#pining flambae

He always does his best to reduce damage while on missions. At the end of the day, he’s a combat type, and there’s only so much you can do with literal fire.

But it’s going as well as it can be, thanks to Robert. And Flambae always prides himself with having the best dispatcher around.

With himself? Meh.

He can walk off a heat stroke. And dehydration. And lung damage. And more, probably.

Still doesn’t change the sharp glare and scathing rant Robert has for him the minute he steps into SDN.

And he does pay attention. Or tries.

There’s some leftover vanilla cream smudged on Robert’s chin, most likely acquired after another vending machine raid.

He laughs, soft, easy, hand wiping off the fluffy cream.

He doesn’t even notice how affection drunk he looks, with faint sunlight glazing gently over those eyes, until orange melts down to autumn gold.

Robert very much does.

“Bob-Bob,” And his voice. How it can go from aggravating to tickled by fondness. “I’m fucking sorry, okay? It’s not even THAT serious,—“

“You hit your head on a billboard.”

“Just a little!”

“You had a concussion, Chadwick.”

“Ugh, don’t use full names! You only do that when I’m REALLY deep in shit.”

He laughs, and laughs, and Robert should continue to be pissed, but it’s hard.

When those eyes are on him, watching him like the world starts and ends with him, it’s hard. “I’m sorry, Bob-Bob.”

Robert clenches his jaw and glares away.

“Robert,” and the name. His name. Smooth and pulsing worship. “Don’t be mad. That’s my job.”

“Fine! Fine. No medical. My place. You’re getting checked out.”