? "You've got that look."

"What look?" Robert's voice is flat, disinterested. He's not in the mood for Chase's particular brand of… Chase.

"The 'I fucked up and I know I fucked up but I don't know how to unfuck it' look." Chase's weathered face is serious now, the teasing edge completely gone. His dark eyes are sharp behind those glasses. "I've seen it on enough people to recognize it. Hell, I've worn that look enough times myself."

Robert's fingers tense on the keyboard. He doesn't respond, but the silence is answer enough. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping near his ear.

Chase sighs—one of those heavy, paternal sighs that makes Robert feel like he's twelve again and has just been caught doing something profoundly stupid. The kind of sigh that says 'I'm disappointed but not surprised.'

"You gonna talk to them or you gonna keep sitting here feeling sorry for yourself?"

"I don't—" Robert starts, then stops. Because what's the point in lying to Chase? The man sees through bullshit like it's his actual superpower. Maybe it is at this point, alongside his ability to just randomly exist when you least expect it. Maybe that's what happens when you aged fifty times faster—you develop a sixth sense for when people are dumbass liars and several other super powers. "I don't know what to say."

"How about 'sorry'?" Chase suggests, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "That's usually a good start. Revolutionary concept, I know."

"It's not that simple." The protest is weak even to his own ears.

"It never is," Chase agrees, shifting his weight. "But it's a start. Unless you're planning to just… what? Avoid them forever? Pretend nothing happened? Hope it all magically fixes itself while you sit here rotting in this cubicle?"

Robert's jaw tightens further. He can feel his molars grinding together, a habit he's developed lately that's probably going to cost him a fortune in dental work if he continues. "I don't know."

"Well, you better figure it out." Chase straightens, lowering his glasses "Because whatever you did, whatever happened—it's eating at you. And it's gonna keep eating at you until you do something about it. That's not advice, kid. That's a guarantee."

He turns to leave, those old bones creaking in ways Robert tries not to think about. Then Chase pauses, looking back over his shoulder with an expression that's almost gentle. Almost.

"And Robert? Whatever you're scared of—rejection, confrontation, vulnerability, all that emotional bullshit—it's probably not as bad as you think. And even if it is?" He shrugs, the gesture somehow both dismissive and profound. "At least you'll know. At least you'll have tried. Better than sitting here wondering 'what if' for the rest of your miserable life."

With that cheerful observation, Chase leaves. His footsteps fade down the hallway, leaving Robert alone with his thoughts and his blank incident report and the phantom weight of his phone in his pocket.

Robert sits in silence, staring at his reflection in the darkened edge of his monitor.

Chase's words echo in his head, mixing with your voice from that night—"Was that… really professional?" such concern, such worry, stress about unsaid things that you were scared had happened to him—and his own stupid response, and the memory of that note with no signature.

Don't know if you heard me yell out over the water but I headed home tonight.

Home.

Not back to his apartment. Home. Like his place had stopped being that for you.

His hand moves toward his pocket, fingers brushing against the phone case through the fabric of his slacks. The device buzzes suddenly—a notification, a message—and he gets an embarrassing rush of excitement. His heart actually jumps, stupid and hopeful like a dog hearing a car in the driveway.

He pulls the phone out quickly, too quickly. Screen illuminating with—

Disappointment crashes through him.

It's an automated message. Something about updated dispatch protocols and new software integration and other work nonsense that his brain can't process because it's too busy dealing with the crushing realization that of course it wasn't you.

Why would it be you?

Why would you message him when he'd made it so clear—through action if not words—that he needed 'space'? Why would he get excited when, unlike him, you'd probably found the strength to move on? To recognize a toxic situation and extract yourself from it like a sensible person with healthy boundaries?

You were always the smart one.

He should text you. Should have texted you this morning instead of spiraling into that dramatic unsent confession. Should have done it yesterday, or the day before, or any of the days in this godforsaken week when he'd let pride and fear keep his fingers frozen. Should have fucking visited you straight after giving you a day to yourself like a reasonable person instead of sitting here drowning in his own inability to process emotions like a functional adult.

The phone returns to his pocket with more force than necessary. He turns back to his computer, jaw set, and forces himself to type.

Incident Report #447: At approximately 11:47 AM, Hero callsign "Golem" accidentally made contact with civilian vehicle (2019 Honda Civic, license plate 7XYZ123) while responding to routine patrol in Grid 7-B. Vehicle sustained minor cosmetic damage to roof and hood. No injuries to civilians. Vehicle owner was understanding and cooperative. Golem expressed appropriate remorse and offered sincere apology to vehicle owner. No disciplinary action recommended.

There. Done. Professional. Factual. Devoid of the emotional chaos currently eating him alive from the inside.

He submits the report, standing to retrieve it from the printer so he can do the whole staple while the paper prints.

He’s quick with it. Wanting to swiftly get to the next task. Because paperwork is easier than feelings. Because staying busy means not thinking. Because if he stops moving, even for a moment, he might actually have to confront what he's done.

The afternoon proceeds with surprising smoothness.

The Z-Team goes back out on their rotations. Heroes get dispatched, calls get answered, minor incidents get resolved with minimal property damage and zero civilian casualties. Communication through the comms, while not exactly professional—this is the Z-Team, after all—is clearer than it's been all week. Better. More focused.

Flambae isn't setting random fires just so he can put them out himself and look heroic. Invisigal isn't throwing tantrums about specific calls or making a production of going rogue mid-assignment. She's still complaining here and there—old habits die hard—but at least she's actually participating. Actually trying.

Malevola is making her portal jumps on time instead of showing up fashionably late to create drama. Sonar is successfully completing his assigned patrols without getting distracted by cryptocurrency opportunities or launching into unprompted Harvard anecdotes only to get distracted at some previous relationship he had (most specifically their boobs). Punch Up is managing his impulse control better, asking before punching instead of punching and apologizing later. He working well today, especially with Coupé but that’s not new.

Even Prism is being relatively cooperative. Golem is… Golem. I mean, the guy doesn’t often cause problems so he can’t complain.

It was, by all objective measures, a successful shift.

Which only makes Robert more suspicious.

He's been trained from childhood to recognize when things are going too well. His father had drilled into him that smooth operations usually meant someone was planning something, that quiet periods were just the universe winding up for the next catastrophe. Heroes didn't get lucky streaks. They got brief respites before the next crisis. Calm before storms. The eye of the hurricane where everything seems peaceful right before the winds pick up again. Those usual sayings that made you wonder just how frequently these corny lines were said.

Even so, nothing is ever this easy. Not with the Z-Team. Not with reformed villains who've spent most of their lives looking for angles and loopholes and ways to game whatever system they're part of.

So Robert watches. Waits. Listens to the chatter on the comms with more attention than usual, analyzing tone and word choice for signs of coordination. For hints of whatever plan they're definitely cooking up.

But nothing materializes. They just… work. Like actual heroes. Like people who are genuinely trying to do their jobs instead of sabotaging their dispatcher for entertainment.

It's unsettling.

The suspicion only intensifies when the team starts growing restless near the end of their rotation. Not in a fighting way—there are no arguments breaking out, no threats being exchanged, no sounds of powers being used inappropriately. But there's a shift in energy. A collective anticipation that Robert can feel even through the line.

Small complaints start filtering through. Nothing major. Nothing that would normally warrant attention.

"Hey, uh,” Golem's voice, slow and measured. "Think I might've pulled something. Nothing serious, just… you know. Achy."

"I've got this weird crick in my neck," Malevola chimes in a few minutes later. "Probably slept wrong. But it's kind of distracting."

"My shoulder’s being weird," Punch Up adds. "Probably nothing. Maybe something. Hard to tell."

Robert frowns at his monitor, tracking their locations on the GPS overlay. They're all in different zones, different parts of the city. This isn't coordinated. Can't be coordinated.

Can it?

"Anyone else feeling under the weather?" he asks through the main channel, keeping his tone neutral. Professional. "Or are you three just getting old?"

"Fuck you," Malevola responds. "Some of us actually use our bodies for hero work instead of sitting behind a desk eating cereal."

"I'm literally younger than you," Robert points out.

"And yet somehow more decrepit. Funny how that works."

Before Robert can formulate a response—something witty and cutting that will definitely not make the situation worse—the comms crackle with new voices.

"I mean, I wouldn't mind getting checked out," Sonar's sophisticated drawl cuts through. "There's this weird thing happening with my echolocation. Probably nothing. Probably fine. But when I was at Harvard—"

"Nobody cares about Harvard!" Flambae interrupts. "But yeah, actually, I could use a doctor. For legitimate medical reasons. Real ones. Not made up."

The specificity of that last part makes Robert even more suspicious.

"What legitimate medical reasons?" Robert asks slowly.

"Legitimate ones," Flambae repeats. "Medical in nature. Requiring professional attention from someone with a medical degree."

"Flambae."

"Robert."

The tension in that exchange could cut glass. Robert can practically hear Prism snickering in the background.

It isn't until those to got dispatched together for a routine patrol—nothing dangerous, just checking on a reported suspicious package that will probably turn out to be someone's forgotten lunch bag—that things escalate.

Flambae's voice comes through about twenty minutes later, and there's something in his tone that makes Robert's eye twitch. "Package was not suspicious. Just someone's groceries. But, uh… I need to go see the doctor."

"For what?" Robert's patience is wearing thin. It's been a long day. A long week. A long several months, if he's being honest.

"Medical reasons."

"You said that already. What specific medical reasons?"

"I got burned."

Robert's brain short-circuits for a moment. He looks at his monitor, checking Flambae's hero profile for the dozenth time even though he has it memorized by now. "Your file says you're immune to fire. That your skin literally doesn't burn. It's kind of your whole thing."

"It doesn't, Bob-Bob." The venom in Flambae's voice is evident even through the comm static.

The two continued their back and forth, frustration risings until finally—

"Road rash," Prism's voice cuts in helpfully. "He's got road rash. Pretty nasty, actually. Like, definitely needs to be cleaned and bandaged properly. Probably gonna scar."

“Yeah, yeah! Road burn. Road rash. Whatever the fuck—Do I have to explain the difference or what? Should I draw you a diagram? Make a PowerPoint presentation?"

Robert squeezes his eyes shut. Takes a breath. Counts to five because ten feels too ambitious right now.

For the past ten minutes, he's been trying to extract basic information from Flambae about this situation. Mind you, the hothead hadn't mentioned road rash initially. Just that he'd gotten "burned" and needed medical attention. Which had raised several immediate questions, the first originally being: how does someone with fire immunity get burned? How the fuck was he supposed to know it road rash if he didn’t say it.

The second question—how the fuck did he get road rash?—seems equally important but Robert hasn't had the energy to ask it yet.

Unless Prism fucking crashed him into the pavement. Or someone thought Flambae looked like an optional speed bump. Both scenarios seem equally plausible given the personalities involved.

"Yeah. Yeah, whatever." Robert's voice is flat. Exhausted. He's too tired for this. "Just be quick about it. And file a proper incident report this time. With actual details. Not just 'stuff happened.'"

There's grumbling on the other end—Flambae's response muffled and probably not family-friendly—before the comm cuts out. The GPS tracking shows him heading back to SDN headquarters at speed, probably flying because walking would take too long and Flambae has never met a safety protocol he didn't immediately violate. It doesn't help that Blonde Blazer reminded Robert earlier that he needs to get flying licenses for him and the other two flyers to be legit.

Robert leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling tiles. He should probably be more concerned about the road rash situation. Should ask more questions about how it happened. Should verify that Prism isn't going to need disciplinary action for whatever role she played in this.

But he can't muster the energy.

"Does anyone else need to see a doctor before we continue?" The question comes out more sarcastic than serious. It's meant to be rhetorical. A pointed reminder that medical leave is for actual emergencies, not minor inconveniences.

Of course, the moment he finishes saying it, the other voices pipe up. Because this is his life now. This is what he gets for asking questions.

"I mean, I guess I could try a human doc." Punch Up's Irish accent is thoughtful, contemplative. "My last one was a vet, yeah? Worked out grand, but maybe it's time for an upgrade."

There's a beat of confused silence.

"Like a war vet?" Malevola asks. "A veteran doctor? That's like—"

"No, like an animal doc!" Punch Up clarifies, somehow making it worse. "A veterinarian. For pets. You know—dogs, cats, pygmy hippos.”

"ME!" Prism's voice is bright, energetic, completely unbothered by the fact that she possibly just caused her partner to acquire injuries requiring medical attention. "I so can't get sick before my performance! I need a check-up. Full physical. Maybe some vitamins. Do they do vitamin shots here?"

"Gotta give them my extra inhaler—" Invisigal starts.

"I gotta ask if they can give me a rabies shot—" Sonar overlaps.

"I think I'm due for a tetanus booster—" Coupé adds calmly, like this is a perfectly normal conversation.

"My back's been hurting since that thing last week—" Golem rumbles.

"OK. Okay!" Robert interrupts the layering chatter, his voice rising above the chaos that is going on in his ears. "I understand that all of you suddenly have very urgent medical needs that definitely couldn't wait until your scheduled check-ups. But unless you are currently injured or there is an actual emergency—like, bleeding, broken bones, immediate danger kind of emergency—please wait until your break or the end of your shift to visit medical."

There are resigned sounds. Grumbles of acknowledgment. A few pointed sighs that suggest he's being unreasonable by not letting them all immediately abandon their posts to get check-ups for things that aren't remotely urgent.

"Why would you even ask in the first place then?" someone mutters—might be Invisigal, might be Malevola or Prism, the murmuring quality makes it hard to tell.

The comment makes Robert want to scream. Or cry. Or possibly both simultaneously while Beef watches with concerned puppy eyes and Chase with blunt amusement.

But he takes a breath instead. Holds it. Releases slowly through his nose.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

Don't murder your subordinates. It's frowned upon in workplace environments.

"Just... get back to work," he says finally. "All of you. Safely. Please. I'm begging you."

The 'please' and 'begging' seem to do it. The team actually listens, their acknowledgments filtering through with varying degrees of sincerity before they return to their assigned duties.

Robert slumps in his chair, wondering—not for the first time—if his father or even grandfather ever had days like this. If the original Mecha Man ever sat in mission control wanting to bang his head against the desk because his team was more interested in going to medical for whatever reason than actually doing hero work.

Probably not.

His grandfather started it all, his father’s team had been professionals. Adults. People who took the job seriously.

Then again, his father's team had also included Chase, and Robert has literally been babysat by him to know that “professional" might be a generous description.

Maybe this is just what hero work looks like. Maybe it's always been chaos barely contained by protocols and good intentions. Maybe Robert just never noticed because he was too busy being the chaos instead of managing it.

It's a sobering thought.

--

The Medical Liaison & Emergency Response Coordinator office had undergone a transformation under 48 hours. It’s a space that most in Torrance branch have learned to ignore—given it was just an additional storage space until recently.

But walking in, you'd never know it had been anything other than what it is now.

The waiting area—if you can call the small space before the main desk a "waiting area"—is surprisingly welcoming. Warm lighting that doesn't have that harsh fluorescent quality most government buildings favor. A couple of chairs that actually look comfortable instead of those plastic torture devices designed to make you leave faster. A small side table with magazines that are current instead of five years old.

Plants too. Some sitting on shelves, others near the windowsill in various fun pots. All leafy greens—no flowers, most out of reach, nothing that could trigger pollen allergies in a building full of people with various sensitivities and medical conditions. Spider plants and pothos and snake plants, the kind of hardy greenery that thrives on benign neglect but clearly isn't being neglected here.

There's even art on the walls. Not the standard corporate motivational posters, but actual prints—abstract pieces in soothing colors, a few nature photography shots, one illustration that looks hand-drawn. Small touches that make the space feel less clinical, more human. The TV plays one of those documentaries that often has you ensnared even if you weren't initially wanting in such a channel. Angled lower instead of high so people have to crane their heads back to watch.

Beyond the waiting area, through an open door that had been concealed behind boxes, the actual examination room is visible. More organized, more professional, but still maintaining that same warmth. Clean surfaces and proper medical equipment. A work-in-progress wall decoration—looks like you've been slowly putting up a mural or decals, something cheerful to look at instead of blank institutional walls.

It's the kind of space that took thought.

Intention.

Care to create.

The kind of space someone makes when they plan to stay.

You're behind the desk when Flambae walks in, absorbed in paperwork. Probably intake forms or medical histories or the dozens of other documents that come with setting up a new practice. A pen tucked behind one ear and you're frowning slightly at whatever you're reading.

The door gives off a slight twinkle—a sound that emits from a motion capture device. Not truly loud or distributive or something that would cause someone to look up from their waiting space. Just there.

You look up immediately, and your expression transforms. Professional smile, warm and welcoming, the kind that probably puts nervous patients at ease within seconds.

"Hi! Welcome to—" You pause, recognition flickering across your face. "Oh! You're Flambae, right? One of the Phoenix heroes?"

Flambae stands in the doorway looking decidedly uncomfortable. Which is unusual for him—the man radiates confidence to the point of arrogance most days. But something about medical settings seems to deflate that ego slightly. Makes him human instead of superhero.

His costume is disheveled. The normally pristine black suit with its dramatic flame accents is torn at the left sleeve, fabric hanging in strips. There's visible road rash on his exposed arm—angry red skin scraped raw, already starting to seep. Bits of asphalt or debris still embedded in places.

It looks painful as hell.

"Yeah," he says, voice lacking its usual bravado. "That's me. Got told to come see you about... this." He gestures vaguely at his arm, almost embarrassed.

Your expression shifts immediately—concern replacing the professional pleasantness. Not performative concern, but genuine worry. The kind that makes you stand up quickly, already moving around the desk.

"Oh no, that looks painful. Come on, let's get you into the exam room so I can take a proper look." You're already guiding him, one hand hovering near his good elbow without quite touching. Respectful of space while being clearly attentive. "When did this happen?"

"Like… twenty minutes ago?" Flambae follows, his usual swagger diminished. "Was doing a call there was this thing—well, it's not important. Point is I ended up getting dragged across pavement.”

"Road rash can be serious," you say, gesturing for him to sit on the examination table. The paper crinkles under his weight. "Even for people with enhanced durability. The friction can go deeper than a regular burn, and infection risk is high if we don't clean it properly."

You're already pulling on gloves, gathering supplies. Sterile saline, antiseptic, clean gauze, proper bandaging materials. Moving with practiced efficiency that speaks to real medical training, not just basic first aid certification.

"I'm going to need you to take off the top part of your suit so I can see the full extent of the damage," you say gently. "Is that okay?"

Flambae nods, working at the zipper. The suit is designed for easy removal—hero costumes usually are, for exactly these situations—but the torn fabric catches and he hisses slightly when it pulls at the wound.

"Here, let me help." You step in, carefully supporting the fabric so it doesn't drag across the injury. "Just take your time. There's no rush." More of his muscular-lean frame is exposed, yet it goes largely ignored by you.

The road rash extends from his forearm up past his elbow, wrapping partially around his bicep. It's worse than it looked initially—layers of skin abraded away, leaving raw pink tissue that's already starting to swell. A few deeper spots where the impact must have been particularly severe.

"Okay," you say calmly, though Flambae can probably see the concern in your eyes. "This is definitely going to need proper cleaning and debridement. I'll be as gentle as I can, but I won't lie to you—it's going to sting."

"Great," Flambae mutters. "My favorite."

"I'll talk you through everything I'm doing," you assure him, rolling over a stool. "And if you need me to stop at any point, just say so. We can take breaks if necessary."

You start with the saline, using a squeeze bottle to irrigate the wound. Flushing out dirt and debris and whatever else got ground into his skin during the fall. Flambae's jaw tightens but he doesn't make a sound, just grips the edge of the examination table with his good hand.

"So," you say conversationally, clearly trying to distract him, "is your skin actually fireproof or is that just marketing?"

Despite the pain, Flambae huffs something that might be a laugh. "Actually fireproof. I could swim in lava if I wanted. Well, if lava was less thick. You know what I mean." He means flames.

"But not pavement-proof," you observe, carefully picking out a piece of embedded gravel with tweezers.

"Apparently not. Which seems like a design flaw, honestly. Like, what kind of fire powers come with vulnerability to road surfaces? That's not even thematically consistent."

You smile at that, glancing up from your work. "Maybe your powers are just really specific. 'Invulnerable to combustion-based damage' doesn't technically include friction burns."

"I'm filing a complaint with whatever cosmic force gave me these abilities," Flambae declares. "False advertising."

"Completely understandable." You're moving to the antiseptic now, warning him first. "This is going to burn—ironic, I know—but it's necessary to prevent infection. Ready?"

"Hit me."

The antiseptic makes him swear creatively in what might be Dari, but you just keep working, steady and methodical. Cleaning every inch of the wound, making sure nothing's left behind that could cause problems later.

"You're good at this," Flambae says after a moment, his voice strained but genuine. "The talking thing. Makes it easier."

"Learned from the best," you reply, starting to apply antibiotic ointment. "Had a mentor who said medical care is fifty percent technical skill and fifty percent bedside manner. The body heals better when the mind isn't panicking."

"Smart person."

"The smartest." There's fondness in your voice, affection for whoever this mentor was. "They also said that anyone tough enough to get injured doing hero work is tough enough to handle a little wound care, so."

Flambae straightens slightly at that, some of his usual pride returning. "Damn right."

The bandaging takes several minutes—you're meticulous about it, making sure everything is properly covered and secured without being too tight. The kind of careful attention that probably saved lives back wherever you trained.

"Alright," you say finally, stepping back to examine your work. "You're all set. I'm going to give you some extra bandages and instructions for changing them. Keep it clean and dry, watch for signs of infection—redness, swelling, warmth, any weird discharge—and come back in three days so I can check how it's healing."

"Three days," Flambae repeats, committing it to memory.

"And try not to set yourself on fire before then, at least not that arm.” You add with a small smile. "Even if your skin can handle it, the bandages definitely can't."

"No promises. It's kind of my whole thing."

You're typing notes into your computer now, updating his medical file. "I'm prescribing some painkillers too—nothing heavy, just enough to take the edge off. It should be ready within an hour. If you don’t have a pharmacy down just come by here to pick it up." There’s a whole set up that’s been made for that. Although, you’re still figuring out how you want to truly work your prescription work.

Royd—who helped you pratically renovate this room (he had also came early to fix and install some things)—had also mentioned possibly moving a more serious base of operations for you downstairs like you suggested. It’s more convenient that way, especially as your job is being fleshed out to something behind a liaison and emergency assistance. Obviously.

Flambae is pulling his costume back on carefully, working around the fresh bandaging. The torn sleeve hangs awkwardly but the rest of the suit is intact.

"Hey, uh..." He pauses, uncharacteristically hesitant. "Thanks. For not making it weird or whatever. Some medical people get all judgmental about the whole 'criminal' thing."

Your brows furrow, confused on why such a thing exists. Or well, you know why… It’s just, you don’t think that way. "Everyone deserves proper medical care," you say simply, meeting his eyes. "No judgment, no conditions. That's the job."

Something in Flambae's expression softens. Respect, maybe, or gratitude, or just the relief of being treated like a person instead of a criminal or a celebrity.

"You're alright, Doc," he says.

"Not technically a doctor," you correct with a smile. "Medical Liaison. But I appreciate the sentiment."

There’s a pause as you look him over.

“What?” He watched a brow before pulling a pose. “Like what you see?”

You blink, huffing in amusement as you shake your head. “Sure, we’ll go with that.” Without waiting for his response, you stalk off. Only to pause. "Oh! Before you go—" You dart back to your desk, rummaging through a drawer.

"Do you like candy? I know it's childish but I figure everyone deserves a treat after medical procedures, regardless of age."

Flambae blinks, brows furrowing. "Uh. Yeah? Sure.”

You produce a small basket filled with various lollipops. Not the cheap kind from banks, but nice ones. Different flavors, different brands, the kind you definitely purchased yourself instead of receiving from a medical supply company.

"Take as many as you want," you offer, holding out the basket.

Flambae stares at the candy like it's the most unexpected thing that's happened all day—which, given that he got road rash while flying, is saying something. Then his face does something complicated. Something that looks suspiciously like emotion.

"All of them?" he asks, almost childlike in his hope as his eyes flicker from the basket to your beaming face.

"If you want," you confirm. Shaking it just so in encouragement. "I'll restock."

Flambae takes a handful.

Then another.

Then looks at you questioningly and, at your nod, takes even more. His hands bulge with lollipops, a rainbow of wrappers visible.

"You're definitely alright, Doc," he says again, but there's more weight to it this time.

As he leaves, you call after him: "Three days! Don't forget!"

"Yeah, yeah,” he calls back, but he's smiling. “Three days!"

--

Robert's dispatch board updates as Flambae's reappears, active for duty once more about fifteen minutes later. The hero's comm crackles to life on the main channel.

"I got fuckin’ lollipops," Flambae announces to everyone, his voice carrying that particular smugness of someone who has acquired treasure.

"Ooh, what flavors?" Prism responds immediately, because of course she does.

"All of them." Pure satisfaction in those three words. "They let me take a bunch. Like, a bunch-bunch. My pockets are full. I'm a walking candy store."

"Man, I want candy," Punch Up's voice cracks through the comm, tinged with unmistakable envy.

"Gotta get injured for the sweets, big man," Sonar remarks.

There's a thoughtful pause. Followed by Sonar voice again, deliberate and meaningful:

"Mal... do me a favor."

"No," Malevola responds immediately.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask me to hurt you so you can get candy from Medical."

"...Maybe."

"Still no."

"What if I ask really nicely?"

"How nicely?" Malevola sounds amused now.

"I'll stop calling you 'Devil Woman' for a week."

"You call me that as a compliment."

"...Fine, I'll let you pick the bar we go to after shift."

"Deal. But I'm not injuring you. I'm just going to... accidentally portal you into a wall. Gently."

"How gently?"

"Gently enough that you'll only need minor medical attention."

"That's not—" Sonar pauses. "You know what, I'll take it."

“Me next!” Punch Up’s grin is pratically audible. “Or wait, Coop? Could you lend me a hand?”

“I could cut off your hand if you ask nicely.” Coupé replies and it honestly seems like Punch Up is thinking about the ‘offer.’

"NO," Robert's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and authoritative. "Nobody is deliberately injuring anyone for candy. That is not—that's not how medical leave works. That's insurance fraud. That's probably several kinds of fraud. Malevola, do not portal Sonar into anything. Coupé, don’t cut off Punch Up’s hand. No one injure each other.”

"Killjoy," someone mutters. Might be Invisigal.

"I'm adding a note to all your files," Robert continues, rubbing his temples even though no one can see him. "Any suspicious injuries in the next 24 hours will be investigated for candy-motivated self-harm."

"Candy-motivated self-harm," Coupé repeats thoughtfully. "That's a new one."

"This job is making me create new categories of workplace incidents," Robert mutters.

When lunch rolls around and the Z-Team scatters to their various activities without further incident, Robert finds himself unable to relax. The suspicious ease of the morning has left him on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For whatever plan they're clearly coordinating to reveal itself.

He eats a protein bar at his desk—because he'd forgotten to pack actual lunch and the idea of going to the breakroom where mysterious baked goods appear is somehow anxiety-inducing now—and reviews the paperwork with more attention than it probably requires.

Every dispatch logged. Every response time noted. Every communication documented with almost obsessive precision.

He's looking for patterns. Inconsistencies. Signs of coordination.

He finds nothing. Again. Which only makes him more wary.

Robert should probably get up. Move around. Take Beef for a walk like he'd planned earlier. Do something other than obsess over paperwork and why's and replay last Friday in his head for the thousandth time.

Text them.

The thought jabs at him accusingly, sharp and insistent. Tomorrow, he keeps telling himself. He'll do it tomorrow when he has the right words. When he's figured out how to apologize for something he still doesn't fully understand. When he's brave enough to face potential rejection.

But tomorrow becomes today. Today becomes tomorrow. More days passing in their endless cycle, each one feeling both too long and too short. Time moving in that strange way it does when you're avoiding something important—crawling during work hours, racing through evenings, blurring together into an indistinct mass of regret and paralysis.

He could do it right now. Pull out his phone, open your contact, and just… type something. Anything.

Anything that won’t make him look insane, that is.

I’m sorry.

Just like Chase said.

How hard can it truly be? 

Impossibly hard, apparently. Hard enough that he's spent a week failing to do it. Hard enough that the thought makes his throat close and his fingers freeze and his brain scramble for excuses.

He finds the strength to stand before he has the willpower to grab his phone. Physical movement is easier than emotional vulnerability. Action is simpler than words.

Beef perks up immediately from his bed at Chase's space, the dog's internal walk-radar activating. Those dark eyes go bright with interest, tail starting its anticipatory wag.

"C'mon bud. Let's go for a walk."

The simple word—walk—causes Beef to huff happily, pushing himself up with the kind of enthusiastic determination only dogs possess. He's ready. He's been ready. He's been ready since the last walk ended because that's how dog time works.

Robert smoothly catches the toy ball Chase tosses without looking. The old man has impeccable aim.

"Think about what I said," Chase calls after him. It's not a suggestion. It's a gentle command wrapped in genuine concern.

Robert pauses at the edge of the cubicle, nodding. Then, finding his voice: "I will."

Even though the whole point of this walk is specifically to not think. To get outside, breathe fresh air, let Beef sniff things and pee on things and be a dog for a while. To exist in simple dog-time where the most complex emotion is excitement about potential squirrels and if that's something edible he smells.

But he can't turn his brain off. That's not how brains work, especially his.

He finds himself walking the same route as last night, bouncing Beef's ball absently as they navigate the familiar hallways. The dog trots ahead, nose to the ground, following scent trails only he can detect. Every few feet he pauses to sniff something particularly interesting—a spot on the wall, a corner of carpet, the base of a water fountain.

Then, suddenly, Beef's whole demeanor changes.

His head lifts. Ears perking forward. That short tail starting to wag with blurring intensity that makes his entire back end shimmy.

Before Robert can react—before he can call out or do anything—Beef takes off down the hallway.

"Beef—" Robert straightens quickly, already moving. "Beef!"

But the dog is already gone, scurrying around a corner with more speed than his compact body should be capable of. Robert can hear the frantic scruff of claws on carpet growing fainter, the occasional excited yip that means Beef has found something—or someone—he's very happy about.

"Goddammit," Robert mutters, already jogging after him.

He'd expected to find Beef investigating the breakroom, nose pressed against the door where the mysterious baked goods appeared. Or maybe the cafeteria where dropped food is a constant temptation and the lunch staff tends to sneak him treats despite the very clear "Don't Feed the Dog" policy.

He'd expected Beef to be scratching at the exit door or the elevator, wanting to chase birds in the parking lot or investigate the interesting smells near the dumpsters.

He hadn't expected to round the corner and see Beef disappear into that room.

The one marked "Medical Liaison & Emergency Response Coordinator" in neat professional lettering. The one Beef had wanted to investigate last night, scratching at the door that had been locked. The one that had been dark and empty and unexplained.

Robert slows, approaching cautiously. His heart does something complicated in his chest—something between hope and dread, anticipation and terror.

The door is open now. Light spilling into the hallway. Warm and welcoming in a way government building lighting usually isn't.

And inside—

Inside, he hears your voice.

"Oh my goodness! Is that my handsome boy? Yes, yes it is! I missed my sweet baby boy~”

He stumbles, either over the carpet over his feet, but he catches himself on the doorframe. Glued to his spot, frozen there, staring.

Because it is you.

Actually, physically, impossibly, you.

You're settled behind a desk in an office Robert hadn't known existed until yesterday. Wearing comfortable professional attire—things that actually fit properly instead of your usual wardrobe of hand-me-downs and thrift store finds. Clothes that are sometimes too big and sometimes too small because "it was on sale" or "it'll work" or "I can make it fit if I just adjust it." Which usually meant you pulling it over your knees and resembling a roly-poly till it had been stretched in that awkward yet somehow comfortable manner.

But these clothes fit. They look new. They look nice. Like you actually spent money on yourself instead of putting every spare dollar toward helping someone else.

You look healthy. Rested. The dark circles under your eyes have faded significantly—not gone completely, because you're still human and life is still life, but better. Your skin has color again instead of that exhausted undertone that had started appearing somewhere around month three of Robert's coma. The one that had deepened through the rehabilitation process, through the late nights and early mornings and constant vigilance.

You're holding yourself straighter, even while sitting. Shoulders back instead of hunched forward under invisible weight. Moving with an ease that suggests your body isn't constantly screaming at you from stress and exhaustion and sleeping in hospital chairs or the steps outside of your old clinic.

You look like someone who's been not only sleeping properly but eating regular meals. Taking care of themselves instead of running on fumes and determination and increasingly bitter coffee.

You look happy.

Really, genuinely happy in a way you haven't looked in—

Has it been months? Years?

Robert can't remember the last time he saw you smile like this without that underlying tension. That current of worry that had become so constant he'd stopped noticing it. The way you'd laugh at his jokes but your eyes would immediately go to checking him over, cataloging signs of pain or exhaustion or relapse.

But right now, in this moment, you're just happy.

And that smile—that bright, genuine, unreserved smile that used to be so common before everything went to shit—isn't for him.

It's for Beef.

The dog has scrambled toward you with his absolute best impression of a dog who's been separated from his favorite person for years instead of days. (Might as well be the same) His tail is wagging even harder that his whole body movies with it, stubby legs pumping as he practically hurls himself at your legs.

You've already scooped him up, setting aside whatever papers you'd been holding. His dense muscle and determined chonk, pounds of compact dogginess. But you lift him like he weighs nothing, like you've done this a thousand times before.

Because you have.

You've done it a thousand times before.

During the hospital months when you'd bring Beef for visits, saying dogs were therapeutic and Robert needed something to smile about—that Beef misses his dad. During the rehabilitation period when Robert couldn't bend down without pain and you'd lift Beef onto the bed/couch/chair so they could be close. During all the normal days of life when Beef would demand attention and you'd comply because how could anyone resist that face?

Somewhere along the way (or had it always been that way?) Beef had stopped being just Robert's dog. Had become their dog, even if Robert had never acknowledged it out loud. Even if the paperwork had only his name. Even if the vet records listed him as sole owner.

Beef was theirs. Beef belonged to both of you. Beef was the weird shared custody of a friendship that looked suspiciously like a relationship but neither of you had been brave enough to examine too closely.

"There's my good boy!" You're using that voice—that special tone reserved for animals. Higher, warmer, unconsciously affectionate in a way you sometimes struggle to be with humans. "Yes, yes! You're such a good boy! Did you miss me? I missed you! I missed you so much, my little sweet bowling ball~"

You're giggling now, that bubbly, effervescent sound that makes Robert's chest ache. Beef is attempting to lick every inch of your face, tail creating a blur of motion, little whimpers and yips of pure joy escaping him. All the while you hold him like a baby. Like he’s akin to a human baby, swaying slightly side to side in your chair. The same way you'd held him as a puppy, when he'd been small enough to fit in one hand, scared and shaking from the shelter.

Robert remembers that day with crystal clarity. Because... that's right. You were there.

You'd insisted on coming along. On helping him pick out a dog because "you can't just get a dog without thinking it through, Robert, this is a huge responsibility. You need to consider temperament and energy levels and whether they'll fit your lifestyle."

He'd tried to argue that he knew what he was doing, that he'd done research, that he could handle it alone.

But you'd given him That Look—the one that said you weren't asking, you were telling—and suddenly you were in his passenger seat giving directions to the county shelter.

You had given all the animals attention, of course you had. But you’d inevitability pull away from all the puppies jumping at kennel doors, even as the dogs barked and spun and showed off. But you continued on. Like you had some homing beacon, a guide pulling you along, a sound only you could hear.

Till you reached the back corner.

Stumbling upon a thin puppy of who knows what breed, alone. Watching everything with solemn dark eyes that have only witnessed shadows and darkness.

"Oh… sweet baby," you had murmured, crouching down. "You okay?"

And Beef—though he wasn't Beef yet—despite his terror, despite the hesitance any dog would have after going through knows what… had walked over with a slight waddle. Sniffing at your offered hand… before pressing his cold nose against your palm through the kennel bars. Peering up at you with big eyes.

"This one," you had declared, looking up at Robert with absolute certainty. "This is the one."

Robert had tried to argue initially. They should look at more options. See all the dogs. Make an informed decision. This was too important to rush. In truth, he was likely expecting a guard dog. Something… protective.

But you'd already made up your mind. Were already asking the shelter worker about adoption procedures and necessary supplies and whether the puppy had any medical issues they should know about.

The dog had been named before they'd even left the building. Robert had made some stupid joke about him being "beefy for such a small guy," and you'd lit up.

"Beef! That's perfect!" Laughing, already filling out paperwork with the name written in your careful handwriting.

Not Buddy or Max or any normal dog name. Just Beef. To be fair, you’ve always been one to name your pets anything but human names (less it was a refrence to a character of some sort).

And he'd been their dog from day one. Even though the paperwork had Robert's name and signature despite you bestowing Beef’s name. Even though technically Beef lived in Robert's apartment and ate Robert's food.

Because you HAD been there for everything.

Every vet visit and vaccination and training session. Every late-night walk when Beef refused to settle down. Every moment of frustration when he ate something he shouldn't have or decided 3 AM was the perfect time to practice his snoring skills. Every small victory when he learned a new command or finally stopped chewing what little furniture Rob initally had before he sold it off or made a new dog friend at the park.

You were there.

And now you're here. In this office. At SDN. Working in the same building as Robert but existing in a completely separate life.

A life that apparently doesn't include him anymore.

The office itself is impressive in how quickly you've made it yours. Photos pinned to a bulletin board drew his attention—people Robert doesn't recognize, but you're smiling in all of them. Group shots at what looks like medical conferences or training sessions. Candid moments with colleagues who clearly know you well enough to catch you mid-laugh.

When had you made these friends? When had your life expanded beyond the narrow confines of his apartment and his problems and his recovery?

The answer, he realizes with sinking certainty, is probably "the whole time." You'd always had your own life. Your own friends and interests and dreams. You'd just... folded yourself so completely into Robert's orbit that he'd stopped noticing you had one.

He’s been so consumed with his own shit—the suit, the legacy, the revenge, the accident, the recovery—that he'd never actually paid attention to you as a whole person. Never asked about your life beyond how it intersected with his needs.

The thought makes him feel sick.

A coffee mug sits on the desk—which he doesn’t know was a gift from Galen that the other dispatcher had bestowed you earlier today you like a scared treasure. ‘I'm not a doctor but I'll take a shot at it’ above a cartoon syringe. It made you laugh, it made him proud to have done such, it's your favorite now. The plants seem to feed off your energy, off your emotions that speak of something kind and warm, backframed by the greater sight of SDN’s center garden.

The space looks lived-in already. Comfortable. Like you've been here for years. Like you've found somewhere you actually belong instead of just a place you're temporarily occupying while waiting for something better.

Like you've found a home that isn't him.

Your name falls from his lips before he can stop it—the shape of it familiar on his tongue even though he hasn't said it aloud in a week. Relief crashes through him, so heavy and overwhelming it makes him almost dizzy.

Because you're here. You're real. You're okay.

The nightmare from this morning—the one where you disappeared, the shadow of Shroud behind you, making your smiling expression turn into one of horror. He had searched and searched but he couldn’t find you, until it was too late.

But it wasn't real.

You're here.

Alive. Safe. Working on the same floor he is, closer than ever day in and out.

You look up instantly, that blinding smile that had been all for Beef faltering. Not disappearing exactly, not shutting down completely, but transforming into something else. Something more guarded. More careful. More painful to witness because Robert put that guardedness there.

You stand smoothly—one fluid motion that is different than the usual delay, than the little worry or soreness that left you groaning or regretful each time you got up after attempting to rest. Beef remains comfortably in your arms, a grounding presence and unintentional shield. Or perhaps slightly protective, like a parent who isn't quite ready to let their kid go back to their other parent just yet. Who remembers the last handoff hadn't gone well, who's not sure the environment they're sending their child back to is safe. Or terrified they’ll never see said child again despite doing everything right.

The dog looks between you both, tail still wagging but slower now. Confusion evident in those expressive eyes and the slight tilt of his head.

"You work here now…" Robert's voice comes out with a questioning tone he hadn't meant to put there. An incredulity that probably sounds more accusatory than surprised. Like he can't believe you'd gotten a job without telling him. Like you owed him that information. Like you still shared your life with him the way you used to.

Like he has any right to feel betrayed when he's the one who pushed you away.

"I do." You adjust Beef's bulk in your arms, the dog's weight settling more comfortably against your chest. Your voice is steady. Professional. The voice you probably use with patients and colleagues. Not the voice you used to use with him—softer, more open, vulnerable in ways you only allowed yourself to be with people you trusted completely. "Started yesterday."

Yesterday.

The word hits Robert like a physical blow. Like someone's reached into his chest and squeezed.

Yesterday. Wednesday. Which means you'd started your new job—your new life at SDN—the day after that disastrous Friday. Had probably been preparing for it all weekend while he was sitting in his apartment feeling sorry for himself. Had probably gotten the offer before Friday even happened.

And you hadn't told him.

Hadn't texted him. Hadn't called. Hadn't thought to mention "oh, by the way, remember that job I interviewed for? I got it. We're going to be working together now." (To be fair, that’s not at all how it went though)

Or maybe you had thought about telling him. Maybe you'd picked up your phone a dozen times throughout the week, typed out messages you'd never sent, struggled with the same paralysis he'd been fighting. Maybe you'd drafted texts explaining about the new job, about starting at SDN, about how weird it would be working in the same building.

Maybe you'd decided he didn't deserve to know.

And fuck, maybe you were right.

Maybe after Friday—after the way he'd acted, the things he'd said and hadn't said, the jealousy and the coldness and the week of silence—you'd decided he'd forfeited the right to know about your life. To be included in your decisions. To be the person you shared things with.

Maybe this was what "space" looked like from your perspective. Robert taking space from you, you taking space from the entire situation by building a life that didn't revolve around him.

"Yesterday," Robert echoes faintly, the word feeling heavy and foreign in his mouth.

Which explained why Beef had acted the way he had last night. The scratching at this door, the persistent interest in this particular hallway. The dog had smelled you. Had known you were here somewhere, had been trying to find you.

Dogs always knew. They didn't need explanations or context. They just knew when someone important was nearby, when someone they loved was close but out of reach.

Beef had known you were here while Robert had been clueless.

"You look good." The words come out rougher than intended, scraping past something tight in his throat. He can hear how awkward they sound—forced, clumsy, desperate to fill the silence with anything. "Really good. Great. I mean—healthy."

His hand waves in your general direction, a gesture meant to encompass your whole professional appearance. Your obvious wellness. The fact that you look like someone who's finally had the chance and time to love themselves for once.

But the gesture comes across as exactly what it is: nervous and uncertain and completely inadequate.

The hand slaps awkwardly against his thigh before he shoves it into his slack pocket like he's trying to hide evidence of a crime.

"Healthy." He repeats the word like it might mean something different the second time. Like it might sound less stupid.

It doesn't.

God, he sounds like an idiot. Like someone who's forgotten how to have normal human conversations. Like all those months of talking primarily to you and Beef have completely eroded whatever social skills he once possessed.

But it's true. You do look healthy.

Something he just has to keep thinking about, staring and analyzing. Memorizing. It makes you look young, like some years have been shaved off after you stopped helping others stay afloat. Others like him. Where he had been too self-absorbed to notice. Too caught up in his own pain and anger and loss to see that he was pulling you under with him.

There's a slight pause from you—a moment where your expression does something complicated. Contemplation that you visibly shove down, professional mask sliding into place even as Robert watches conflict flicker across your features.

He knows that look. That particular struggle between wanting to be open and needing to be guarded. The way you second-guess yourself, overthink every word, worry about saying the wrong thing or being too much or not enough.

He's seen it a thousand times. Usually managed to coax you past it, to create space where you didn't have to perform or filter yourself. Where you could be messy and uncertain without judgment.

And then he'd judged you anyway. Had judged you for being kind to Royd. For making someone feel welcome in your characteristically generous way. For having a life and interests that didn't revolve entirely around him.

"Thanks." Your reply is simple, clean, but Robert can see you struggling with how to respond. Whether to deflect with humor or accept the compliment gracefully or redirect the conversation somewhere safer.

It's always been hard for you to take compliments. You'd rather turn them outward, make them about someone else, deflect attention away from yourself like you're not quite convinced you deserve positive recognition.

"You do too. Look healthy, I mean." The words are careful, measured. An offering of reciprocal kindness even though Robert can see in your eyes that you don't quite believe it.

Your gaze travels over him—quick but thorough, clinical in that way you can't help after years of medical training. Cataloging details automatically: the slight slump to his shoulders, the way his SDN uniform hangs a bit loose because he's lost weight (again), the shadows under his eyes that suggest sleep is still elusive, the tension in his jaw that means he's been clenching his teeth.

You're seeing all of it. Processing all of it. Probably already formulating advice you won't give because you've learned he doesn't listen. That he makes promises about taking better care of himself and then breaks them the moment things get hard.

And while you may say one thing, the truth is he obviously doesn't look healthy.

It's all a lie.

And you both know it's a lie, but neither of you calls it out because what would be the point? What good would it do to say "actually, you look like shit, Robert" or "have you been eating anything besides cereal?" or "are you sleeping at all or just lying awake replaying your failures on loop?"

None. It would do no good at all.

So you let the lie stand between you, another brick in the wall that's been building. The wall that's gotten higher and thicker every time he pulled away, shut down, chose distance over vulnerability.

The silence stretches. Not comfortable like it used to be—not that easy quiet of two people who don't need to fill every moment with words. This is heavier. Weighted with everything unsaid, with the week of absence and the memory of that unsigned note and all the ways Robert has fucked this up.

Beef whines softly, picking up on the tension the way dogs do. His tail has stopped wagging completely now, pressed flat against his body. He looks between you and Robert with what can only be described as concern, like he's trying to figure out why his two favorite people are acting so weird around each other.

Even the dog knows something's wrong.

For you, this feels disorienting. Surreal. Like you'd started to accept—somewhere in the back of your mind over the past week—that maybe you weren't going to see him again. Not like this, anyway. Not standing in your office doorway looking lost and uncertain and nothing like the confident hero you'd fallen in—

You cut that thought off viciously.

Friends. Best friends. That's what you are. That's all you are.

But you'd started to accept that maybe even that was over. That whatever happened Friday had been the final straw. That the silence meant he'd decided he was done. Done with your hovering, your concern, your presence in his life that had maybe become too much, too smothering, too obviously something more than friendship on your end.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Except that saying is bullshit. A lie people tell themselves to feel better about abandonment. Because you'd thought about him constantly this week. Worried about him. Wondered if he was eating, sleeping, wasn't stressing Beef out with his specific brand of chaos. Wondered if he was okay or spiraling. Wondering if he missed you even a fraction as much as you missed him.

And now he's here. Actually here. Standing in your doorway with a toy ball still clutched in one hand and an expression that makes your chest ache.

"Well," Rob start, voice carefully neutral even as his heart hammers against his ribs. "I guess I know who to go to when I need to rant to someone."

It's meant to be light. Friendly. A callback to all those nights when one of you would show up at the other's place needing to vent about work or life or the general unfairness of existence. When you'd sit on his floor or he'd sit on your couch and just... talk. For hours sometimes. About everything and nothing.

When that had been easy. Natural. Before everything got complicated.

"No."

The word comes out before you can stop it, sharp and immediate. You see the flash of something across his features—hurt, maybe? Confusion? The expression is gone too quickly to read properly, but you feel awful anyway.

"It's—" You pause, hand moving in those unconscious gestures you do when your mouth can't find the right words fast enough. Trying to articulate, to explain, all while Beef is still in your arms. "Not that I don't want to! Talk to you. But it would be unethical. For work. Mostly. For me to engage in psychological assistance with you professionally rather than for a physical incident or emergency—”

You're twisting your fingers together now, a nervous habit you've never quite broken. "As we're... best friends and that could cloud my judgment. Create bias. Compromise my ability to provide proper care."

The explanation sounds clinical even to your own ears. Professional. Distant.

Safe.

You clear your throat, shooting him an apologetic look that you hope conveys how much you wish it could be different. "Sorry."

"No. No." Robert waves it off immediately, shaking his head perhaps a bit too quickly. "Don't be. I… I probably should've known, actually."

He rubs the back of his neck—that telltale gesture that he does. One that you’ve wished was during his moments of fluster and shyness instead of the current discomfort. Instead of the embarrassment that had him wishing he could take back the last thirty seconds and do them differently.

"I mean, I probably need someone else anyway. I am a bit of a handful." The self-deprecation in his voice is thick enough to cut. The humor he uses when he's trying to make light of something that actually hurts.

My handful, your traitorous mind whispers.

The thought comes unbidden, unwanted, achingly familiar. Because he has always felt like yours in some indefinable way. Your responsibility. Your person to worry about. Your handful to manage even when he was being impossible.

Your Robert.

Except he's not, is he? He never was. That's not how friendship works. You don't own people just because you love them.

Your gaze falters, dropping from the unconscious eye contact that had locked you both into place seconds ago. It's too much—looking at him, being this close, pretending everything is normal when nothing feels normal anymore.

You carefully set Beef down on the ground before returning to your desk, even as you falter—fingers twitching as if unsure. But let him explore the space while you quickly do something. Be responsible. "I could recommend you to Doctor Monster."

You slide open a drawer, fingers finding the stack of business cards you'd been given during orientation. The motion gives you something to do with your hands, somewhere to direct your nervous energy that isn't staring at Robert and cataloging all the ways he looks simultaneously better and worse than a week ago.

"Doctor Monster." Robert echoes the name dryly, and you can hear the skepticism even without looking at him.

"Yes." You carefully extract one of the cards, turning back to find him closer than you expected. Not crowding your space exactly, but... present. There. Solid and real in a way that makes your fingers tremble slightly as you hold out the card. "He's my supervisor, actually. From SDN's Downtown LA branch. He’ll be visiting Torrance periodically, which is likely when you'd have appointments. Unless you make the drive downtown."

Robert takes the card, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. The contact is electric—or maybe that's just your stupid brain reading into every tiny interaction because you've missed him so much it physically hurts.

"Oh, you were serious." His brows raise briefly in surprise as he actually looks at the card. Reads the text. "Dr. Monster M. M.D."

There's a pause where his brain visibly processes the information.

"Looks like Eminem,” purposefully pronounced with M&M in mind too, “have some competition." He flips the card toward you in that particular way people do when they want to point something out—even though you both already know exactly what's printed there. "Is three M's in your name greedy? Is that legal?"

It’s a joke.

A very obvious one.

His lips twitch, but... not in amusement. Rather he's stopping himself from cringing as you stare at him, initially confused.

"There's a comma," you point out then, verbally and physically, your finger tapping the space after the second M. And thank god, your lips twitch despite everything now, amusement breaking through the careful neutrality you've been maintaining. "After the second M. So only two M's really."

Robert does a visible double-take, leaning in slightly to look at the card more closely. "Huh."

Another pause.

Longer this time.

"Well, yeah. That's…" He nods slightly, that particular gesture he does when he's realized he's made a mistake but doesn't want to make a big deal about it. "There is a comma after that dot."

He blinks, recalibrating. "So 'M.D.' stands for—"

"Medical doctor. Yeah—"

"—Yeah. I… see that now."

There's something almost endearing about watching his brain catch up. About seeing him process information in real-time, that split second where he realizes he's been reading it wrong and needs to adjust his understanding.

Despite the initial tension of this encounter—the week of silence and hurt feelings and carefully constructed walls—when you meet his gaze this time, something shifts.

Your lips are already twitching now. His expression does that thing where he's trying not to smile but failing.

And then you're both just... letting go.

Shoulders shaking with laughter. The sound bubbling up from somewhere genuine, untainted by the complications of the past week. Light and easy in a way that reminds you both why you became friends in the first place.

This. This right here. This is what you've been missing.

Not the grand gestures or dramatic moments. Just this easy humor. The ability to laugh at something stupid together. To find joy in the mundane. To exist in each other's presence without everything feeling heavy and complicated.

The amusement tapers off naturally, like laughter does, leaving behind its warmth instead of the awkwardness that had dominated before. The air feels lighter. Breathable.

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable anymore. Not fully comfortable either—too much has happened for that—but somewhere in between. Tentative. Hopeful, maybe. He hopes that isn’t just his feelings talking.

That he isn’t alone in this.

“So,” Robert starts, his voice softer now. Serious. His eyes lower before flicking up to meet yours, to unconsciously trace over your features. “Maybe after work, I was thi—”

A little CRASH interrupted them, shattering the moment.

The chime of the sensor mixed with the fumbling chaos as Waterboy stumbles into view, his goggled face apologetic and anxious in equal measure.

“Oh—oh no, I’m—I’m interrupting, aren’t I? I’m so sorry, I can—I can come back later, I just wanted to—” His eyes dart between you and Robert, clearly picking up on the tension. “Is this a bad time? This is definitely a bad time. I should—I should go—”

"No!" You say quickly, perhaps too quickly. The word comes out sharp, almost panicked, like you're trying to prevent something terrible from happening.

Beef, who had been sniffing around the perimeter of your office with that single-minded determination dogs have when investigating new territories, lifts his head happily at the familiar face appearing in your doorway. His tail starts wagging immediately, recognition sparking in those dark eyes.

"No, Wybie, it's fine. Come in." Your voice softens, loses that edge of panic as you visibly relax. "What do you need?"

Wybie?

Robert's eyes narrow, the question sharp and immediate in his mind even though he doesn't voice it. Watching as you stand smoothly rounding your desk to approach the gangly hero.

Waterboy is hovering in the doorway like he's not quite sure he's allowed to enter. Hunched in that particular way he does when he's anxious, when he's worried he's intruding or being a bother. His swim goggles are slightly askew on his face, and his tracksuit looks particularly shiny right now.

But it's the familiarity that catches Robert's attention. Holds it with uncomfortable intensity.

The way you move toward him without hesitation. The way your hand reaches out naturally to steady him at the elbow when he sways slightly. Contact that you're initiating yourself despite being someone who constantly wishes for physical distance with most people. Someone who flinches from unexpected touch, who needs warning before hugs, who respects personal space like it's a religious doctrine.

But here you are, reaching out to Waterboy—Wybie, apparently—like it's the most natural thing in the world.

What the fuck?

Robert stays in his position near your desk, Beef's ball still clutched in his hand hard enough that the rubber squeaks slightly. He should leave. He knows he should leave. This is clearly a moment between you and Waterboy, something that doesn't involve him.

But his feet won't move.

Waterboy—Wybie—hunches further toward your presence, his lanky frame folding in on itself as he stammers about something. His free hand has grasped your elbow in a mirror of your grip, the two of you connected in this small, intimate way that makes Robert's jaw clench involuntarily.

"I just—I didn't mean to interrupt—" Waterboy is saying, words tumbling over each other in that awkward, earnest way of his. "I know you're—you have—there's someone here and I should have knocked properly instead of just—but I saw the door was open and I thought maybe—but then I realized that was presumptuous and—"

"Wybie." You say his name gently, and the kid actually calms at it. Like your voice is some kind of magic spell. "Breathe. It's okay. You're not interrupting anything important."

The words shouldn't sting.

They do anyway.

Not interrupting anything important.

Is that what this is? What Robert is? Not important enough to warrant Waterboy waiting? Not significant enough to postpone whatever brought him here?

Robert knows he's being irrational. Knows this is exactly the kind of territorial, possessive bullshit that drove you away in the first place. But knowing doesn't stop the feeling. Doesn't stop the twist of something ugly and familiar crawling up his spine, coiling in his chest.

The two of you are smiling at each other now. Standing close enough that Waterboy's considerable height means he's bending down slightly to meet your eyes. The two of you touching in that casual, comfortable way that speaks to familiarity. To trust.

To friendship that Robert hasn't earned a place in. Or rather did then lost it like a fucking idiot.

"You've met Robert, right?" Your voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts like a knife, forcing him back to the present. You're looking at him now, expectant, and Robert realizes he's been staring at you both with an expression that's probably not remotely professional.

He blinks, forces something resembling a smile onto his face—pursed and awkward and definitely not convincing—and offers a small wave that feels absurdly juvenile. "Hey."

"Yes! Yes—I've met him! Of course—he," Waterboy's hands release your elbows to wring together nervously, fingers twisting in that anxious gesture Robert recognizes from their first meeting. "He helped me get this job actually. Helped—my tie."

Waterboy waves toward his neck, gesturing to demonstrate the previous situation. The memory of that conversation in the lounge of SDN on that Friday (the same Friday everything went to shit), Robert fixing the kid's tie while giving him a pep talk. Being kind because Waterboy because the kid—despite him not truly being a kid—seemed like he needed it.

The information seems to surprise you momentarily. Your eyebrows lift, expression shifting into something Robert can't quite read. "Really? That's so sweet!"

Your tone is genuine, warm in a way that makes Robert's chest ache. Your expression softening into something fond as you glance back at him. "Robert has always been a sucker for helping people. And their ties, I suppose.”

There's affection in your voice. Real affection, the kind you used to direct at him constantly before everything got complicated. Before he fucked it all up. Still, it makes him feel like he's being praised. Like he's just another dog like Beef waiting for affection and to wag his tail to show his happy he is.

"I-I bet! I mean—not him being a sucker but for helping! Helping people." Waterboy's eyes dart between the two of you behind his swim goggles. "You two know each other? I—of course you do! Obviously I just meant—not like it's my… my business."

His voice falters, growing meek. Shrinking in on himself like he's worried he's said something wrong, crossed some invisible line.

Before you can answer—before you can explain the complicated history and current situation that Robert doesn't even know how to define—Robert does it for you.

"Best friends." The words come out harder than intended, with almost a pointed emphasis on the descriptor. On the years implied in it. "Known each other for years. Forever, really. BFFs." He pauses, and then, because apparently his brain has completely abandoned him: "Got matching bracelets and everything to seal the deal."

The last remark is utterly childish in nature. Juvenile. The kind of thing a middle schooler would say to establish territory over a friend group. But Robert delivers it with complete seriousness, his expression neutral, his tone matter-of-fact.

Like he's stating an immutable truth rather than making himself sound like an absolute idiot.

You turn your head toward him. Slowly. The movement deliberate and pointed. Your brows raise even as your smile stays carefully in place—that professional, pleasant expression you use when you're being polite but definitely thinking something else entirely.

There's a question in your eyes. A silent ‘what are you doing?’ that Robert can read as clearly as if you'd spoken it aloud.

He chose to ignore it. Even as his face pinches slightly, a microexpression of recognition that yes, he knows he's being stupid. He knows he's doing this bullshit again. The same territorial, possessive nonsense that pushed you away on Friday.

But he can't seem to stop himself.

Thankfully, Waterboy is sweet, earnest Waterboy. He doesn't pick up on the undercurrents, doesn't recognize the tension, doesn't posture or challenge or do any of the things another person might do in this situation. He seems excited actually.

"Oh! Wow! That's—that's cool! Super cool!" His face lights up with genuine enthusiasm, that puppyish excitement he gets when something makes him happy. "I just met—them yesterday. But I wish I knew them longer—like you, Robert."

Waterboy's smile is far too genuine, far too open and honest. Robert feels guilt starting to claw at his insides the longer it continues. This kid doesn't deserve to be caught in whatever emotional disaster Robert is currently embodying.

"[Name] is—a great person. Great friend." Waterboy continues, completely oblivious to the way Robert looks ready to kill. "I'd want them as a best friend—not, not like I'm trying to take them from you that'd be—I wouldn't—I just mean—"

Now he’s spiraling, anxiety ramping up as he realizes how his words might be interpreted. His hands are wringing together again, faster, and Robert can see the panic starting to edge into his expression.

"I get it, kid." Robert interrupts gently, forcing his voice to soften. To be kind instead of sharp. Because Waterboy doesn't deserve his bullshit. "Really."

A moment of weighted silence where Robert can feel you watching him, assessing whether he's going to say something else. Something worse.

He glances at you, meets your eyes briefly, then looks away. Can't quite hold the contact when he knows what you're thinking. When he can see the wariness there, the uncertainty about whether HE’s going to spiral again.

"They're a pretty great friend." The words come quieter this time. More genuine. "I've been lucky to call them my best friend all these years. Real lucky."

And he means it. Despite everything—despite his jealousy and possessiveness and complete inability to process his emotions like a functional adult—he means it.

He has been lucky. Impossibly, unfairly lucky to have you in his life. To have someone who cared enough to stick by his sorry ass all these years, to pull him back from death again and again even when he ignored your pleas to stop, to sitting through months of hospital vigils, who bothered to learn his coffee order and remember his dog's favorite treats and notice when he was crashing before he could burn.

Lucky to have someone who stayed even when staying meant watching him destroy himself. Who kept trying even when he made it nearly impossible. And each time you tried, he destroyed you in the process.

Lucky, even though he'd done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

Waterboy's anxiety visibly relaxes at Robert's words. His shoulders drop from around his ears, his hands stop their nervous wringing, and that genuine smile returns—softer this time, but no less real.

He nods enthusiastically in agreement with Robert's statement, clearly overjoyed at finding some equal footing. At having this moment of connection with someone who could easily be intimidating given the whole Mecha Man legacy thing.

"Yeah," Waterboy agrees. "Yeah, exactly."

You're watching the exchange with something complex in your expression. Robert can see it in his peripheral vision even though he's not quite brave enough to look at you directly. Can sense the wheels turning in your head, processing this interaction, trying to figure out what it means.

You still have mixed feelings about him. He knows that. Can see it in the careful way you're holding yourself, the distance you're maintaining even though you're standing right there. The walls that weren't there a week ago but are definitely there now.

He backed down before causing another issue, though. Before making this even more difficult than it already is. Before creating a scene that would have made it impossible to work in the same building, to exist in the same space without everything feeling hostile and broken.

That has to count for something.

Right?

…And you still love him. The thought flashes through your mind unbidden, unwanted, achingly true. Even if your brain is screaming that you can't truly forgive him yet. Can't truly integrate him back into your life, not until you're sure he's… different.

That whatever caused Friday—whatever made him think that behavior was okay—won't happen again. A boundary that you need maintained because you can't let yourself spiral like you did last weekend. Can't let yourself become that person again, the one who exists solely to manage someone else's emotions while ignoring their own.

The guilt still whispers that it wasn't his fault. That you should have waited, should have been the one to apologize and engage in conversation instead of fleeing. That leaving that note instead of talking face-to-face was cowardly.

But it wasn't your fault. None of it was.

Even if he made you feel like it was. Intentionally or not.

"So, um." Waterboy shifts his weight, bringing your attention back to him. To the reason he'd appeared in your doorway in the first place. "I just wanted to say thank you again. For yesterday. For helping with the—" He gestures vaguely at himself. "Everything."

"Of course, Wybie." You squeeze his elbow gently before releasing him, and Robert tries very hard not to focus on how natural that gesture looked. How comfortable. "That's what I'm here for."

"I know, but you didn't have to be so nice about it. Most people aren't that nice. Not to me." There's something vulnerable in his voice, something that suggests a history of not being treated particularly well. "So, thank you. Really."

"You're welcome. Really." You mirror his emphasis with a small smile. "Now, what did you actually come here for? Because I know you didn't just stop by to say thanks." There was another fumbling explanation, something about—this person, or another person, things akin to such. All of which you listened to with gentle patience. With a gaze that he wants directed toward him, to caress his features while your head tilts with a just-so smile.

It isn’t until your watch—when did you get that?—softly sings that conversations have to come to a halt. Lunch break is over… have they really been talking that long? And now what? Work is to resume with its relentless march forward?

Waterboy had given his tumbling see-you-arounds before scrambling off like he was expecting someone to yell at him for taking too long. The kid moved through the world like he was constantly bracing for reprimand, always anticipating disappointment.

Robert understood that feeling more than he'd like to admit.

Which left him alone with you again. Standing in the hallway near the locker room, Beef sitting between you both looking pleased with himself, the afternoon stretching ahead with all its complications.

"Duty calls," Robert says slowly, awkwardly, reluctantly. He doesn't want to leave. Wants to stand here and keep talking, keep existing in your presence now that you're letting him.

"It does." You offer a slight smile, hesitant before retreating—both physically and emotionally. Taking a step back, creating distance, rebuilding walls.

He hates it. Hates that he caused this. Hates that he turned something easy into something complicated.

"I should probably—" he starts.

"I probably should—" you begin at the same time.

"Sorry."

"My bad."

The collision of words would normally make you both laugh. Would turn into a familiar bit where you'd try to out-apologize each other until someone gave up and just started talking.

But now it just hangs there awkwardly. Another reminder of how things have changed.

You peer through your lashes, looking up at him shyly. He's already looking at you. Staring, maybe. The intensity of his gaze makes you uncertain in a way you didn't used to be.

You used to feel flustered under his attention. Used to wish for exactly this—his focus entirely on you, his eyes tracking your expressions like you were something worth studying, something worth staring at. It was a secret thrill, those moments when you'd catch him watching you and wonder what he was thinking.

But this time it's different. Another complicated mix of emotions you can't quite parse. The flutter is still there—your stupid heart still skips when he looks at you like that—but it's tangled up with wariness now. With self-preservation. With the memory of how much it hurt when he turned that attention into something cold and cutting.

"Back to charity work," Rob finally says, breaking the silence because one of you has to.

"Yeah." You pause, then add: "Charity because it's the Phoenix Program or…?"

He's trying to make conversation. Trying to be normal. You can appreciate the effort even if it feels stilted.

"Well, we're not here for the nonexistent pay and benefits," he continues when you don't immediately respond. There's an attempt at humor in his voice, that dry sarcasm he usually wields so well.

But something in the phrasing catches your attention.

"…Nonexistent?" Your brow furrows, concern creeping into your voice. "Do you not get paid, Robert?"

He pauses, really looks at your face—at the genuine worry there—and something shifts in his expression.

"You do?" he asks instead of answering.

"Yes." The word comes out flat. Obvious. "Of course I do. This is a job, Robert."

Oh.

Oh.

Robert's brain makes several rapid calculations. About SDN's budget allocation. About the Phoenix Program being partially punitive in nature. About Blonde Blazer's vague comments about him "helping out" and "contributing to the team” and his still ‘Pending’ payroll.

About the fact that apparently some people in this building get paychecks and he isn't one of them.

"Of course I get paid," he says quickly, the lie coming out smoother than it should. "I was just joking. You know how it is. Joking about not getting paid. Because the job is so fulfilling!” He’s smiling now, but it's too wide, too... That.

But he can see you're not entirely convinced. Mentally questioning whether he's telling the truth or just trying to save face.

"I guess…" You don't sound convinced at all.

He needs to leave before you push harder. Before you start asking questions about his finances that he doesn't want to answer. That he exposes just how worthless he is to you as you climb the well-deserved ladder of success.

"I'll see you around," he says, already taking a step backward.

"Yeah. See you around." Your voice is soft, uncertain.

He wavers. "Uh, Beef… Beef looks like he wants to stay." Robert gestures to the dog, who's pressed against your legs with no apparent intention of moving. Having housed his bulk there like he'd forgotten who he actually belonged to. Like he'd made his choice and that choice was definitely not Robert.

Traitor dog.

"That's okay." You reach down to scratch behind Beef's ears, and the dog leans into your touch with a contented sigh and pure doggy bliss. "I don't mind the company."

"Great. Okay. I'll…" Robert is backing away now, putting distance between himself and this conversation before it can get more complicated. "See you around."

"You said that already."

"Right. Yeah." He's at the corner now, nearly escaped.

You catch onto it, of course you do. Because its obvious to the both of you on the mutual-weirdness of the situation. “I won’t steal him, y’know.” You reassure, believing that maybe, he thought you were just going to whisk Beef off the moment you have the chance. “I’ll make sure he gets back to his dad by the end of the day.”

“I—” his mouth opens, to say things that were both necessary and unnecessary. “Right. Thanks…”

Then he's around the corner, out of sight, speedily scurrying down the hall before rounding another corner to lean in a different hall. Taking a breath that feels too deep and too shallow all at once.

Already cursing himself for being an idiot.

Of course you get paid. You're useful, have all the legal credentials, actually contribute something valuable to SDN's operations. You're moving up in the world, building a career, establishing yourself as more than just the person who takes care of disasters.

While he's stuck acting like some weird territorial rat who can't handle basic human interactions without making everything exponentially worse.

Breathe.

He can do this.

He has to do this.

Because if he doesn't—if he lets this chance slip away like he's let so many others—he knows with absolute certainty that there won't be another one.

You're already building a life without him. Already making friends, finding your place, thriving in ways you couldn't when you were busy keeping him alive.

And if he doesn't figure out how to fix this, that life is going to close completely. The door is going to shut. And he'll be exactly what he deserves to be: alone with his mistakes and a dog who clearly has better taste in humans than his owner does.

Wait… He pauses putting on his headset as he's settled at his desk, squinting.

Is that why the Z-Team has been acting so weird?

author's note: make sure to toss your favorite Irish strongman next time you see him... ah, just be careful though. dude is much heavier than he looks. And he does go for some sucker punches.