Your Dispatcher

The man is fucking catnip in a place like this. Robert leaves his beer half-finished and strides over to Ryland. ❝Uh... you're looking kinda flushed. What do you say we head outside for a minute for some air?❞

Ryland's admirer clears his throat. He immediately resists this interloper treading into their cozy bubble and holds his ground. In fact, he leans even closer to Ryland. Robert would almost respect that, if Ryland weren't uh... on the line... and did he even want this dude's attention?

Wait, maybe he does? Does he??

your muse is watching mine get hit on and feels possessive; how do they react? // accepting

Bars are not his usual place for a hangout. Never have been; they're usually far too noisy and too many things just seem to happen and it usually just feels like a constant overload of his senses. There are a few exceptions of course, this one included since it was advertised by Robert to be calmer and nicer.

Which ended up being the truth once Ryland researched it meticulously. It was more of a pub than a bar and even had some live jazz music playing over the weekends! Ryland was definitely willing to try it out.

The place itself is very nice when they arrive, beautifully decorated with a small stage closer to the bar. A woman sings on stage, singing a few different renditions of Billie Holiday's music. Robert quickly finds a spot at the bar,

The man that came up to talk to him is friendly; though Ryland is still quite prickly since this was a man he didn't know walking up to him, but he's not very pushy and keeps his distance. He asks about his job which gets Ryland to open up a little bit and he talks about his job right back; it's a pretty good conversation, Ryland must admit

But still, he came here with a friend.

A friend that quickly makes his way over to them after a few minutes of them speaking. The look on Robert's face is a little strage when he speaks, and Ryland can't seem to place why. Whatever it is, the man he's speaking to seems to understand whatever it is though.

When the man leans closer to him, Ryland instinctually takes a step back from him, brows knitting together a little bit at his space being breeched, even just slightly. He feels like some sort of fight might break out, heaven knows why, but there was no way Ryland was wanting to be the cause of something silly and ridiculous like that happening here.

"Actually-" He finally speaks up, breaking right into the conversation before something like that could potentially happen. "I think I would like that." He gives an awkward little grin to the man, "I did enjoy our conversation. You offered some really wonderful insight about what you do though."

This dude is not backing down, giving Robert the unmistakable ❛I saw him first-❜ look that prods deep into the recesses of his head- right to the lizard brain parts that think: fight fight fight. Not that he gives in, much. No reason for friction in such a nice place.

thing is, he didn't even wanna come. He doesn't even like jazz… Something about the organic, unpredictable forms of the music…. It totally goes against anything predictive, which is as cliché as anything. The fucking hacker-coder doesn't like improvisational music; will wonders never cease? He'd only suggested in the offhand suspicion that Ryland likes jazz, which fits. Biology follows a known set of rules, but also doesn't. Biology and evolution is accidental and accidentally iterative; which he finds to be as elegant an analogy as he could come up with.

So fuck this guy for butting in and ruining it.

(His mind neatly edits out the part where he failed to stay GLUED to Ryland's side as the man wandered off, enjoying the live show and ambience while he sulked like a grumpy old man)).

❛Actually,❜ Ryland interjects right as Robert's hands ball into fists at his sides. ❛I think I would like that,❜ he says in response to Robert's suggestion for air. He's nice about it of course, smoothing the situation and attached egos in a fell swoop, and Robert is ushered out like the grumpy old man turned problem child that he is.

He sighs as they head out to the parking lot. God, he could go for some pork katsu to soak up all that whiskey.

well, no. he knows exactly what to do, actually. at least his body does. it knows before his stupid fuckin' terrified brain registers what needs to be done. one moment he is stretched on the recliner with his throat bare to the night like some soap opera slut in a motel brochure, and the next he is moving, careful around Beef's sleeping weight, a soft rush of heat following him.

Robert is actually shaking into his hands, and it sparks a deafening silence in him, the way a room goes still around the first sound of glass shattering.

--then Robert says he would kill them if they tried to take him back.

and the fucked up thing is, some tiny wicked part of Flambae wants to crawl inside that sentence and fuckin' live there. and it's not some sick vindictive pleasure, or because murder suddenly sounds like a balanced coping strategy, but because for one hot and stupid fuckin' second it feels like being wanted so fiercely he's become somebody's line in the sand; because Robert, who is usually the voice of reason, lets something dark show its gnashing, bloodied teeth. and Flambae should tell him not to say shit like that, be alarmed in a normie way, joke that being in prison together isn't as romantic as those cheap-ass tv shows make it look.

instead his breath seizes and his whole fuckin' chest aches with it, lungs and all.

fuck.

he stares down six years of Robert making himself useful; of him putting things in order, speaking to lawyers, taking perfect care of Beef, showing up until Flambae told him not to, then obeying like obedience was love and not just another word for punishment. going through the fuckin' motions ... moving to Monterey but not leaving, living by the ocean but not letting himself breathe too deeply.

surviving. not living. don't fuckin' insult him. after all, Robert has always known how to turn himself into stoic scaffolding for someone else's fuckin' collapse. just ... hold the structure and take the goddamn weight. make no sound if it all gets too much. and Flambae, fuckin' prize idiot that he is, had asked him to disappear for his own good; as if Robert has ever done anything for his own good. guilt churns through him like an ocean storm, vast and black and hungry, with the selfless bullshit, the pretending that making himself cold and unavailable was the same thing as setting someone free. "hey," Flambae murmurs gently, crouching in front of him, then he reaches, slowly, out of prison habit - no sudden movements allowed - and curls his fingers around Robert's wrists.

"hey. Rob Rob. no. c'mere."

the pet name is used fondly, devoid of the mockery it used to carry. he draws Robert's hands away from his face only enough to find him under them, wet-eyed and pathetic. he can feel the tremor through his body, can feel it in the way Robert's breath keeps snagging and rebuilding itself into something conversational, about fried fuckin' calamari, like he's trying to be functional in the middle of this mess.

--which is the most Robert thing he has ever witnessed.

Jesus Christ. Flambae wants to laugh and scream and put his fist through every wall and every person that ever taught this man to cope like this.

instead, he gathers him in. there is no graceful fuckin' way to do it from two cheap pool chairs and a sleeping dog and the haunting of more than half a decade between them, but Flambae makes it happen anyway because he is large and stubborn and, occasionally, when the moon is in fuckin' retrograde or whatever, caring. he slides onto the edge of Robert's recliner, one knee braced awkwardly against the concrete, and pulls Robert against him with both arms. Robert fits against him like memory, like something Flambae's body has been rehearsing in the dark for years of emptiness.

the contact hits so fuckin' deep he nearly loses his breath, but he keeps his grip steady, one arm locked around Robert's shoulders, the other hand cradling the back of his head; his fingers thread into Robert's longer hair, warm and careful. "I'm a fuckin' idiot." he confesses, tone aching with tenderness. his chin lowers against Robert's hair, his eyes squeeze shut. for a second he is not at a hotel ... not by a pool, not free. he is in every cell where he imagined this and then punished himself for wanting it so bad it hurt him physically, more than the power suppressants embedded in his chest; every bunk where he turned his face to the blank wall. every visitation day he sat across from the best thing in his world and told it to get the fuck away from him.

he thought he was sparing Robert. what a noble fuckin' disease, that thought. "I'm so fuckin' sorry, baby," he whispers hoarsely. "I was in prison. my judgement was fuckin' compromised."

that is meant to be a joke ... but it isn't too far off from the truth. he thought if Robert listened, he would be okay. that's what he kept telling himself. Robert leaves, hurts for a while, gets angry, gets a new place, gets bored, gets kissed by some boring fuckin' normie, starts sleeping through the night; and maybe one day he thinks about Flambae and it doesn't rip the floor out from his feet.

Flambae swallows thickly as his hand moves over Robert's hair, like he is learning the motion of caressing again. his lips twist wryly against the next breath; their shared grief circles the shape of Robert's devotion and finds all the hollows it has been fuckin' starving itself into. "fuck, Robert." because, what the fuck? he doesn't get to do that. Robert doesn't get put his whole fuckin' life in storage, keep just about afloat to count as alive, and think that counts as taking care of himself.

Flambae holds him closer, gentle heat spilling out of a body that does not know how else to say stay, stay, stay. his grip trembles and he turns his face slightly, pressing his lips to Robert's temple; it is not the kiss from the gate, there is no hunger, and it isn't some kind of claim. his lips simply linger there because he cannot fix anything. he can only be a warm blanket for Robert to collapse in.

"it's gonna be okay," he murmurs. "I am here now."

the words scare him as soon as they leave his lips, but he says them anyway.

"I'm not gonna tell you to leave again. I'll stay with you, come to Monterey ... eat the fuckin' calamari with you."

(of all the fuckin' things to say right now ... fried calamari.)

his hand cups the back of Robert's neck, resting against the faint pulse he can feel there, feeling life stubborn under skin. Flambae opens his eyes and stares over Robert's shoulder at nothing in particular. in the pool glow, they are more golden-amber than bright orange now, like the colour has washed out over the years. the world is still too fuckin' wide, and the night still feels like it might be revoked. some part of him expects a shout, a count, a hand on his arm turning the whole thing into proof he had only dreamed release because his brain finally fuckin' lost it. but Robert feels so breakable in his arms right now ... Beef is drowsily stirring, waking from the commotion; he lifts his greying head slowly, then puts it back down, like he knows this will resolve itself eventually. the concrete is cool under his knee. real. real. real. "I ... don't know how to do this," he admits. he doesn't know how not to make everything about the fuckin' hole he crawled out of; he doesn't know how to ask what Robert needs without being scared the answer is gonna be something he can't give him anymore. but he's gotta try, for their sake. he loosens his hold just enough that Robert can breathe. "but I got you. what do you need, baby?"

But saying the horrible desire aloud undercuts some of it's power, some of the hold it has on him, and his chest feels immeasurably lighter for it. Not that it helps with the tears that come even though he tries to tamp them back. They claw their way out of his throat, stopping his voice cold. Probably a good thing. Next thing either of them know, and he'd have recited the travel brochures glazing the place, from its unique ecology to geographic facts the current wind speed, and other things Chad would find useful or at least pertinent. Honestly though- he would! When was the last time he flew? It's gorgeous out there- and no wind means no tailwind. How long would it take him to get there, like an hour? He should ask him that...As soon as he stops shaking and shuddering. Honestly he can't stop... He's shaking so hard he has to clench his teeth to keep them from shattering despite the balmy night.

❝Fucking l-losing it-❞ he manages through his teeth and the water pouring down his face. He feels liberated and devastated and oddly removed, like he's watching himself fall to pieces in concern from a safe little corner or alcove, shaking his head and lamenting about the spectacle of it all.

It's that part of him that flinches upon the dawning comprehension: he's crying not just for himself and what he lost, but because Chad can't right now. He's still waiting for the ball to drop. He's waiting to wake up- he's not in a place to let himself feel the wrongness of what's been done to him, and the loss of time. Not yet. Tonight, grief is his luxury and his alone. Well, best damn fucking feel it ALL right now, because when it hits Chad it's gonna be so much worse.

He knows it's not limited to a simple flare up of heat sickness either, though those are always in the back of his mind, too. It's a trek that will span years, decades… even a lifetime. Progress will be far from linear…. Less a jagged line on a graph than a twisted ball of hair that'd put the Gordian knot to shame… Headway here, will lead to backtracking there. Progress, regression, utter collapse and rebuilding. And maybe a little rebirth somewhere along the way, hard won even for two such beings so stubborn, they'll claw and drag and trudge until they've worn themselves down to bone and go even farther.

He knows because he's talked about this. When he can't talk about himself or delve into his own shit, he's … inquired… Anonymously. Skittishly, at first… In online groups and secret furtive little queries to doctors and experts. He'd long lost touch with that kind doctor that helped him through anticipatory grief, but he found others and they guided him through the process of things to expect while subtly (not so subtly) trying to get Robert to reveal some of his own baggage- Sometimes he'd even relent. A little...

He hears Chad apologize and his body becomes aware of returning touch that becomes a pull and sweep that drags his body against Flambae's. The watcher in the alcove is dragged in close as well, and the pieces come together at sundered seams, bound in gold.

❝I didn't mean 'fuck you', not really,❞ he sniffles. He feels Chad hold him closer and burrows in, despite being a wet, snotty mess. ❝Don't apologize... And don't agree to anything you don't want to... We don't have to have a plan yet. Hell, I don't even have a plan.❞ As impossible as it is, he hasn't planned much beyond just seeing Chad as he got out of prison. Everything after that kiss has been fucking winging it. And he STILL is. All this coming from the guy who always leaves a way out, always has one foot out the door with the most direct route to that trapdoor in mind. The guy who has contingencies and offers them to others like party favors. The binaries of choice and all its possible outcomes laid out like branching code has come up with a big fat zero on this momentous day.

So… They're in the same boat. Neither of them know what to do and he's decided that's okay. They'll flounder a bit, undoubtedly. But they'll figure it out together. The throughline betweeen all those experts' advice and the well-meaning intrustions of friends has been the oft touted ❛one day at a time,❜ which he's decided to take to heart, as hokey as that is. Small and digestible, because this will make the last six years look easy.

But it's not all the fight or the grief or the slog.

❝You're innocent,❞ he reminds Chad. Because amid everything, it's easy to lose sight of the most important part of all. The freedom and the joy and the vindication. The world expanding from a barred cell into the horizon in one fell instant. Horrifying and beautiful and terrifying. Possibilities, unfettered. ❝You're innocent,❞ he repeats and his voice finds its register again. For a second, he sounds like the dispatcher he was. He sounds like Mecha Man almost; all unshakeable unflappable conviction. The sort of bedrock you could not only trust your weight against, but build monuments on. ❝I always knew it, and now the rest of the world does, too. That's all I need.❞ That, and to stay in this embrace, for maybe the next few days... Funny. He sometimes let himself dream of what he might do and what Chad might do if he was somehow miraculously released. He imagined all sorts of depraved shit, not least of which was just fucking until a bed-frame, the mattress and its box-springs just disintegrate. ❝This is all I want right now,❞ he continues, with a last shudder as the burn finally ebbs away in his chest. Water still streams from his eyes, but even that is fading. He chuckles, as if he thought of something humorous. Not really ha ha funny, but more a gate-crasher to the absolute madhouse that are his current thoughts. ❝Wants and needs... Kinda forgot about those... You're gonna have to start getting used to them again, too...❞

Then the other spoke. The mention of being beneficial to him almost offended Magnus. Almost. That is if it wasn't true in a way.

"Oh sweet thing you mistake me for a gold digger." He shakes his head as the other spoke what he thought. In a way magnus wanted something more from the other as he extends a hand towards Robert. He was a bit taller than him. By two inches as he smiles. But the smile seemed more like a cocky one than a genuine smile.

❝Hey Magnus. I'm Robert, nice to meet you,❞ he smiles amiably as he extends a hand for Magnus to shake. ❝Sorry about being so prickly before. If it makes you feel any better, it's not just you. I tend to be pretty reserved.❞ More like anal retentive stick in the mud bob-bob, as Z-team would say, but no one fucking asked them.

Still, Ryland fidgets a bit, wanting to say so many things to him; goodness knows Rocky already has a lot to say about Mecha Man, a lot of it are things Ryland is not willing to repeat since that would require many, many expletives, but Ryland never had Rocky's penchant for speaking so...eloquently...

It's hard to block the rush of emotions; honestly, he should be used to this by now. Ryland felt something for Mecha Man and, by some strange little feeling, he knew that he felt the same for him. It was just impossible to open up about things, considering he's a hero and Ryland is just Ryland. It'd be dangerous if he knew more, could put him in the crosshairs of whoever might be gunning for Mecha Man.

But he can't block any of his feelings out.

They evolved too far, slipped through the cracks in his hell with enough fluidity that he could not find a way to stop them at this point. He still doesn't know how to feel about that either; it's been awhile since he felt this way about anyone for a long long time. Yet, even Rocky and Adrian thought something was off with it.

Would this whole thing even be considered a relationship? Adrian asked. Does he view you the same as you do him?

"I-I just think-" Whatever Ryland was about to say ends up cut off, stopped by hands wrapping around him and pulling him close so Mecha Man can kiss him.

It's soft, steals the words from his lips before he can get them out. He almost doesn't know where to put his hands at first, hovering inches between them out of surprise from the suddenness of it. With a tilt of his head, Mecha Man presses all the closer, deepening the kiss and knocking Ryland's glasses askew. Something tender warms in his chest, hands finally finding their place, bracing against the bed on either side of the other man's body.

Intermittent between the kisses, Mecha Man speaks, words low and quiet and sounding so apologetic. It's not a goodbye, but even as the man draws away, leaving Ryland sitting back on the bed and looking so very lost, Ryland still can't help but feel like this whole ordeal feels so final to him.

That first soft kiss somehow succeeds in embodying what he can't put into words… Slow and sweet and plaintive, it asks - it whispers a request to trust him. That's the trap of perfect things. Adding to something like that tends to detract, rather than enhance the message. Then again, he could never really leave well enough alone when it came to Ryland… From that second meeting at the fundraiser when he'd picked him out of a crowd of hundreds and smiled at him, his gaze like a honing signal landing home.

❛You're making this sound like this is the last time I'll see you--I know it's not my place to say, but are you going to be okay? Are you okay…?❜ Ryland asks from the bed, those eyes glinting again.

He can't resist carding his fingers through Ryland's hair and over the messy fringe of hair that overhangs his forehead. It's just a momentary sweep and the sandy clumps of hair spill forward again almost as soon as they're caressed.

❝It's fine... Everything's fine,❞ he assures him... It's vague enough, and it's even true... For the moment. In truth, the day is going to be rough, and Robert's been trying to mentally prepare himself for this moment for years. Only in the last few weeks have pieces fallen together enough for anything to come to fruition. It'll certainly be different after today. Either he succeeds and puts Shroud away for good, one of them dies in the standoff, or.... Or it all fails and he limps back home with his tail between his legs, losing everything he's worked for and ... well, he doesn't even wanna contemplate how dejected he'll be. There's living to fight another day, and living to question why to stay in the fight at all. If that happened, Shroud really will have taken everything.

❝Go back to sleep,❞ he coos as he kisses him on the forehead, despite the forelocks still laying over his skin, and mindful of the glasses always going askew despite their best efforts. With that, he forces himself away, checking himself one last time as he heads out the door. There's no time to waste. He's gotta head home, see to Beef's needs, dress back in civilian clothes to blend in and infiltrate every location on his list until he finds Shroud's second in command. This is the best lead he's ever gotten, he can't squander it....

It was just over 4 months ago that images like this were recorded across the southland. Videos flooded social media and our newsroom showing what many thought to be the death of Mecha Man- again.

The news broadcast replays what had been live images of the explosion- in this case, a girl practices a TikTok dance as the blast erupts overhead, startling her. Then some B-roll plays of basic background information summarizing the near 50 year history of Mecha Man's role in protecting the city, from the first Mecha Man, his death to Astral stepping into the role and serving in the Brave Brigade, and finally to Mecha Man Blue, just as Mecha Man begins his press conference.

"The bodega cat really is the pinnacle of living, honestly," she laughs, imagining Beef interacting with a territorial cat twice his size. "But it's pretty similar to any big city in the country. Too many people, not enough garbage cans, advertisements on every surface. Soooooo many alien attacks. So far I think New York villains are weirder."

Not that she hadnt seen some strange villains since she'd gotten there, but something about her home town seemed to pull weirdness out. Maybe it was the rats?

Aliens around Los Angeles are pretty chill, now that he thinks about it. There's Lana from the mail-room who keeps to herself and delivers the mail like clockwork… and then there's Phenomaman who… seems chill aside from all that crippling depression. Come to think of it the number of aliens he knows personally don't number all that much… Numbering a grand total of two, in fact. So…. yeah, maybe his experience isn't a good basis for reference.