#dispatch texts

Flambae adjusts a strip of fabric, a quiet flame now crackling lightly through his hair as he murmurs to himself about lengths and measurements.

A shadow falls over his work again.

“What, Bob?”

Robert is holding a pillow.

“No,” Flambae says immediately, catching sight of it from the corner of his eye.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.” Robert pouts dramatically.

“You want me to warm up the pillow.”

“Just a little. It’s comfy.”

“No.”

Robert tilts his head. “You’re no fun.”

“I am extremely fun,” Flambae shoots back. “I’m just busy.”

Robert hums, unconvinced, and disappears again.

There’s blessed silence for nearly ten full minutes.

Flambae relaxes slightly.

Then—

“And what about this?”

He doesn’t look up. “Bobby, if that’s another pointless object, I swear—”

“It’s not.”

Flambae lifts his gaze.

Robert is holding a piece of croissant with both hands like it’s a sacred offering.

“…You’re unbelievable,” Flambae mutters.

“Please?” Robert gives him exaggerated puppy eyes.

Flambae rolls his eyes but sends a small, controlled spark toward the pastry. The dough warms instantly; the chocolate inside melts just enough to drip toward Robert’s palm. Robert quickly licks the mess off his hand.

Robert beams, mouth full. “Wow. Science.”

“Go clean yourself up.”

Robert obediently circles around and leaves the room.

Flambae tries to focus again. He really does. He reins in his flames, rolls his shoulders back, and studies the more promising sketches.

Footsteps.

He closes his eyes. “Robert.”

“It’s important this time,” Robert begins, with theatrical innocence. “She’s cold.”

Confused, Flambae lifts his head so fast he nearly strains his neck.

Robert is standing in the doorway, holding a small, giggling girl tucked under one arm like luggage. She has a toothy grin with a missing front tooth and looks entirely too pleased with herself.

Flambae blinks. “Why are you holding my niece?”

“She said she’s cold.”

“Hi, Uncle Bae!” the little girl chirps, waving enthusiastically before rubbing her hands along her arms in an exaggerated shiver. “It’s so cold in here.”

Robert smiles innocently.

“Okay. That’s enough,” Flambae hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He stands and crosses the room in three long strides. Carefully, he ushers both Robert and his niece out of the office. From the crack of the door, he mutters first to Robert, “You’re supposed to be a responsible babysitter.” Then to his niece, “You are not cold.”

Robert looks down at the girl. “Is he excluding us?”

“He is,” she says conspiratorially, grinning back at him. “I guess that means more croissants and donuts for us, right, Uncle Bob?”

Flambae’s niece runs off toward the kitchen in excitement. Robert follows her, smiling—but not before calling back down the hall:

“There won’t be any donuts left for you, Uncle Bae!”

Flambae sighs as he shuts the office door.

The mattress dips behind him. Robert freezes, already standing beside the bed.

Flambae shifts, still half-asleep, and throws an arm across the empty space Robert just vacated. His palm lands on cool sheets instead of skin. He exhales through parted lips, a soft, almost-snore escaping him. The sound is oddly intimate. Robert’s mouth curves upward despite himself.

Then reality returns, again.

He bends to retrieve his underwear from the foot of the bed and pulls it on quickly, the fabric shockingly cold against his skin. His shirt lies crumpled near the dresser. When he lifts it, the cotton whispers loudly in the quiet room, or maybe it only feels loud because his heart is pounding so hard in his ears. He winces anyway.

His jeans are halfway toward the hallway, abandoned in haste the night before. He collects them carefully, step by step, as though he’s navigating a minefield. Every creak of the floorboards feels amplified.

Dressed enough to be decent, he slips out of the bedroom. Ready to leave. No note. No message.

Robert pulls one sneaker onto his foot as he walks, balancing briefly against the wall. He grips the other in his hand and reaches the front door. His fingers close around the doorknob, and he turns it millimeter by millimeter, controlling the latch so it won’t click.

He’s almost successful.

“Why… are you leaving like a fugitive?”

The voice behind him is rough, sleep-heavy..

Robert stills completely. The doorknob remains half-turned in his hand.

He closes his eyes for a second, then releases a slow breath before turning around. He pinches the bridge of his nose, buying himself time.

Flambae stands in the bedroom doorway. His t-shirt hangs loose, slipping off one side and exposing the curve of his collarbone. His eyes are barely open, lashes low, but they’re fixed on Robert with surprising clarity. He looks disoriented. And… something else. Something that almost resembles hurt.

“I…” Robert swallows. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Flambae hums softly, like he’s acknowledging that, but he keeps staring at Robert, waiting.

“It was late.” Robert adds, shifting his weight. “I just thought…” He stops himself, gaze flicking toward the door again.

“What did you think?”

Flambae leans against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. He looks tired, not combative. The usual hostility he carries isn’t there yet.

Robert shrugs and forces himself to meet Flambae’s eyes. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who wants someone getting attached afterward.”

The word lands between them and changes the air.

Flambae straightens slightly. His expression changes, not angry, but offended.

“Attached?” he repeats, like he’s testing the word.

Robert looks down. “Look, it was fun. I just figured it would be easier this way.”

Flambae pushes off the doorframe and walks toward him slowly, bare feet silent against the floor. The space between them shrinks until the air feels warmer, charged. He stops close enough that Robert can feel the heat of him again, the same warmth that had been pressed against his skin hours earlier.

“Mmm. Fuck you.” Flambae mutters, disbelief threaded through the words. “I’m not that kind of asshole.”

He lifts a hand and cups Robert’s face, thumb brushing lazily over the dispatcher’s cheek. “I can be gentle.”

The statement settles heavily in Robert’s chest.

Flambae’s eyes are clearer now, fully focused. “You could’ve stayed.” he continues. “All night. The morning, too.”

Robert’s grip tightens around the sneaker in his hand. His shoulders, rigid until now, begin to loosen inch by inch.

“I thought you wouldn’t want me there when you woke up.”

“You thought wrong, Bob Bob.” Flambae teases, a sleepy grin pulling at his mouth, revealing the small gap where a tooth is missing. “As usual.”

Robert exhales through his nose, rolling his eyes even as relief warms his chest. He gently nudges Flambae’s hand away from his face. “Fuck you.” he muttters.

Flambae doesn’t get the chance to fire back with something provocative, because Robert has already turned away from the door and started walking back toward the bedroom.

“I’m going to want coffee.” Robert calls over his shoulder.

“Bitch.” Flambae shoots back automatically, hurrying after him.

“Now get back in bed before I lose my patience.” Flambae says it firmly, but the faint upward curve at the corner of his mouth betrays him.

Like... if two people say they want a follow-up to this, I might just admit I loved the potential of this ask so much that I already wrote the possible dialogue for their next conversation👀