#but until then...god

"You don't have to do this, you know."

"Do what? Be nice to you?" It stings just the way he intends it to, Waterboy flinching and taking a shaky step back. There's water pooling down his chin, caught on his fingers. Pretty in the fluorescent lights; it almost reminds him of—of something he definitely doesn't need to be thinking about. Especially at work. Especially with Waterboy. Kid deserves better than him, some washed up, pathetic excuse of an Omega. He's pretty enough that he could get any Alpha he wanted enough (and fuck, does the thought make something heated and possessive curl within his stomach. The Alpha his dad wanted him to be, all gnashing teeth and nails digging into dirt, clawing a hole for himself to bury himself in and pretend it isn't a grave. Huh. Maybe more of Astral rubbed off on him than he thought).

Waterboy doesn't say anything, but he does nod. Once, jerky, like he really didn't mean to do it at all. But he's caught in the truth of it, pinned by his gaze. Chest rising and falling like a scared rabbit. He wonders if Waterboy feels safe, in his jaws. Or if he's just another thing taking advantage of the man's gentle nature? Pushing where he knows he shouldn't, traipsing into territory he knows he shouldn't with all the grace of a drunken bear. If he smoked, he'd be like that damn bear that joined the Polish military. At least he got to live out the rest of his days in a zoo. And what does he get instead? A fucking circus. Not even—at least you can get peanuts at the damn circus.

But Waterboy has enough hope that things are still good behind the scenes, and even though he knows that illusion is going to shatter the second they step through the threshold of his apartment, there's something in it that warms his entire life. Makes him want to reach toward that guiding star, uncaring of how damn badly Polaris is going to burn his hand as he clings to the one thing that might somehow lead him home. "There's one thing you really ought to know about me, Waterboy."

"Sir?"

"Being good—being good to you—that's the kind of shit I'm wired for. It's who I am. So don't you ever look at me say you don't deserve it. Everyone deserves the chance to be good. To do good. To feel good. These little acts of heroism? They do a hell of a fucking lot in the grand scheme of saving a life. Because one day you're going to look back and see all the fucking hands that held you up long enough that you could rise and see that view from the top." His gaze turns to Chase's desk, and Waterboy's gaze follows.

And then, riding that razor's edge of accusatory and concerned, Waterboy asks, "And who's holding you?"

"I've already seen the view, kid. There's nothing left for me to see. I've had my fill of it; now it's time to help the rest of you see yours."

"I don't—don't think you have, sir. Robert." Waterboy straightens. Sometimes he forgets how tall the other man is, with how he's constantly trying to make himself smaller.

He looks up and grins, sharp. "This is the kind of shit I'm talking about, kid. The view of you looks better from down here."

"It's not a view worth saying if you can't see it with me."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I wouldn't—the team wouldn't—without you, we're…" Waterboy snarls; it's an angry, heated thing. His scent lashes out like a summer storm; ozone and lilies crushed underfoot by the people racing to get away from the devastation. Or the fools like him, running towards it without abandon. Grinning, wide, alive at the first strike of lightening as Waterboy's fists clench. "I don't want to be in a Z-Team that doesn't have you as the Dispatcher. And I know they feel the same."

"You see Mecha Man when you look at me. Your lenses are rose-tinted. You better take 'em off before they shatter, Waterboy. Picking glass out of your own face is a pain."

Waterboy's face crumples and rebuilds into something sharper. His scent is a tidal way; the steady drip, drip, drip, of the water the ticking of a time-bomb. His own breath feels caught in his throat; he hears his heart thudding in his ears. "Don't," he says, voice devastatingly quiet. "Please."

"Don't what, kid? Tell you the truth? Better you hear it from me and have time to process it before you're forced to live it. The glory days of Mecha Man? They're long gone. I'm just Robert. The sooner we accept that, the easier it'll be."

He sees the kid coming from a mile away, and does nothing to stop it. Lets Waterboy take two fistfuls of his shirt, shuddering at the feel of it on his skin. Lets his hands curl around his forearms, steadying himself as Waterboy hauls him up. He's panting, trembling; his scent is wrecked, and it's not angry anymore. It's sad. It a funeral precession; dirt and florals and rainwater so slick you can barely walk a step without risking falling deeper into the muck. "Don't fucking talk about my hero like that," Waterboy snaps, tears at the corners of his eyes.

"Your hero is dead, kid."

"No. No, he's not." Fingers curling deeper, fangs bared. "He's right here. I see him. I'm holding him."