Short-tempered
Robert Robertson x Male Reader
Summary: After a dispatch gone wrong which resulted in a heated argument between you and Blazer, Robert offers to help clean you up.
A/N: While I haven't personally played the game, I know enough/seen people play it. I also just really like Aaron Paul.
CW: Injury - Blood - Strangers to ? - Hero reader
Words: 4.7k
Your body ached: muscles tense, bruised, bleeding, your eye swollen shut. The sticky, drying sensation of blood against the cheap fabric of your suit was a nauseating reminder of the past hour, but the ache wasn't what was on your mind.
Blonde Blazer had lied to you.
You had suspected it the moment she called you—of all possible heroes—to go on a dispatch. With her, nothing was ever simple. She was a complexity you perpetually resented, a calculated mess wrapped in blinding blue fabric. You had never really liked her, and while you wouldn't say that to anyone, she rubbed you the wrong way. Then again, who hadn't besides Roy and Chase? Those two were the only things keeping you from quitting this entire, disastrous operation.
You stepped through the reinforced glass doors of the Dispatch building. The central room was a blindingly bright expanse of monitors and ringing phones, the hurried tapping of keyboards a furious, constant sound that grated on your already frayed nerves. You ignored the startled, whispered looks, ignored the sharp, electric sting in your cheek from the blow you hadn't anticipated, and ignored the shallow, burning sting in your lungs from pushing your powers past their limit.
“Where is she?” You grumbled, the sound rough and low in your throat. You planted your feet near the main desk, your glare settling on one of the dispatch operators.
The operator, a young woman with a headset askew, visibly flinched. She pointed toward the main conference room with a shaking finger, unable to meet your gaze.
You turn your head—a sharp jolt that sends a wave of nausea through your skull—and lock eyes with Chase.
He’s leaning against the doorframe of an adjacent office, arms crossed, his stance casually rigid. He doesn’t need to ask what happened. The jagged cut on your cheek, the purple-black swelling around your eye, the way you plant your feet like a wounded, caged animal—he knows. He knows you are as stubborn as they come; he knows whatever he says won't matter, but he tries anyway. That’s just Chase.
The harsh, fluorescent light of the Dispatch center—the one you had ignored seconds ago—now seems to drill into the intact retina of your good eye. Each ringing phone and furious tap of a keyboard is a jackhammer against your already frayed nerves.
"Planning on starting a fight here, in your condition?" he hums, his voice low enough to be lost in the building's cacophony, but clear enough for you. There's a sliver of genuine concern in his dark gaze, which you choose to ignore.
You stop abruptly just beside him, the cheap, blood-soaked fabric of your suit sticking uncomfortably to your skin. Your hand rises automatically to wipe blood from the cut on your cheek—only succeeding in smearing the sticky, drying residue further into your skin. "You gonna try and stop me?" you scoff, the word catching on the rough rasp in your throat. You lean closer, dropping your voice to a low snarl, "Because that usually works out well for you."
He sighs, a sound of profound, weary patience. He pushes off the frame, taking a protective half-step toward you, but doesn't touch you. "She's got company," Chase mutters, looking past you toward the thick, mahogany conference room door. "Try not to make him a casualty."
The air catches in your lungs. Company. The last thing you need.
A spike of ice-cold dread mixes with the hot, burning rage already simmering beneath your skin. The memory of your last argument with Blazer—the one that started over a similar situation —is instantly vivid: the sudden, stunning force of her fist to your face, the sound of your head hitting the wall, and Roy practically peeling you off the concrete like a discarded decal.
Did you deserve it? Yeah, you're known for your short temper. You instigated it, just like you’re instigating this. But after the brutal, exhausting, pointless dispatch you just had, where you pushed your powers past the point of exhaustion, you'd prefer not to leave another imprint on the wall. Not today. You need answers, not another concussion.
You take a shuddering breath, tasting the dust of the Dispatch center and the metallic tang of your own blood. You settle your suit, adjusting the collar with a jerky, sudden motion. You meet Chase's eyes one last time, a challenge swimming in yours. He only shakes his head, an acknowledgement of your impending recklessness.
You turn your back on him, moving purposefully toward the conference room.
You move purposefully toward the conference room. You don't bother knocking. The door is already ajar, a crack of light spilling into the hallway.
"Take your clothes off."
Blonde Blazer's voice is sharp and completely devoid of emotion, followed by the heavy, dull thud of something being set down hard on the conference table.
You pause for a split second, a wave of weariness hitting you. You grumble the word "Seriously" under your breath, hoping desperately that you weren't about to walk in on some desperate, half-naked man trying to earn Blazer's attention despite her being involved with Phanomaman. This office melodrama is the last thing you need.
You shove the door the rest of the way open, stepping inside. "Am I interrupting?"
The reinforced oak door slams shut behind you with a deafening BANG, a sound that silences the distant office noise and makes the air in the room vibrate. You ignore the immediate, throbbing protest from the bruises ringing your ribs.
Blazer turns slowly to face you. She’s wearing her signature blinding yellow blazer—not a hair out of place, not a smudge of dirt on her pristine white trousers. She’s tall, and even standing casually, she seems to slightly tower over the man seated behind her. She crosses her arms, her jaw tightening the moment her eyes land on your bloodied face.
"I'm in the middle of something," she says, her tone crisp and impatient, like you're an annoying telemarketer.
You barely glance at the man she's with—hero, already peaking from around her, eyes directed at you. You’re focused entirely on the calculating mess in the yellow jacket.
"I couldn't care less whose dick you're about to fondle," you snarl, taking three deliberate steps toward the table. Your voice is raw, fueled by pain and betrayal. "But I'm not leaving this room until you explain why you put me in danger yet again."
Blazer's eyes narrow, but she doesn't flinch. "I followed protocol. It wasn't my fault you failed to properly manage the variable."
"Protocol?" You laugh, a harsh, humorless sound that scrapes against your throat. "You called me because you knew I'd be reckless enough to do the dirty work. You sent me on a dispatch against a known-level four threat and gave me intel that was two hours old! You lied to me!"
You lean your hands on the table, your knuckles white, the movement bringing you eye-level with her. Your good eye blazes. "Tell me you didn't know that building was rigged. Tell me I wasn't just bait.”
Blazer rolls her eyes—a small, theatrical gesture that communicates her utter boredom with your suffering. She straightens, taking a cool, deliberate step that brings her nose-to-nose with you across the polished conference table.
"Please. If you were truly bait, darling, you wouldn't have survived. You'd be splattered across that floor right now," she says, her voice dropping to a low, silken purr that drips with condescension. She moves fluidly around the table's corner until she is standing directly in front of you. Her eyes narrow as she stares down, appraising the damage to your face like a disappointing report card.
You stand perfectly straight despite the screaming protest from the bruised and possibly cracked ribs beneath your sticky suit. Every muscle is tense, every nerve ending is humming with a painful cocktail of adrenaline and exhaustion, but you will not back down. Not now. Not even if it means another fist to the face and another broken nose.
"The intel was old because you took too long to secure the objective. Your lack of situational awareness is what put you in danger, not my planning," Blazer continues, the words clipped and precise. "You got reckless. You always get reckless. You push too hard, you act on impulse, and then you blame the person who provided you with the necessary resources." She pauses, a hint of patronizing pity in her gaze. "Perhaps if you learned to control your temper and rely less on brute force, your results wouldn't be so messy."
The pure audacity of the dismissal strikes you harder than any physical blow. Before you can launch the scathing rebuttal forming in your mind—a retort about her cold detachment and manipulative tendencies—her hand flashes out.
Her fingers clamp down on your shoulder—not a gentle touch, but a hard, firm shove. It sends a jolt of white-hot pain through your torso and forces you to stagger two full steps to the side, breaking your desperate stance.
Blazer doesn't spare you a second glance. She’s already moving toward the door, her composure flawless. She yanks the conference room door open, the sound less violent this time, a signal of her control.
She pauses with her hand on the frame, looking over her shoulder at the nervous scientist—the one she had just ordered to strip—who is still clutching his clipboard.
"Robert," Blazer calls, her voice back to that smooth, professional register. "I'll see you in a few. We need to continue our discussion on your integration here and, of course, the absolute necessity of keeping your identity as Mecha Man a secret."
She walks out, leaving the door slightly ajar. You are left standing in a stinging silence, staring past the man and at the thud she had made earlier: a simple duffle bag.
Blazer's scent—crisp linen and something faintly metallic, like ozone—lingers in the air, a final, infuriating insult.
You push away from the door, dragging your feet, and collapse back against the edge of the large conference table, letting out a low, involuntary groan. The sound is muffled, escaping through clenched teeth. Your gaze settles on the industrial carpet, but you don't really see the fibers. You only see the pattern of your own recurring failures.
You always had your own way of doing things—a stubborn, chaotic, effective kind of genius. But sometimes, when Blazer orchestrated a mess like this, you suspected it was exactly why she did it. Like it was her twisted, calculated way of telling you that your way of life was nothing but a colossal fuck-up waiting to happen.
"I'm sure it wasn't your fault."
The voice is a quiet, mumbled sound, pulling you out of your internal pit of self-loathing. You glance up. Robert—the same guy that was behind Blazer and secret Mecha Man—is now standing a few feet from you, leaning gently against the table, trying to appear non-threatening.
You wanted to laugh. This guy didn't know you. He had just witnessed you nearly tear Blazer’s head off. And hell, according to every major news outlet and official Hero Registry, he was Mecha Man, one of the most respected heroes the country had ever known, and one who was supposedly dead—killed in action six months ago.
"You expect me to believe the words of a dead man?" you scoff, the exhaustion making your voice flat and dull. You lift a hand to touch the swelling above your eye, not caring that you’re likely leaving a bloody handprint.
Robert pats himself down, a humorous motiom—starting at his thighs, then working his way up his stomach and chest. He shruggs the thin, brown jacket off his shoulders, then immediately puts it back on. The entire time, he holds your gaze, a strange mix of sincerity and weary resignation in his eyes. He reaches up slowly and takes off his mask, setting it on the table.
"Look, I get it," he says, with a shrug. "But one of two things is true right now." He spreads his hands. "Either I’m alive and well, talking to a very bruised hero." He gestures to you. "Or you have the freaky ability to see and talk to dead people."
He waits for a response, his expression earnest.
You couldn't help the genuine smile forming on your face. It felt alien—a sharp, involuntary stretch of damaged skin—but it was there. It was the first honest reaction of amusement you’d had all day, a pure spike of relief cutting through the adrenaline and resentment.
Robert noticed the sudden change instantly. He noticed the way the smile pulled the jagged cut on your cheek, and how it gave him a glimpse of your teeth, stained a dark, unsettling crimson. Undoubtedly, blood was still pooling into your mouth from the cut on your face, mixing with the dust and dry taste of the Dispatch center.
"No wonder she likes you," you hummed, the sound low and rough. The "she" was, of course, Blazer. It was a veiled compliment, the highest praise you’d ever dole out. "Charming." You sighed, the weariness of the day finally catching up to you, dragging the smile away.
Your eyes, however, stayed on him. You noticed the details you'd missed when Blazer was monopolizing the room: the small, crescent-shaped chunk missing from the upper curve of his left ear, healed long ago but an obvious scar; the scruff of stubbled hair that covered his jawline, giving him a weary, unkempt look that belied his 'hero' status.
"You think I'm charming?" He jabbed, a bright, disarming smile replacing his look of earnest resignation. He seemed genuinely pleased, perhaps used to people being more awestruck or, more likely, completely intimidated by the myth of Mecha Man.
You looked away abruptly, the small, honest moment already too much. Your fingers flexed, curling into the sharp edge of the conference table behind you as you gripped it. "Don't push it."
Robert's smile softened, turning into something warmer, more knowing. He pushed off the table, the simple action graceful and controlled. He came to stand directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint, clean scent of old soap and something metallic—not ozone, like Blazer, but something sharper, like engine oil.
"Right," he murmured, his voice dropping slightly. His hand flinched beside him, a slight, involuntary tremor, like he wanted to reach out and touch your face, check the damage. Instead, he forced the hand to his side. "You should probably see a doctor."
"It'll heal," you murmured, the words barely audible. You felt the characteristic, painful hum beneath your skin.
Robert cocked an eyebrow, his eyes drifting down your bloodied suit. "So," he chuckled, the sound deep and easy. "You can heal yourself and speak with the dead? You really are something."
The assumption was enough to snap you out of your self-pity. You reached out, not gently, and smacked his shoulder with the heel of your hand. It was a reflexive, playful shove meant to break the tension. "No," you huffed, a low laugh hiding in the sound. "I can't do either."
"Then let me help you," Robert met your eyes, the sincerity back, but now mingled with a spark of immediate, protective intent. "Somewhere more private, if you want?" He gestured with a subtle nod toward the conference room door, which Blazer had left slightly ajar as a sign of her utter contempt for your need for secrecy.
Through the narrow crack, you could just make out the contrasting figures of your two remaining friends. You saw the stark white of Chase's hair—an unmistakable beacon—and beyond him, the sheer, immovable size of Roy, a mountain of muscle standing sentinel. They were most likely there to ensure you didn't, in fact, tear Blonde Blazer's head off, or at least to peel you off the wall for the second time this week. They were a safety net, and you hated needing one.
You met Robert's gaze. The strange mix of easy charm, quiet authority, and deep scars in his eyes was instantly appealing. He was, much like Chase, a complication you could almost tolerate.
"Fine," you finally admitted, pushing off the table fully, trying to ignore the painful protest from your ribs. You straightened your suit collar once more.
You and Robert moved with the practiced, efficient silence of two people who understood the necessity of discretion. You slipped past Chase and Roy—who simply offered twin, weary nods of approval—and quickly found an unused office at the end of the hall. The room was sparsely furnished: a heavy, chipped wooden desk, a precarious-looking old chair, and the pervasive scent of stale coffee. Robert was careful to shut the door and draw the thin, off-white blinds behind you, plunging the small room into shadowed privacy.
He immediately opened the duffel bag you'd retrieved. It held a neatly folded uniform—the standard, dull-gray, cheap fabric worn by every dispatcher and low-level administrator in the building. Blazer’s insult was clear: even Mecha Man was just another glorified employee now. Robert shrugged off his brown jacket and changed quickly, efficiently, the drab uniform swallowing his heroic physique.
You, meanwhile, felt a wave of painful, sticky relief as you started to peel off your blood-soaked suit jacket. You grunted softly as you maneuvered your bruised arm out of the sleeve, finally tossing the ruined fabric onto the floor.
Your back was a sprawling map of trauma—old, pale, puckered scars that testified to past brushes with death, mixing with fresh, livid bruises and gashes from the recent dispatch. Robert watched, quiet and focused. He traced the lines with his eyes, mapping the geography of your history—the faint, deep lines from burns, the heavy, purple pooling of new contusions—as you moved to take off your boots and the bottom half of your suit. You had a deeper-than-expected cut just below the hem of your boxers, staining the fabric dark.
He let out a low hum, a sound of professional acknowledgment mixed with a hint of concern, slightly nodding to himself while haphazardly grabbing for the old office chair.
With a grunt, you hopped up onto the solid surface of the old desk, settling sideways to face Robert as he pulled the chair in front of you. You felt exposed, tired, and deeply vulnerable.
"You were staring," you murmured, folding your arms across your bruised abdomen, a self-conscious gesture. "You're not very subtle."
Robert finally looked up from the medical kit he’d nabbed, his eyes meeting yours with that same weary sincerity. He set the metal box gently on the desk beside your hip.
"Yeah. I wasn't trying to be," he said simply, his voice flat but honest. He scooted the chair closer until he was directly between your legs, which were bent at the knee and dangling over the side of the desk.
Your face felt instantly hot. He was practically a complete stranger, yet he was now nose-deep near your crotch, his attention focused entirely on your injuries. He reached out, his touch tentative but firm, placing one hand on your inner thigh for stability as he carefully opened the metal first-aid box with the other.
"Just assessing the damage," he explained, his gaze sweeping across the various cuts, scrapes, and massive, angry bruises mapping your abdomen and ribs. "That was one hell of a dispatch. Any internal issues, or is it mostly surface-level?”
You swallowed hard, the rough rasp in your throat returning. "The ribs are just badly bruised, maybe a hairline crack." You shifted slightly on the desk, feeling the accidental, gentle press of his hand against your skin. "I can handle it."
Robert paused, his gaze lifting immediately from your abdomen to meet your eyes. He wasn't skeptical, but deeply concerned, his expression heavy with knowledge. "Handle it, sure, but heal it? You need better care than an old desk and some iodine," he countered, his voice a low, steady murmur. "That's not just bruising. You're losing more blood than you think, especially from the cut on your leg."
He pulled out a swab and a small bottle of antiseptic. "We'll start with the easy stuff, then we’ll move up to your face. But listen to me: you need a proper scan for those ribs. We can't let a hairline crack turn into a punctured lung." He dipped the swab, his movements suddenly all business. "This might sting. Keep still for me." He nodded toward the cut on your leg.
Robert didn't wait for a response; he simply got to work. He started with the cut just above your boxers, the one that had been bleeding steadily. He poured the antiseptic—a burning, sharp cold—directly onto the swab, then pressed it firmly against the wound.
You let out a low, involuntary hiss, the sound squeezed past your clenched teeth. The pain was immediate and searing, cutting through the dull, throbbing ache that had been your constant companion all day. Your body instinctively jerked, trying to pull away from the sting.
To steady you, Robert’s hand tightened slightly on your thigh. It was a purely practical action, yet the firm, warm pressure was startlingly intimate. His touch was solid and anchoring, preventing you from squirming off the desk entirely, though it did little to stop the deep, rattling breath you took as the antiseptic bit into the raw tissue.
"Hold on," he murmured, his voice now lower, focused entirely on the task. His head was bent, giving you a perfect view of the crescent scar on his ear and the concentration etched around his mouth. "Just getting the worst of the grit out. Blazer's intel was two hours old, you said? That building must have been a wreck."
You let your head roll onto your shoulder, watching the fluorescent office light glint off the polished steel of the medical kit. "Wreck doesn't cover it. It was a trap," you managed, the words still rough. "It wasn't just old intel; it was active misinformation. She knew I'd go in blind."
Robert finished cleaning the cut on your leg, taping a clean square of gauze over it. He then moved up, his fingers brushing the skin of your abdomen, tracing a large, spiderweb of bruising spreading across your oblique muscle—the likely impact point of a heavy kick or shove. He pressed gently, testing for tender spots.
You flinched away from the contact, your breath catching. "Careful," you warned, the word a strained whisper.
"Trying to be," he replied, his eyes finally lifting from your injuries to your face. He saw the sweat beading near your hairline, the tight line of your mouth. "But I need to know where the pain is worst. You're trying to ignore this, and you can't."
He grabbed a smaller swab and began cleaning a scrape along the ridge of your hip bone. The movements were careful, but they weren't gentle—he was determined to clean them properly. You watched him, trying to reconcile the figure of the legendary Mecha Man with this grounded, weary man applying antiseptic and worrying about your ribs.
"Why are you doing this?" you asked, the question escaping on an exhale of pain. "You don't know me. You’re Mecha Man—you should be debriefing with the Director, not patching up some short-tempered idiot Blazer used as bait."
He paused, holding the swab just above a particularly nasty graze near your belt line. His eyes were direct, unblinking. "Maybe I know what it feels like to be an idiot used as bait." He gave a slight, humorless shake of his head. "And I was debriefing. I got the full Blazer treatment: ice-cold, all protocol, no empathy. I prefer patching up short-tempered idiots. It's more honest."
He finished the graze and started on the bruising along your ribs, gently massaging in a cooling gel. The pressure was firm and comforting. He then pulled out the alcohol wipe to tackle the smudged blood on your cheek—the dried residue you’d smeared in the main office.
The wipe was cold. He used meticulous, slow movements, cleaning the dried blood from the jagged cut on your face, then wiping the dark stain from your teeth and lips. His proximity was overwhelming; you could feel his breath, faintly metallic and warm, against your good eye.
"Okay," he said softly, putting the used wipe aside. "That's the worst of it. Now for the rest of your face. You're going to have a shiner." He looked at the swollen, purple-black skin around your eye, his expression shifting from clinical focus to something that looked suspiciously like pity.
You refused to meet the pity, instead focusing on the way his thumb was still resting lightly on your thigh. "Don't say it," you muttered, knowing exactly what he was about to say.
Robert chuckled, a quiet, rich sound that seemed completely out of place in the antiseptic gloom of the office. He didn't remove his hand. "Relax. I was just going to say that these lights really bring out the purple in your eye.”
You let out a long, shuddering sigh, a puff of air that finally felt relaxed, as Robert finished cleaning and patching the last of your wounds. He had just applied a sterile dressing over the cut on your cheek—the one that had caused so much blood to pool. The whole process was over, leaving your skin feeling clean, stinging, and infinitely better than it had an hour ago.
"Thanks," you murmured, the single word carrying more weight than you intended. You met his gaze, a slight, genuine smile touching your lips. "Glad you enjoy short-tempered idiots."
He gathered up the used swabs and bandages, tossing them into the metal tin. Then, instead of moving, he leaned back in the chair, his dark eyes staring up at you with an unhurried, knowing quality. His hand remained lightly resting on your thigh—a casual, comforting weight now, not just a practical restraint.
"I enjoy a lot of things," he said softly, a genuine smile curving his mouth. "And I enjoy more than just patching them up, too."
You cocked an eyebrow down at him, a reflex that pulled at the stitches (or heavy adhesive) on your face. "Oh yeah? And what exactly else do you enjoy?" you challenged, a playful rasp in your voice, leaning forward slightly on the desk so your faces were only inches apart.
Robert's smile widened, and he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, warm murmur that felt like a secret just for you. "I enjoy honesty. I enjoy people who don't hide their fire, even when they're beaten up. And I really enjoy people who don't try to pretend they don't need help."
He reached up, his movements slow and deliberate, and gently tapped the very center of your chest, right over your heart, then let his hand rest there.
"You're a mess," he concluded, his gaze serious, but his tone completely affectionate. "A stubborn, painful, complicated mess. And I like complicated."
You felt your breath catch, the unexpected tenderness of the moment stealing the sarcastic retort you’d been ready to deliver. You wanted to lean down, to close the last few inches of distance, but you held yourself still.
"Well, you just got done telling me I need a scan and a few days rest," you whispered, trying to sound aloof, but failing entirely.
"I did," he confirmed. He pulled his hand from your chest, his thumb lightly brushing the clean, taped skin of your collarbone before his hand finally returned to his side. "But I'm a patient man. The world's been waiting six months for me. It can wait another few hours for you."
He slowly pushed the chair back, breaking the intimate circle, and stood up. He offered you his hand—a clean, strong grip.
"Let's get you that scan," he said, his voice back to that easy, quiet authority. "Then we can figure out where the best place is for a complicated mess to rest."
You took his hand, letting him help you slide off the desk and onto your feet. For the first time all day, the pain seemed manageable.
"Okay, Mecha Man," you conceded, a genuine, tired laugh escaping your lips. "Lead the way.”
