#dispatch oneshot

The response came not in words but in a low, sustained whine from the direction of the bedroom. Robert’s heart did that stupid skip-jump thing—the same one that happened every time something seemed even slightly wrong with you, every time you were late responding to a text (because you honestly always responded to his texts within seconds), every time you sighed in a way that suggested stress rather than contentment.

He’d thought that particular anxiety response would ease after you’d both started dating. Turns out having someone to love just meant having infinitely more to worry about. Who knew? Well, probably everyone. But knowing it intellectually and experiencing it viscerally were two very different things, Robert.

He moved quickly through the apartment, a place that has transformed since he starting working at SDN and the Mecha Man suit had been cleared out to be repaired. You've been wanting to make the place a home for awhile, of course you had, he just had difficultly accepting it. He was very particular and perhaps a bit too snappy for his own good during the dark times.

He dropped his backpack carelessly onto the couch as he made his way to the bedroom. It's door was cracked open, as it often is to let Beef roam around while the two of you slept.

The sight that greeted him would have been endearing if it wasn’t so concerning.

You were buried under what appeared to be every blanket in the apartment—the comforter, the throw from the couch, that weighted blanket you’d insisted on buying during a late-night online shopping spree even though you were also stressed about spending online fees, even the slightly scratchy one from the back of the closet that neither of you particularly liked but kept around for mysterious reasons neither could quite remember. The mountain of fabric rose and fell with your breathing in the dim room, and Beef, as he usually does, had appointed himself guardian, pressed against the side of the bed with his head resting on the mattress (given the two of you have still refused to get a bed frame), those soulful brown eyes tracking Robert’s entrance with what could only be described as relief.

“Oh, baby,” Robert breathed, and even he could hear the worry bleeding into his voice as he crossed the room in three quick strides. Smoothly sliding onto the mattress where his hand found your forehead—an automatic gesture born from months of recovering from his own injuries, from you checking his temperature countless times when he’d been too stubborn to admit he’d overdone it during physical therapy.

You were burning up.

Not dangerously so, probably—he wasn’t a doctor despite his tendency to WebMD symptoms at two in the morning—but enough that it sent a spike of concern through his chest. Your skin was flushed, a high color in your cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment or exertion, and when your eyes fluttered open at his touch, they were glassy and unfocused in that particular way that spoke of fever-induced fog that only meant you felt miserable.

“Rob?” Your voice came out rough, cracked like old leather left too long in the sun. You blinked slowly, processing speed clearly diminished. “You’re… home?”

“Have been for about thirty seconds,” he confirmed, his thumb tracing a gentle arc across your temple, cataloging the heat radiating from your skin. His other hand had already found Beef’s head, offering the dog a reassuring scratch behind the ears as if to say good job keeping watch, buddy. “How long have you been like this?”

The question seemed to require an extraordinary amount of mental processing. He watched you try to calculate, saw the moment you gave up with a small, defeated sound that made his chest constrict.

“Dunno,” you finally managed, words slightly slurred at the edges. “Morning? Maybe? Beef’s been…” You nodded vaguely at the dog, the movement weak and uncoordinated. “Good boy. Best boy. Stayed with me.”

The chubby dog's tail wagged, tongue lulling out at the praise.

“Yeah, he’s getting extra treats for this,” Robert agreed, but his attention remained on you. Fever, obviously. Hydration status? He glanced at the side of the mattress—one glass of water, mostly full, sitting there, suggesting you hadn’t been drinking enough. Medication? He couldn’t see any evidence of it. Food? Probably not, if you’d been feeling this rough. He should've noticed this morning. Something he doesn't say outloud because you'd probably reprimand him for it.

Right. Okay. He could handle this. He’d dealt with significantly more complex problems. This was just… taking care of someone he loved. Someone who’d spent months taking care of him, who’d sat by his hospital bed and learned his rehab exercises and bullied him into actually following doctor’s orders when his natural stubbornness kicked in. Someone who's been there his entire life, both kindhearted and teasing that was more loving than his tough love of a uprising was.

Turnabout was fair play.

“Alright,” he said, injecting his voice with a confidence. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to get you some actual water, some medicine if we have any fever reducers that aren’t expired—no promises there, our medicine cabinet is a disaster—and something light to eat. Toast maybe. Can you handle toast?”

You made a noncommittal sound that he chose to interpret as agreement.

“Great. Toast it is. And then—” he paused, leaning down so he was eye-level with you, his hand still cupped against your face, thumb now tracing the curve of your cheekbone, “—you’re going to let me take care of you without any protests about being fine or not wanting to be a burden or whatever other self-sacrificing nonsense your fever brain is cooking up. Deal?

Your eyes had drifted closed again, but a small smile tugged at your lips. “You’re bossy when you’re worried. It's hot."

“I’m always hot,” he countered, pressing the lightest kiss to your forehead—just a brush of lips against overheated skin—before straightening. “You just usually don’t listen to me.”

“Smart of me,” you murmured, already drifting back toward sleep.

Robert huffed out a laugh that was more affection than amusement. “Beef, you’re in charge until I get back,” he told the dog seriously. Beef’s tail thumped once against the floor in acknowledgment of his continued duty.

The kitchen raid was swift and efficient. Water bottle—where he rummaged for a stray straw in your guys everything cabinet. Crackers instead of toast because the toaster had decided to die two weeks ago and neither of you had gotten around to replacing it yet. A fact he only remembered now. A banana because that seemed like something that qualified as “easy on the stomach.” Tylenol that was, miraculously, not expired—though they would be in another month, so that was cutting it close.

He loaded everything onto a tray—when had they gotten a tray? Had they always had a tray? Was this something you’d bought during one of your organizational kicks? Or maybe during one of your thrifts store visits that you scurried off to without him? —and headed back to the bedroom, Beef padding along behind him like a furry solider trotting after his superior.

You’d shifted slightly in his absence, one arm thrown over your eyes to block out the lamplight he cranked on earlier. Robert set the tray carefully on the ground, then settled onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“Hey,” he said softly, his hand finding your shoulder through the impressive layer of blankets. “Medicine time.”

“Mmm, no,” you protested, but it lacked any real conviction. “I’m fine.”

“You’re really not.” He helped you sit up—a more complicated process than it should have been given the blanket situation and your apparent loss of fine motor control. You listed sideways slightly, and he found himself with an armful of feverish, disgruntled human who was glaring at him with significantly less menace than probably intended.

“Take these,” he instructed, pressing two pills into your palm and following up with the water bottle. “All of it. The water, I mean. Not the pills. Don’t… don’t take all the pills. That would be bad.”

Despite everything, you laughed—a rough, scratchy sound but genuine. “Your nursing skills need work.”

“Hey, I kept myself alive through months of recovery,” he defended, watching to make sure you actually swallowed the medication and drank a reasonable amount of water. “That counts for something.”

“You had me for that,” you pointed out, and yeah, okay, that was fair. “I did all the actual work."

“Which is exactly why I’m returning the favor now.” He adjusted the pillows behind you, fluffing them with perhaps more aggression than necessary. “Eat something. Crackers or banana, your choice. Don’t make me do the airplane thing because I will, and you know I’ll commit to the bit.”

You reached for the banana with the kind of resigned acceptance that suggested you knew arguing was futile. He watched you take small, deliberate bites, his own tension gradually easing as you managed to eat about half before declaring yourself done with a firmness that brooked no argument.

“Good enough,” he conceded, taking the remaining food and setting it aside. “Now, actual sleep. Real sleep, not this half-dozing thing you’ve probably been doing all day.”

He moved to stand, intending to at least change out of his work clothes and maybe set up camp in the chair by the window—close enough to help if you needed anything but far enough not to disturb your rest. Your hand caught his wrist, grip weak but insistent.

“Stay?” The word came out small, almost uncertain. “Please?”

Like he could refuse you anything, especially when you were sick and asking so sweetly. Like there was any universe where he’d choose to be anywhere else.

“Yeah,” he said softly, already toeing off his socks and working on his belt. “I’m staying. Let me just—get out of my work clothes.”

He made it back in 40 seconds—a new record, probably—stripped to his boxers. Because it's not like you haven't seen him in his underwear or vice versa. Well, the two of you have seen a lot more than that, actually.

The bed was a tighter fit with you buried under the blanket mountain, but he managed to slide in carefully, trying not to jostle you too much as he settled in.

You immediately gravitated toward him, that seeking heat you always did in sleep, your head finding his chest with the kind of automatic precision that spoke of habit and comfort. One of your arms draped across his stomach, and even through the fever, he could feel you relax incrementally as he wrapped his own arms around you.

Beef, apparently deeming the situation under control now that backup had arrived, huffed out a dramatic sigh and curled up on his dog bed in the corner, though his eyes remained open and alert. Still on duty, just on break.

“You’re gonna get sick,” you mumbled against his chest, the words muffled by fabric and congestion.

“Probably,” Robert agreed easily, one hand coming up to card through your hair—careful, gentle, the kind of touch meant to soothe rather than stimulate. “Don’t really care."

“You should care.” But you were already drifting, pulled down by fever and exhaustion and the comfort of being held. “Work… important… dispatcher stuff…”

“Shh.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo mixed with the slight sour tang of fever-sweat. “Work can survive without me for a day. You’re more important.”

You made a soft, disbelieving sound. “Sap.”

“Your sap,” he corrected, and felt more than heard your answering hum of agreement

The night passed in that strange, disjointed way nights do when someone is sick—periods of deep sleep interrupted by moments of restlessness, of adjusting blankets, of you whimpering softly when dreams turned uncomfortable and him murmuring reassurances until you settled again. He dozed intermittently, never fully falling under, some primal part of his brain insisting on staying alert enough to monitor your breathing, your temperature, the general of your condition.

Somewhere around three AM, you’d woken more fully, disoriented and shivering despite the warmth of both fever and blankets. He’d helped you to the bathroom, stood outside the door like a worried sentinel until you emerged, then guided you back to bed and coaxed more water into you along with another round of medicine.

“Rob?” You’d asked as he settled back beside you, your voice still rough but clearer than before.

“Hmm?"

“Thank you.” Simple words, but weighted with the kind of sincerity that made his chest feel too full. “For this. For taking care of me.”

“Always,” he’d replied, echoing words you’d once said to him during his own recovery. “I’m always going to be here.”

You’d smiled then, soft and genuine despite the discomfort written across your features. “I know.”

And then, before he could redirect you properly back to sleep, he pressed a kiss to your jaw—hand automatically coming up to cradle the back of your head.

“You really shouldn’t,” you protested weakly, even as his thumb traced the curve of your skull. “You're going to get sick.”

“Don’t care,” he murmured, echoing his earlier declaration. His lips had found your cheek next, then the corner of your mouth, featherlight touched that sent warmth cascading through the both of you that had nothing to do with your fever or shared heat.

“Missed you today. Just… missed you.” You whisper, lashes shut and content painting your features.

And what was he supposed to do with that? How was he supposed to maintain any kind of reasonable boundaries when you said things like that, when you looked at him with those fever-bright eyes full of affection and trust and something that still sometimes made him wonder how he’d gotten this lucky?

"Missed you too, hon,” he’d breathed, giving in with the inevitability of gravity.

"More?" You murmur and he smiles, choosing not to tease you on being vague or act like he doesn't know what you mean exactly.

"Okay, but just… a few. To help you sleep better.”

“Obviously,” you’d agreed, lips already finding his in a proper kiss—slow and sweet and gentle, the kind of kiss that wasn’t about passion or heat but about comfort and connection and I love you without needing to say the words.

He’d kissed you back carefully, mindful of your state, keeping it soft and brief despite the way his heart was racing behind his ribs. Once, twice, three times—small presses of lips that tasted like fever and medicine and somehow still managed to be perfect.

He wanted to kiss you for longer and you wanted to kiss him for longer. But he, responsibly, pulled away.

“There,” he’d said, though that exasperation from earlier was lacking. His eyes had softened as they peered into yours, caught in that interlinked moment that always seemed to happen after kisses—like your gazes were tethered together by invisible string, unable to look away even if you’d wanted to. Which you never did. “Better now?”

“Mm…” You’d made a show of thinking about it, paired with an ever-dramatic drag of “hmm” complete with audible thinking sounds. Just in case it wasn’t obvious before, of course. The resulting half-eye-roll from him was caught in your vision, along with that smirk despite such antics. “Yes. Yes. Much better.” You’d finally concluded, smiling innocently at him in that way that always made him want to kiss you more and also maybe tickle you until you admitted you were being deliberately difficult.

“Good.” He’d guided your head back to his chest, resuming the gentle stroking of your hair. "Now go to sleep."

"Yeah yeah, asshole."

He chuckled at that, smiling at the dark ceiling. Within minutes, your breathing had evened out into the deep rhythm of actual sleep, your body heavy and trusting against his.

He’d stayed awake a while longer, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling, listening to your breathing and Beef’s occasional snores from the corner. His mind had drifted through the surreal reality of his life—that he got to have this, that someone like you had chosen someone like him, that after everything he’d lost and struggled through, he’d somehow found his way here.

To this bed, with you in his arms. With a life that you were building together. One day at a time with a love that felt both thrillingly new and comfortably familiar, like coming home to a place you’d always been meant to be.

Eventually, sleep had claimed him too, pulled under by exhaustion and the warmth of holding you close.

Morning arrived with the kind of aggressive brightness that suggested neither of them had remembered to close the curtains fully the night before. Robert became aware of consciousness gradually—first the warmth, then the weight of another person against him, then the pounding behind his temples that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. Made ten times worse as his alarm screeches at him, demanding he wake up and go clock in for more hours of being bullied by a team of ex-villains.

He groaned as he got smacked, your arm, pointedly and silently telling him to get up or at least shut off his alarm. Which he was doing, all while feeling miserable.

His throat felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper. His sinuses were staging a coup. His body ached with that particular all-over misery that signified his immune system had, in fact, utterly failed to fight off whatever plague you’d been harboring. How could you do this to me, he silently laments… as if it isn't totally his fault.

Worth it, his brain supplied immediately, even as he tried to swallow and discovered his throat had other opinions about that action.

You were still mostly asleep, though you’d shifted during the night—your back pressed against his side now, his arm slung over your waist. Beef had apparently migrated at some point and was now sprawled against your chest like an oversized chunky baby that's been overfed by worried first time parents. A not so wrong comparison.

Robert tried to assess his condition without moving too much or making his agony so visible Feeling his face and forehead. Fever? Check. Congestion? Double check. General sense that his body was betraying him in favor of viral invaders? Oh yeah, definitely check.

Guesd he isn't going to work today. If he was forced to he might just do that open-mouth cough kids do till he's pointedly sent home. So after silencing his phone, he rolls back, tightening his arm slightly around your waist, pressed his face into your hair (thus definitely making any quarantine efforts pointless), and decided that he can miss today. You were still warm—though less alarmingly so than yesterday—and your breathing sounded clearer. Improvement. Good. He’d take it.

The shift must have registered in your sleep because you stirred, a soft sound escaping as consciousness began to drag you upward. He felt the moment awareness fully returned—the slight tension that entered your muscles before you deliberately relaxed, the change in breathing pattern.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice still rough but markedly better than last night.

“Hey yourself,” he attempted, and immediately regretted speaking as his throat lodged a formal complaint. The sound that came out was somewhere between a croak and a rasp, and would have been humorous if it didn’t hurt quite so much.

You were turning in his arms before he could protest—careful of Beef, who grumbled at the disruption—your eyes widening as you took in his appearance. Whatever you saw made your expression shift into something caught between guilt and fond exasperation.

“Rob—”

“I’m fine,” he lied reflexively.

Your hand found his forehead with the same automatic gesture he’d used on you yesterday. Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re burning up.”

“Barely noticeable,” he countered, and tried for a reassuring smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Just a little warm. Totally normal. Probably just, uh, residual heat from all those blankets you hoarded.”

“Robert.”

He sighed, giving up the pretense. “Okay, yes, I’m sick. Obviously. You were sick. I kissed you multiple times. We slept together. Math was done, and here we are.”

Your expression had shifted fully into guilt now, brows furrowing in that way that meant you were spiraling into self-recrimination. “I told you not to kiss me. I specifically said you’d get sick.” Even though you do remember sort of… y'know. Egging him on to kiss you more. But we'll just ignore that fact.

“And I specifically didn’t listen,” he pointed out, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together with the ease of long practice. “Shocking behavior from me, I know. Truly unprecedented.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” When your glare intensified, he softened, his thumb tracing circles against your palm. “Hey. [Name]. Look at me.”

You did, reluctantly, and he made sure you could see nothing but sincerity in his expression despite the general misery of his physical state.

“Worth it,” he said simply. “Every single second. Would do it again. Will do it again, probably, next time one of us gets sick. You can’t stop me. We can be sick together. Always."

“That’s so stupid,” you whispered, but your eyes had gone shiny in that way that meant you were fighting tears. “You’re so stupid.”

“Yeah, well, I’m your stupid,” he countered, gently tugging you closer despite your half-hearted resistance. “We’ve established this. It’s in the boyfriend contract. Section three, subsection B: ‘Party A agrees to be Party B’s specific brand of stupid for the duration of the relationship.’”

That startled a laugh out of you—watery and slightly hysterical, but a laugh nonetheless. “There’s no boyfriend contract.”

“There absolutely is. I have it notarized and everything.” He was fully committing to the bit now, even though talking this much was making his throat feel like a war zone. “It’s very official. Has one of those wax seals and everything. Very fancy.”

“You’re delirious,” you decided, but you’d stopped pulling away. In fact, you’d settled more fully against him, your free hand coming up to brush hair back from his forehead with the kind of tenderness that made his chest constrict pleasantly despite the general unpleasantness of being sick. The touch sliding back and tracing his ear lobe with the missing part you often idly caressed during movie nights.

“Probably,” he conceded. “Fever’ll do that. But I maintain my earlier stance: worth it.”

You studied his face for a long moment, and he wondered what you saw—the flushed cheeks, the glassy eyes, the general air of someone who had made deliberate and informed poor choices regarding communicable disease transmission and had zero regrets.

“I hate that I love you,” you finally said, but the words were so full of affection that they lost any sting they might have carried.

“No you don’t,” he replied confidently, fighting back a cough. “You love that you love me. It’s your favorite thing.”

“Second favorite,” you corrected, and before he could ask what the first was, you’d closed the distance and pressed a soft kiss to his lips—brief and gentle and tasting like morning and medicine and coming full circle.

“You’re gonna get more sick,” he protested weakly when you pulled back, though his hand had already come up to cup your jaw, keeping you close.

“Don’t care,” you echoed his words from last night, then kissed him again because apparently neither of you had any sense of self-preservation when it came to each other. “We’ll be sick together, like you said. Very romantic."

“Extremely romantic,” he agreed, slightly breathless. “We can have competing fevers. See whose gets higher. Make it a competition.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Your weird,” he reminded you, then had to pause as a coughing fit finally caught up with him. You waited it out patiently, your hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, and when he finally caught his breath you were already reaching for the water bottle from last night. Again, also infected.

“Drink,” you ordered, and the role reversal would have been amusing if he wasn’t busy trying not to die. “All of it.”

“Bossy,” he complained, but obeyed.

“I learned from the best,” you replied sweetly, then added, “And by best, I mean bossiest. Which is you. You’re the bossiest.”

“I prefer ‘assertive’ or ‘decisive,’” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn’t much given his current state. “Bossy sounds so… dictatorial.”

“You literally gave Beef a command last night like you were addressing your troops.”

“He needed clear direction."

Your laugh was bright and genuine, and hearing it—seeing you looking so much better than yesterday—made every ache and pain worth it. You were still warm, still slightly flushed, but the fever-glaze had left your eyes and you were here, present and teasing him and clearly on the mend.

Yeah. Definitely worth it.

“Okay,” you said, settling back against him with the determination of someone who’d made a decision. “New plan. We’re both sick, so we’re both staying in bed. I’ll dash us more medicine and food and water, and then we’re going to binge-watch something terrible and sleep and generally be pathetic together.”

“Best plan I’ve heard all week,” he agreed, his arms wrapping around you properly now. Beef, apparently deciding this was his cue, heaved himself up with a dramatic groan and padded out of the room, presumably in search of breakfast or a less disease-ridden environment.

“Traitor,” Robert called after him, which just made you laugh again.

You shifted to look at him properly, and for a moment you both just existed there—tangled up in blankets and each other, sick and slightly miserable but together in it. His hand found your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence that still sometimes caught him off guard. That he got to do this. That you let him.

“I love you,” he said softly, because sometimes you just needed to say it, needed to give voice to the enormity of feeling that lived permanent residence in his chest these days.

Your expression melted into something so tender it made his already racing heart squeeze. “I love you too,” you replied, leaning into his touch. “Even though you’re a stubborn idiot who doesn’t listen to medical advice.”

“Especially because I’m a stubborn idiot who doesn’t listen to medical advice,” he corrected.

“Yeah,” you agreed, kissing him once more—brief and sweet and perfect. “Especially because of that.”

A groan emitted from behind you as your arm shifted to get more comfortable, making contact with his ribs.

“Ow.”

“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he wheezed, then reconsidered. “Actually no, it’s not fine. I’m dying. This is it. Tell Beef… tell Beef he can have my cereal. And it was all your other parents fault dad got sick."

“I told you you’d get sick,” you pointed out, unable to help the slight smugness in your tone despite the concern. I told you, I told you, I told you.

“Worth it,” he repeated, because apparently that was his thesis statement for this entire situation. His arms tightened around you fractionally. “Totally, completely, one hundred percent worth it.”

And despite the fever, despite the body aches, despite the fact that you were both going to be absolutely miserable for the next few days—he meant it. Because this—lying here with you, sick as dogs but together, making terrible jokes and trading kisses that definitely weren’t helping either of your recovery times—this was everything he’d never known he needed until you’d stumbled into his life and refused to leave even when things got hard.

Especially when things got hard, really.

“Go back to sleep,” you instructed, already half-way there yourself, your body heavy with exhaustion and healing. “We’ll deal with being functional humans later.”

“Much later,” he agreed, his eyes already drifting closed. “Like, maybe tomorrow. Or next week. I’m flexible.”

Your answering laugh was soft, muffled against his chest as you burrowed closer. “Next week sounds good.”

And as consciousness faded back into the warm comfort of fever-dreams and the security of holding someone he loved, Robert’s last coherent thought was that yeah—he’d absolutely do this all over again.

Every single time.

No regrets.

Well, maybe a few regrets in the morning when everything hurt worse and they were both completely out of medicine and someone would have to venture out into the world to acquire supplies. But those were tomorrow problems. And any problem that doesn't involve having Z-Team on his back, well. That's better than a little sniffles.

The club thrums like a living creature.

Every surface sweats neon— purple smearing into blues smearing into hot pink streaks across the walls. Bass rattles the bones of the place, drowning out the city outside. It’s the kind of night Victor usually slips into like a second skin, dancing until the lines of his body blur into pure motion and the drugs smooth his mind into bliss.

But tonight, for the first time in forever, he’s aware. Sharply aware.

Because you’re here.

He spots you the moment the rest of the z-team funnels through the entrance— Prism shimmering in something holographic, Malevola dressed like she hexed the dress code, and in between them… you. Their newest trainee dispatcher. Calm, quiet, soft-handed you— who normally spends her hours with a headset on and a strange, steady patience like you’re holding the whole city together with kindness alone.

Now you’re stepping into a club of full heat and noise, and the contrast is so unfairly beautiful it sucker-punches him.

You’re in something simple but pretty— something that brushes your thighs when you walk and catches the light every time you move. Your hair’s a little messy from dancing on the way over. You laugh at something Prism whispers, and Victor feels the sound like an electric filament unspooling itself down his spine.

He leans back against a pillar, drink in hand, trying very hard not to stare.

He fails immediately.

You’re already swaying on the dance floor, letting Prism and Malevola pull you into their orbit. And you’re good— loose in that tipsy, unbothered way that people who don’t dance often tend to be once they give in. You toss your head back during the chorus, hair catching neon ribbons of light, and Victor’s chest tightens.

He tells himself it’s the drugs. That’s usually a safe bet.

But even he knows better.

You do this thing with your hands— gesturing dramatically at Prism, teasing her— and Malevola howls with laughter. You lean into it, cheeks flushed, eyes soft with warmth. You’re always sweet at work, gentle in a way the rest of them aren’t built for. But here, you’re something else. Unbuttoned. Playful. Still soft, yes— but more alive. Like color running outside the lines in the best possible way.

Victor takes a long sip from his drink, settling deeper against the pillar. He should join you. He wants to. His pulse is begging him to. His muscles twitch with the beat like they might drag him forward on their own.

But he hesitates.

Because he’s watching you.

Because you’re too fun to interrupt.

Because his heart is doing something stupid and spark-like that has nothing to do with chemistry and everything to do with your smile.

You turn in a loose spin— half grace, half tipsy enthusiasm— and Prism has to catch your waist. You burst into laughter, clutching her arms for balance. Victor’s hand twitches like he wants to be the one holding you.

He presses the heel of his palm to his eye.

Get it together, man.

Still, he can’t look away.

You dance without restraint. Without fear of looking ridiculous. Without shame. It’s like you trust the room to hold your joy. Like you trust your team to keep you safe. And the softness in that almost hurts.

And when you laugh again— full, warm, unselfconscious— he realizes he’s probably doomed.

And you’re dancing now. Really dancing.

Hands in the air, body rolling to the beat, eyes bright and half-lidded. You joke with Malevola about something, miming a dramatic gasp. You wiggle your eyebrows at Prism. You keep accidentally bumping into people and apologizing with a smile that’s so sincere Victor watches them forgive you on the spot.

You’re the kind of person people make room for.

The kind he wants to protect even if you’re perfectly capable of holding your own.

He’s drifting toward the dance floor before he realizes it.

Not close enough to crowd you— just in orbit. Just to make sure you’re okay. You laugh at something Malevola shouts, throwing your head back, and his knees nearly buckle.

You’re not subtle, he tells himself.

He doesn’t care.

When the song shifts, you breathe out, hands on your chest. “Water. I need water. I’m ninety percent glitter and sweat at this point.”

Prism throws an arm around you. “Then go, little hydration fairy. Bring us liquid salvation.”

You do a little salute, giggling. “Three waters! I’m on it.”

You start toward the bar.

Victor follows at a distance so natural nobody notices.

He’ll dance later.

Right now, he’s looking out for you.

Whether he admits why or not.

The club air tastes like citrus and heat and something faintly sweet— like the remnants of champagne spilled hours ago. The bar counter is a kaleidoscope of reflections. You lean with your elbow on the cool metal surface, catching your breath with a smile you can’t shake.

You’re having a good night.

Like— shockingly good. You don’t usually do clubs. You’re a “quiet dinner with friends” person. A “movie night with hot cocoa” kind of girl. But tonight? Prism and Malevola swept you up like a pair of glittery hurricanes, and you let yourself get carried.

And you’re… proud of yourself.

You danced. You laughed. You let go.

The music still thrums in your bones.

“You okay there?” The bartender asks kindly.

You grin. “I’m perfect. I need water, actually. Three of them, please.”

“Coming right up.”

While he fetches bottles, you swat absentmindedly to the beat. Your hips can’t help it; your body’s still warm and fizzy with movement. You’re already imagining going back to the girls— Prism will cheer, Malevola will pretend she hates water and drink it anyways.

You’re happy. Soft around the edges. Untethered in the nicest way.

Which is why the voice behind you makes you jump.

“You dance pretty good for someone who looks like they’re reading a book in the corner.”

You blink and turn. A man. Older than you by at least a decade. Close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath.

You step back politely. “Oh— thanks? I think? Just having fun.”

“Come dance with me.”

You shake your head with a strained smile. “I’m with friends right now.”

He leans closer. Too close. “You can come back to them later.”

“No, really,” you say with that firm softness you’ve perfected. “I’m good.”

He reaches out— two fingers hooking your wrist.

Not hard, but insistent.

Something cold flickers under your ribs.

“I said come here—“

“And she said she’s not interested.”

The voice slips in behind you, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous.

You don’t have to look to know who it is. The sense of safety that blooms in your chest is instantaneous.

Victor steps between you and the man, posture lazy, smile dreamily calm— the way people smile right before they ruin someone’s whole evening.

“She’s good,” Victor says lightly. “You can go.”

The man scoffs. “Mind your business.”

Victor’s smile widens, slow and soft. Too soft.

“My guy,” he says, “her heart rate just jumped like thirty beats in three seconds. The only time it does that is when she’s scared or when I make her laugh. And trust me— you aren’t funny.”

Your face warms.

Even tipsy, you glare at him for that.

Victor’s eyes flick to you. His smile softens in a completely different way.

Then he turns back to the man, voice a breath colder. “Last chance.”

The man mutters something and disappears.

You sag against the bar, breath leaving your lungs in a rush.

Victor turns to you immediately, brows knitting.

“You okay?” He murmurs. “He didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you say softly. “He just… grabbed my wrist.”

You lift your hand.

Victor gently takes it, checking the skin like he’s memorizing it.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” you say again. “Just startled me.”

His jaw flexes.

Then— very quietly— “Your heart’s still fast.”

You make a small noise. “Victor…”

He leans closer, lips brushing your temple. “I’m just saying. I can hear everything.”

You hide your face with one hand. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“That’s okay. You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

You nearly perish.

He steadies you with a warm hand at the small of your back after paying the bartender, guiding you gently through the crowd like you’re something precious he’s holding onto.

You don’t mind his touch.

You lean into it, actually.

Somewhere between the bar and your friends, you realize your smile hasn’t left once.

Prism cries out: “Hydration goddess returns!”

Malevola steals her bottle instantly.

But Victor doesn’t let go of your waist.

He doesn’t even pretend to.

The next song swells— something slower, sweeter, warm as honey over the speakers. You finish sipping your water, and Victor steps in front of you.

“Dance with me,” he says quietly.

You open your mouth automatically to deflect— but then close it. Because you want to. Because the adrenaline hasn’t faded yet. Because you feel good. Loose. Brave.

So you smile— one of your real ones, brought and soft and a little mischievous.

“Only if you promise not to make fun of my moves.”

Victor nearly stops breathing. “Sweetheart, I’ve been watching you dance all night. I’m trying not to propose.”

Your laugh is light and breathless. “Oh my god, Victor—“

He pulls you closer.

And then closer still.

The beat vibrates through your ribs as you settle your hands behind his neck, burying them into the fur there. You fit against him so naturally it’s almost unfair. His palms drift to your hips, thumbs brushing skin.

“You scared me earlier,” he murmurs into your hair.

You sway with him, voice gentle. “I’m alright now.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “I can hear that too.”

You roll your eyes. “You and the heartbeat thing.”

“What?” He teases. “It’s convenient. Like having a built-in lie detector for flirting.”

“I’m not flirting,” you say.

“Liar.” He leans down. “Your heart just jumped again.”

You groan. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he whispers. “You like me. A lot.”

You lift your head, meeting his eyes. “And if I do?”

He stares at you.

Something shifts in his face— something unguarded, warm, and a little awed.

“Then,” he says softly, “I’m the luckiest idiot in this place.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t kiss you.

But he rests his forehead against yours, swaying you gently while lights paint your skin in stripes of blue and pink.

“Do me a favor?” He murmurs.

“What?”

“Don’t wander off alone again. Please.”

You place a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing the fur just under his eye.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I won’t.”

Something in him unspools at that.

You feel it in the way he exhales— long, quiet, relieved. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you close like the promise matters more to him than the air in his lungs.

And for the rest of the song, you dance slow— his heartbeat, your heartbeat, and the club’s heartbeat weaving into something soft and bright and real.

now there's nothing to really distract you from your thoughts. you swipe at your cheeks before you even realise that you’re crying again. it’s not loud, not the ugly kind, just quiet. you think nobody will see. you think nobody’s coming back.

but the sound of the door sliding open betrays you.

“didn’t peg you for the workaholic type,” comes a voice, drawling, amused, unmistakably flambae. 

his tone is all mockery, that lazy arrogance oozing off of him, “or are you trying to impress the boss?”

you freeze, trying to steady your breath. wiping your face only makes your eyes sting more. “i- uh, just finishing up,” you manage, though your voice cracks, betraying your facade.

there’s a pause. the kind that feels heavier than silence before. when he speaks again, the edge in his tone softens. “hey.”

you don’t look up. you can feel his eyes on you though, his footsteps come closer, he's now standing behind you.

“turn around,” he asks.

you shake your head. “i’m okay.”

“yeah,” he mutters, “and i’m the tooth fairy.”

that almost gets a laugh out of you, which only makes your chest ache more. then he’s beside you, leaning against the divider around your desk. in this light he looks different, more real, maybe even kind.

“rough day?”

you swallow hard. “something like that.”

he moves closer, you keep your eyes fixed on the screen, but he leans against your desk, blocking your view just enough so that you have to look up at him.

“seriously,” he says. “you’re done for tonight.”

“i just need to-”

before you can finish, he’s up, his hand darts in and saves your work with two quick taps, then powers down the monitor. the sudden darkness of the screen startles you.

“there,” he says, straightening up. “crisis averted. now you can’t keep punishing yourself.”

you blink at the blank monitor. “you didn’t have to-”

“yeah, i did.” his tone isn’t rude, just matter-of-fact. “you weren’t going to stop on your own.”

“stay put. try not to implode while i’m gone.” he demands as he walks away.

you sat confused until you heard the faint clatter of the vending machine down the hall. when he comes back, he’s holding your favourite snack and a bottle of water. he sets them down in front of you.

“what? you gotta eat something,” he shrugs. 

you let out a shaky laugh, surprised by how much lighter the air feels. he smirks faintly at that. just a flicker of satisfaction, then leans against your desk again, arms crossed.

“see? everything’s still okay,” his voice was almost gentle, “you’ll survive.”

“you shouldn’t let them get to you,”

“the team. they bark loud, hell even i do, but we don’t mean half of it. you… don’t deserve to be their punching bag.”

you glance up at him startled. the look on his face is unreadable. a mixture between guilt and concern, as if he’s not used to saying this kind of thing out loud.

“i just…” your throat tightens again. “i was trying to help. i always try to help.”

“i know.” his reply is immediate, certain. “that’s the problem.”

you blink up at him confused, he huffs softly, almost laughing at himself. “you care a lot. the rest of us don’t know what to do with that. some of us… we’re not used to someone who actually gives a damn, so we shove it off, pretend we don’t need it. still… you’ve got a way of saying what no one else will.”

the way he says it, gentle, almost fond. sets you off crying again. you try to say thank you, but it comes out as a choked sob instead. he hesitates for a second, then reaches out, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek with a surprising tenderness.

“hey, don’t do that,” he murmurs. “you’ll make me look soft by association.”

you manage a weak laugh. “wouldn’t want that.”

he smiles, just a little. “no, i wouldn’t.”

you stare at him, for a long moment. there’s nothing else.

when he finally pulls away, it’s with a sigh. “come on,” he calls, “you’ve done enough worrying for one day. let’s get out of here before i start pretending i care about work.”

you nod and stand, the tension in your shoulders finally easing. he starts toward the door, before you can think better of it, your hand reaches out, hesitating, then brushes lightly against his arm. it’s uncertain.

he pauses just long enough to glance down at your hand, one eyebrow lifting. then that all too familiar smug grin tugs at his mouth.

without a word, he hooks his arm just enough to draw you a little closer as he starts walking again.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ⋆ ｡° · ☁︎

"Don't be too hard on him, Bae." Alice leaned on her hand. "I bet he feels like shit for it."

"He fucking better." Chad sighed. Then he steeled himself. The team had taken him out for his birthday. He wasn't going to be a fucking sourpuss over something Robert couldn't control.

The waitress — dressed as a pirate — came by and took their orders while they all caught up on the calls that had happened that day.

The lights around the cove began to shift. Moodier. Darker. Then the music changed, something more adventurous swelling up, an eerie chorus of voices rising beyond the notes.

The restaurant murmured around them as the lights dropped even lower. The sounds of crashing waves and a thunderstorm rolled through the speakers.

This is some Rainforest Cafe bullshit. Chad smirked to himself and sipped his drink.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice called over the intercom. "The siren song comes for us all. Can you resist the call?"

Chad looked at the tanks around the room. One by one, mermaid performers dropped into them, drifting down through the water, the shifting light catching eerily on their faces. The tails looked real enough, and they had prosthetic scales framing their faces and strategic scale-like pasties keeping them from being fully topless.

Several Z-team members looked around. Victor couldn't keep his mouth closed. Herm curled further into himself as a mermaid waved to him from across the room.

The rest stared at Chad expectantly. A few with their phones pointed at him to record.

"What?" he asked over his cocktail.

Malevola tilted her head to the side.

Chad looked at the tank next to him.

He choked on his drink.

It was Robert. Blue tail, blue scales framing his face, naked from the waist up. Hollywood-quality fins adhered to his forearms, mermaid-like ears at the sides of his head. He smiled devilishly at Chad, canines glinting — deep-blue lined eyes dark and dangerous even through the glass.

He was a fuckin' siren. For his birthday.

Chad's face broke into a grin. He laughed, a little nervously. "What the fuck, Bob Bob."

The team laughed. Alice pulled him into a tight hug. "Happy birthday, Bae."

Chad couldn't drag his eyes away as Robert winked at him and pushed off the glass, languidly flipping through the water, bubbles trailing behind him. Chad was transfixed, drink still held halfway to his mouth.

Alice took it from his hand and set it back on the table.

"What’d you think? You forgive him?"

Chad said nothing.

He watched his muscles ripple as he moved. The economy of Robert’s body normally used for fighting was now for something soft and graceful.

The scars caught the light the way the tank walls did. Refracted. Shifting. Made into something else. In here they looked like tide marks. Like he'd been shaped by water instead of violence.

He was the only merman among the performers, and the extra attention showed. More people had their heads turned to his tank, eyes tracking him as he moved. Chad noticed. He didn't love it. 

Robert blew a kiss at him. Several patrons laughed and whistled.

Chad wanted to climb to the top of the tank, reach in and drag him out and back to their bed.

But Chad would behave. He had to.

Robert continued swimming around the tank, visiting the other surrounding tables. Occasionally he dipped down to breathe from the air tube, then surfaced again and blew bubbles. A gaggle of women hollered and whooped as he did so. A few had their phones out, and Chad had to consciously quell the heat rising in his hands.

Robert made his way back to Chad and stayed, pressing his palm flat against the glass — webbed, Chad noticed. Chad pressed his own hand against it and heard a few laughs around them.

He didn't care.

Robert leaned down, still holding Chad's gaze, and produced a small board from behind a boulder with writing on it.

Happy birthday, Bitch!

Chad laughed.

you were a trainee, having shadowed robert and given the opportunity to help manage the z-team as his career as mechaman began to take up speed. sonar had gone through the motions of his morning— the usual eating the roaches he found in the cupboard, obsessively checking his current investments' rates, scrolling through half-naked people's instagrams— when your voice hummed into his ear.

you introduced yourself to the team, and he was practically salivating. no, actually— he was salivating. he gave a look to mal, and she already knew what she had to do.

that evening, the two of them were huddled up by their shared laptop, scrolling through endless accounts bearing your name, before managing to find… a perfectly innocent account. a normal selfie of yourself as a profile picture, only two posts, both nature pictures.

"looks like this is it," malevola commented, sipping from a beer can.

"no, can't be…" sonar murmured, leaning forward and beginning to sift through your followings.

"mmh-!" mal exclaimed, swallowing down the rest of her drink. "look."

she pointed at some random content creator, likely one of those dumb podcasters, and sonar cocked a brow. "so?"

"look at the name," she insisted, trailing a nail down the line of your name... which in that account's bio.

"no way i'm getting my dick wet for a podcaster," he groaned.

"didn't you ask to start one yourself?" malevola shot him a look.

"it's not the same."

"whatever," she rolled her eyes, getting up and sauntering off. "i'm going to bed. don't jack off too loud."

"i'm not— actually, yeah, doesn't sound too bad." sonar waved her off, sitting back and skimming through your video titles, reading them aloud under his breath. "the failure of relatable marketing.... the rise of a.i. and illiteracy... cryptocurrency: the multi-billion dollar scam?! come on."

he scoffed, popping open a leftover beer can and kicking back. he turned the video on, convinced he'd formulate such a genius argument that you'd have no choice but to miserably fail in a debate with him tomorrow and realize he was 10x smarter and 10x cooler and—

he sat there with rapt attention for a full three hours, listening to you, you— that trainee who fumbled and apologized with each small slip-up, who flashed him a shy smile when he looked for too long, who didn't even know what a dummy man was— persuade your way through an incredibly long, meticulous argument. it had him perched on the edge of his couch, ears twitching in thought, fingers drumming on his knee.

and, finally, you closed off the video, a small giggle and a flash of a smile accompanying your words, and he stared at the blank screen. he changed tabs, silently sold his crypto, turned on another one of your videos, trailed his hand down his body, and fell asleep after a few more hours of listening to your voice.

that very next morning, sonar could not keep his eyes off of you. he lounged around your cubicle, and when you peered up from your computer screen to look at him, he put on this nonchalant, casually cool act. inside? he was shaking and drooling and twitching on the ground.

"did you need something?" you asked, your voice striking a chord inside him that he took as an invitation.

"yeah, you," he casually replied.

"huh?"

"yeah, you?" he coughed, forcing an intonation.

"uh," you weren't sure how to respond. "no, i'm okay... what did you need?"

sonar's mouth clamped shut, just... staring at you with those big, white eyes. he realized he was beginning to look less charming and more creepy by the second. shit. he had to salvage this. his eyes darted around your desk, then back to your face and the... flickering light across it? the lamp on your desk was clearly older than you were, propped up with manuals and sticky notes and a bulb that was so fried it—

"be right back," he blurted out, leaving your vicinity. before long, he returned wielding a new lightbulb, coming in close to dig it out.

"so, anyways, how's it been?" he asked cooly, taking a multitool from his pocket and beginning to tinker with the centuries-old lamp.

"it?" you asked, leaning back in your chair. it took every ounce of sonar's self-control to not pounce on you.

"the job?" he snorted, setting the back panel down and grimacing at the inside of frayed wires.

"well, you assholes don't make it easy." you picked up a stress ball, gifted courtesy of royd, beginning to knead and squeeze it in your hand. it was like you were doing this on purpose to him.

"i'd hope you weren't easy," he mumbled, shifting his hips slightly.

"what?"

"what?"

"the thing you just said—"

"i'd hope you weren't being too easy on us." he cleared his throat, glancing between your fingers making indents in the ball and his current occupation.

"... uh huh." you crossed your arms over your chest, immediately diverting his attention down to there. "y'know, you're not a very good liar."

"i'm not lying," he droned out, eyes affixed on your chest still. he let out a small squeak... just for a little extra detail.

"you literally can't look me in the eye right now."

he slowly dragged his gaze up to your face, leaned forward intently. "... i'm... not... lying."

with that, he turned back to his work, muttering under his breath about something or other. it took him a couple of minutes before he screwed the baseplate back on snugly, set it upright, and plugged it back in. the light turned on... and stayed on.

"ta-daaa," he chimed, ears twitching upward. "good as new. no need to thank me. a kiss will suffice."

you raised your brows, giving him a little clap. "well done. but it's gonna take more than that to get me to kiss you."

"what?" he questioned, looking genuinely surprised. "but i helped you out."

"hmmmm, i dunno," you continued, putting a finger to your chin in thought. "maybe if you fix that printer over that way, i'd consider it."

"oh, oh-hoh, no," sonar declared, standing up straight. "i'm not being your personal slave for a kiss."

"your loss." you shrugged, swiveling in your chair to scoot up to your desk. "would've reeaaallly appreciated it, though..."

sonar stared at you, eyes half-lidded and arms stretched over his chest.

before long, he was going in and out of your cubicle, finding more things to fix or replace. it ranged from annoying, like getting the dust out of the corner, to genuinely concerning, like one of your car tires being half deflated. shit, he spent more time out of his day fixing up your very neglected things and listening to you yammer on about whatever topic interested you than he did actually going on operations. he wasn't complaining.

the end of the day came, and he clapped his hands of oil, his jacket discarded in favor of just his white button-down, sleeves pushed over his thick forearms. he looked over to the building's entrance, watching you emerge with a gradually shocked expression.

"you actually— wait, you actually topped off my tires?"

got something else you could top off.

"might as well," he replied. "they were flat as hell. seriously, how did you even get this shitbox going?"

"well, if you have to know, i happen to like my shitbox." you shifted on your feet, giving him a small smirk. "well, i guess... if you really went through all this trouble..."

he watched you approach with confusion littered on his features. by this point, he'd forgotten the 'deal' the both of you came up with. just being helpful and listening to your soothing voice... and getting to peak at your chest... was more than enough compensation. but you strode up to him, arms behind your back, before placing your hands upon his shoulders.

before he could process it, you leaned forward and kissed him. the soft— albeit slightly chapped— skin of your lips contrasted sharply against his rougher snout, but he was immediately putty in your hands. you pulled back slightly, and he chased you, hands grasping around your waist and pulling you flush against his broad frame. he turned the both of you around, the toes of his shoes against yours, and backed you up onto the back of your car. by that point, he'd already licked into your mouth, the both of you groping at each other.

you held both sides of his face and pried him off of you, breaths mingling as you each panted. he looked... well, he looked drunk off of that alone, swaying on his feet, the weight of his head resting in your hands.

"dinner, tomorrow, at seven; i'll pick the place." you pressed one more kiss to his snout before playfully shoving him off.

Coupe slid into the booth beside you, sipping something red and thick. “So are we helping, or are we just supervising him until he explodes?”

Punch-Up was beside her, already shaking his head at whatever disaster he thinks he’s about to witness. “I’m just here to see if we're getting banned from this pub too.”

You give them a nod. “He’s been single for a week.”

Punch-Up blinked. “That’s not so bad…?”

“Danny fucking Diaz called him a closeted homosexual on the radio, Punch-Up.”

that shut him up.

Across the table, Flambae, leaned against the counter with the posture of a man attempting to seduce the world through sheer titty exposure. His black suit clung to him like it was painted on, the V-cut so low his suit was practically crying for help. Or for attention. Or both.

He glanced back at you, scowling.

“Why are there no decent men in this place?” he hissed, accent thick and beautiful even when he was angry. “This entire bar is full of nothing but wet wipe bitch heros.”

“You set the last dispatcher’s car on fire because he didn't compliment us,” you said. “Your standards are flexible.”

“That man refused to acknowledge Prism as a master artist,” Chad snapped. “I had every right.”

“That doesn’t make you less desperately single, bae.”

Chad burst into flames for exactly half a second before snuffing them back down with a grunt. “I am NOT desperately single. I am like this out of choice! I am merely feeling picky, I am-”

“Recovering from being insulted by a guy on live radio called the bone zone?” Coupe supplied helpfully.

Chad froze. His jaw twitched. His eye twitched. Even his ears seemed to twitch.

“His comment about your chapped lips was kind of funny,” Punch-Up added.

You kicked Punch-Up under the table before Chad could set any of you on fire.

Getting up, you grabbed Chad by the wrist, the left one, with all the fingers still intact, and dragged him toward a table full of some probably attractive men.

“Okay,” you said, slamming a card printed with his dating profile onto the sticky surface.

Super sexy accent. Will burn down the city for you. His idea of a hot date WILL put you in a hospital. Will not take notes on his appearance.

The men at the table stared.

One of them raised his hand. “What does that last one mean?”

Chad flipped his ponytail dramatically. “It means that I am hot shit.”

“Sure,” you muttered. “Tell that to the chap-”

He clapped a hand over your mouth before you could finish.

You bit him. Not hard. Just enough for him to feel it.

“Ow! Why are you like this?!”

“Because you need a little help, and I'm the closest thing to a cupid that’ll ever risk helping you shoot your shot,” you said.

One of the supers leaned in, eyes sparkling like he was into this disaster of an entrance. No way, you thought.

Coupe hip-checked you aside with one of her wings and addressed the table. “Listen. He’s hot. He’s exotic. He’s unstable. He’s available. That’s literally half this bar’s type.”

Punch-Up frowned. “It is?”

Flambae folded his arms, chest out, pride wounded and inflated at the same time. “Unstable? I am not unstable.”

“Lad, you burned down half a' one building because someone said you looked like a stripper,” Punch-Up said.

“And also Mel!” Chad barked.

You patted his back. “Bae, he was a little right.”

Chad glared at you like he was actively deciding whether or not to murder you.

One of the heroes at the table, a lean guy with doe eyes and a stupidly nice jawline, tipped his drink at Chad.

“So… would you really burn down the city for someone?”

Flambae froze, then leaned in slowly, dramatically, like the act that caught the cream or however the fuck the saying goes.

“Well, porbably not the whole city,” he said. “Just the parts they dislike.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. Oh. He was interested! You actually did it!

You watched as Chad talked to the guy, actually talked, not threatened, and the guy laughed. Real laughter. Soft. Warm.

Flambae’s shoulders lowered. Just a little.

A spark, not of anger, but something softer, flickered in his eyes.

You smiled.

Then leaned over and murmured, “Hey, Chad?”

He turned.

“Lick your lips.”

He did. Automatically.

Punch-Up cackled. Coupe clapped. Flambae’s face went nuclear red.

“You,” he sputtered. “YOU, TRAITOR, SHAPESHIFTING LITTLE-”

But the guy laughed, soft and delighted, and touched Chad’s arm.

And Flambae… Didn’t burn him?

Not even a little???

He turned back to the man, chest rising like maybe he’d forgotten how to breathe for a second.

You, Coupe, and Punch-Up slipped away to give him space, or, realistically, to snoop from behind the world’s most obvious spying corner.

“this mean I owe you a 20?” Punch-Up asked.

You watched Chad laugh. Genuinely.

“Buy me something cheap so I dont have to talker to the guy at the bar and ill call it evem, I’m just glad I haven't shot anyone here yet,” you said.

“Well, if anything else does go badly,” Punch-Up added, “Coupe’s still got her knives.”

You nodded.

Two hours later, you were officially third-wheeling.

Not in the traditional sense, thank god, no hand-holding, no kissing. Just Coupe, sitting cross-legged on a disgusting looking stool, reading a French novel out loud in his silky voice to the Irishman across from her.

Punch-Up, sat with the expression of a man who couldn’t understand a single word, but was nevertheless extremely into Coupe’s accent.

You sat at the edge of the couch, sipping one of your many, many drinks and trying not to think about the thirty-eight diseases the cushion foam must carry.

It was peaceful. Surprisingly peaceful. You could almost fall asleep.

Until flambé returned.

He didn’t stomp, flaunting his glowing which was worrying. Chad stomped when he was irritated. He glided when genuinely furious.

Tonight, he walked in slow, deliberate steps, the kind that meant someone had crossed a line, and he hadn't decided whether he should burn down a block or take a walk around it.

His costume had a new tear across the hip, burnt at the edges. His ponytail was slightly undone. More importantly, he kept rubbing the spot on his right hand where the two missing fingers used to be. An old phantom pain. A bad memory.

“Excuse me,” you muttered, abandoning Coupe’s literature session to intercept him.

Chad didn’t meet your eyes.

“Don’t,” he said. “Do not say anything.”

You closed your mouth. He slumped heavily at the booth you’d claimed hours ago, shoulders tight, jaw locked so hard it could probably shatter stone, tapping away at the stumps of his fingers.

That told you enough.

“Did he hurt you?” you asked quietly.

“No.”

It wasn’t a lie. Didn't need to be, The truth’s usually worse most of the time.

“He saw,” Chad murmured. “And he, he made this face. Like I was, fucking defective or some shit.”

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t appreciate. You briefly calculated the entrance and exits nearby, like Coupe’s been teaching you to, just in case you needed to find the guy and drown him in an alley puddle.

But comforting your friend took priority.

You slid into the booth beside him, nudging him gently with your shoulder.

“Well, he’s a dumb bitch,” you said, simple, blunt, honest. “A bitch who totally doesn’t deserve a man who survived the Mecha Man. Who survived prison. Who controls the fire and the flame.”

Chad cracked a breathy, humorless laugh. “You are biased.”

“You’re my friend,” you said. “Wouldn't be so biased if you weren't worth being biased over.”

He huffed, something soft and wounded and prideful all tangled together. He leaned back, closing his eyes.

For the first time since he walked in, he looked less like the model SDN’s been trying so desperately to shape and more like the man you know.

“… There's always more fish in the sea,” you said lightly.

“Do not compare me to a fish.”

“Well, obviously, you’re not a fish in this scenario. You’re like… a super sexy shark.”

That earned a snort. A real one. You would take it.

You scanned the bar again, looking for someone, anyone, who wasn’t covered in grime, vomit, fake blood, actual blood, or any other bodily fluid.

Then you spotted him.

A man in blue, sitting alone at the far end of the bar, slumped over a drink. Handsome in a tragic, weary, super sexy way. Looked like a superhero who’d had a rough week or had just gotten dumped. Maybe both. A blonde woman who looked oddly familiar had walked off moments earlier, leaving him looking hollowed out and embarrassed.

“Hey, bae,” you said. “Feel like catching another fish?”

Chad followed your line of sight lazily, until he saw the man.

The shift was instant.

His spine straightened. His brows pulled together. His lips parted just slightly.

You’d seen Chad react to all sorts of people, to heroes, to villains, to gross little weirdos who wouldn't leave you alone after a simple no.

But this?

There was recognition in this.

Old, and sharp.

“… Chad?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

He just stared across the bar, eyes burning hotter than his flames.

And his expression shifted too, something like surprise, something like dread, something like the past clawing its way into the present.

You felt the air around you turn boiling, heat rippling off him in tiny waves.

You opened your mouth to ask who the guy was, but all those drinks you got out of Punch-up were catching up to you, and the nice heat all around your frame was making you extra tired. At least he's not sad anymore, you think, as your eyes get heavy and you lean back against the plush leather of the seat. Punch-up and Coupe are here, after all, you're sure they'll back him up for you.