#mechabae

"Oh, come on, Robbo," Flambae teases, already slipping an arm around Robert's neck and steering him toward the booth.

"No," Robert repeats, digging in his heels as if that somehow keeps Flambae from dragging him closer to the obnoxiously eye-catching display.

"It'll be fun."

"For who?" Robert asks.

He's already halfway defeated by the time they stop in front of the booth dedicated to his alter ego.

The rest of the Z-Team trails behind them, grinning from ear to ear while throwing their own teasing comments Robert's way, each person enjoying the situation to a different degree.

Eventually — and mostly because Flambae has already claimed a seat and outright refuses to move — Robert lets out that long, familiar sigh through his nose.

"...Fine."

Victory.

Sweet, petty, completely meaningless victory.

Once everyone finally squeezes into the oversized booth, drink orders are already being shouted across the table, someone has stolen the song catalog from another booth, and Robert settles into the seat at the very end with all the enthusiasm of someone reporting for jury duty.

Just looking at his expression is enough to make every second of teasing worth it.

Flambae can't stop smiling from his side of the booth.

Every now and then, while conversations bounce around the table and baskets of fries disappear at an alarming speed, he steals another glance toward Robert.

Just because.

Robert wasn't shooting him angry glances anymore. That phase had passed. Now he wore that peculiar expression of resigned tolerance that Flambae has learned to translate, roughly, as: I am choosing peace... even though you still annoy me.

Robert absently taps his fingers against the side of his cocktail glass, keeping time with whatever song someone is butchering onstage. The movements are almost imperceptible, tiny taps against the condensation collecting on the glass.

Flambae fights back another smile.

He still isn't entirely sure why, but watching Robert simply exist after being thoroughly annoyed by him is strangely rewarding.

He tries not to stare too much while chatting with everyone else, though every few minutes his eyes drift back toward the dispatcher anyway.

However, after getting distracted for a little over ten minutes talking with Alice about the newest episodes of Love Island, Flambae glances back toward Robert's seat and finds it empty.

He frowns.

Robert's drink was still there.

So was his jacket, neatly folded over the seat.

Only Robert himself has disappeared.

Probably the restroom, Flambae figures.

Or maybe he's grabbing something to eat.

Or maybe he's trying to escape before someone talks him into singing karaoke.

That thought, carried along by the opening notes of the next song echoing through the bar, earned Flambae a quiet snort of amusement.

But then—

"Clock strikes upon the hour..."

Flambae barely registers the opening lyric to one of his all-time favorite songs. In fact, the first thing he notices isn't even the song.

It's the voice.

It slices cleanly through the overlapping conversations filling the team's booth.

For one long second, his brain refuses to connect that voice to anyone.

Because it can't possibly belong to—

"...And the sun begins to fade..."

His smile disappears before he even understands why, and he slowly turns in his seat.

Around him, the rest of the team does the same.

The karaoke stage sits across the room beneath shifting spotlights that wash everyone in flashes of pink, purple, and blue.

Robert is standing beneath them.

One hand holds the microphone, while the other rests casually in his trouser pocket.

To almost everyone at the table's surprise, there isn't the slightest trace of embarrassment in his posture. No stiffness. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

"Still enough time to figure out... how to chase my blues away..."

Robert keeps singing, occasionally glancing up at the lyrics scrolling across the monitor above him.

Flambae can only stare.

The man onstage looks nothing like the dispatcher he sees every weekday — the one who somehow manages to make even the simplest sentence sound dry and indifferent. This Robert stands beneath the lights singing Whitney Houston as naturally as if he'd done it a hundred times before.

Something twists pleasantly in the pit of Flambae's stomach as he remembers Robert making fun of him for suggesting Whitney that night at The Sardine.

That bitch thinks he's better than me, Flambae thinks.

And yet...

Something about the way Robert carries himself onstage — so unfamiliar, so unexpectedly captivating — keeps Flambae from feeling genuinely annoyed.

Robert's voice has always earned plenty of shameless comments from the team, but hearing him sing is something entirely different. It doesn't sound anything like the voice over comms, always calm, measured, authoritative. It's the voice that issues orders, gives directions, and keeps everyone on track.

When the chorus arrives, Robert finally looks away from the lyrics and out toward the crowd scattered across the bar.

A relaxed smile settles onto his face as he sings the chorus from memory, his shoulders now moving subtly with the beat.

No, he isn't exactly a great dancer. But he has rhythm. And he looks like he's genuinely enjoying himself.

"I wanna feel the heat with somebody..."

Robert's gaze drifts toward the booth where the rest of the Z-Team is sitting.

"Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody... With somebody who loves me..."

His voice isn't shrill. It isn't the kind that demands silence simply by being loud.

Instead, it slips effortlessly over the backing track, soft enough to blend with the music instead of competing against it.

There's an unmistakable tenderness woven into every lyric. Something that keeps Flambae frozen in place, eyes locked on Robert, lips slightly parted ever since his jaw quietly dropped.

The triumphant satisfaction he'd been carrying ever since forcing Robert into the Mecha Man Blue booth evaporates so quickly it almost embarrasses him.

"I need a man who'll take a chance... on a love that burns hot enough to last..."

Right there.

Flambae swallows hard because he could swear Robert sings that particular line while looking directly into his eyes.

"So when the night falls..."

Robert pauses just long enough for another smile to spread across his face.

"My lonely heart calls..."

People are clapping now as Robert launches into the second chorus. The entire bar erupts, voices joining in with unmistakable enthusiasm as nearly half the room sings along to the timeless classic.

Everyone...

Except Flambae.

He's still trying to process the version of Robert standing on that stage. So unlike the man he'd convinced himself he knew. Confident, radiant, with laughter hidden beneath certain vowels. Tiny lifts in his voice whenever he gets carried away by a favorite line without even realizing it.

And before Flambae knows it, he catches himself wondering...

How many other versions of Robert exist outside office hours?

How many sides of him has Flambae never seen?

And—

What would it be like to know them?

The thought lingers long after the final chorus ends. Long after Robert lowers the microphone. And long after applause ripples across the bar.