One angsty thing I think about constantly is the health issues Flambae would face.
Because Flambae is strong. He heals fast. He doesn’t get tired easy. From all positions, he’s indestructible.
In theory.
Because his powers, as we’ve seen, do affect him. Maybe not externally, sure. Maybe not to the extent where it’s concerning.
Internally?
Flambae is fire resistant. Not fireproof.
His cardiovascular system? Monitored very intimately by some very good doctors, thanks to his father.
He’s had 4 heart attacks since he was 30. His dad doesn’t need to know that, thought.
His lungs? The capacity’s ncreased, sure, but the constant exposure to smoke and ash isn’t helping.
He didn’t even know his taste buds could be affected until his parents visit.
They bring him dumplings with lamb filling and his favorite white sauce and he wolfs them down because only they make it right.
“Remember when you were little,” his dad smiles when he says it. He always does when he talks about him. “And we had to pluck the parsley out of everything?
“It’s a culinary crime, and my stomach should’ve sued. It would’ve won, too.”
They look sad when he’s done. He swipes his tongue between his gums and feels his stomach go numb.
“Still. Fuck parsley.”
“Fuck parsley.”
But the biggest liability in his arsenal gets revealed around Robert.
Because it’ll never not be Robert.
“I always wandered,” Robert asks, not because he wants to take Flambae down, or because he needs a report, or because of a contingency plan.
He asks because he’s curious. “How does your Nova form work? In ‘how do I not blow myself and everyone up’ terms?”
And Flambae grins, bright enough to blind. “I’m just that fucking awesome, Bob-Bob. Impressive, I know.“
And Robert rolls his eyes about it, clearly not believing that. Flambae will take it.
Because it’s ten times better than admitting he has no fucking idea.
