@pollinationtech007 - Tumblr Blog

Nov 20, 2025

Again.

"What If" Masterlist

<- Chapter 8. || Chapter 9. [You ARE Here] tgs: mention of child (no y’all don't got a kid, there's just a glazed over topic; no child in this economy but I don't want to possibly scare people in ‘not tagged’ or something), depression, fading feelings (for now), robert needs to ring doctor monster asap a/n: I"M ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE! it's joeover // Is this technically me making it into a Bestfriends to Strangers to Bestfriends again (then lovers)?

[wrds: 22, 538 | chrs: 135,381]

[NOT BETA READ]

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Robert stood on his balcony; the small concrete rectangle jutting out like a king’s exclusive view. The railing was wrought iron, painted black, with intricate scrollwork that probably cost more than a person’s first guess. Plants hung from hooks screwed into the overhang—real plants, lush and healthy, the kind that required actual care instead of sporadic neglect. Ferns and trailing pothos and something with purple flowers he couldn't name but knew how to water given explicit instructions… something drilled into him after far too many previous killings that promised his skin if he doomed another.

A promise that wasn't empty as he remembers the expression, remembers fleeing around the apartment with a mix of startled laughter as he was chased. Hands reaching for him, threats of violence wrapped in affection, the kind of mock-anger that was really just concern dressed up as indignation. Beef barking in the background, egging on the chaos like the little instigator he was.

The memory brings a smile to his face as he stared out to the city. A real smile, not the hollow ones he'd been manufacturing lately. Not the professional mask or the self-deprecating smirk. Just... genuine warmth at the memory of being ridiculous about plant care. About caring enough about something living to threaten him over its demise.

Los Angeles stretched before him in that particular predawn blue-grey, where streetlights still glow amber against the fading darkness but the sky has already started its slow brightening. The sun still hidden but making its sleepy ascent as its little humans drag themselves out of bed. Or maybe are finally making it to bed after too many long hours of working. The city never really sleeps, not truly. Just shifts. Changes. Moves from one rhythm to another like a massive organism with millions of moving parts.

He waves at a neighbor down below. A nice man. In his residency or something at the hospital. On the perpetual state of sleeping and waking and screaming—the kind of exhaustion that came with saving lives and accumulating student debt in equal measure. There's a simple lift of a hand that's exchanged between them, one that means 'good morning, have a good day, see you around' (and everything else) all at once. While well meaning the action also reminds Robert that he's shirtless—at the very least he's in some good sweatpants rather than those boxers he's been meaning to replace for months now.

The morning air is cool against his bare skin. Not unpleasant. Just present. Real. Grounding in a way he needs right now. The kind of physical sensation that reminds him he's actually here, actually alive, actually experiencing the world instead of just floating through it on autopilot.

As he contemplated finally going inside, a sound behind him draws his attention. The balcony door sliding open with that particular whisper of glass on metal tracks.

Footsteps. Familiar ones. The kind he'd recognize anywhere because he's spent years cataloging every detail of their existence without consciously meaning to. The weight of those steps. The rhythm of that movement. The slight hesitation before crossing thresholds.

A soft sniffle and audible shiver.

Before arms wrap around him from behind.

The touch sent electricity through his entire nervous system. Not unpleasant. The opposite of unpleasant. Warm and solid and right in a way that made his breath catch. Made his heart do that stupid jackrabbit thing it only did around one person. Made everything else—all the noise and chaos and confusion of his life—fade into insignificance.

The hands caress against his exposed skin, warm against the chill that lingered under the flesh. They embrace his scars without disgust, without hesitation, without that particular careful avoidance most people employed when touching damaged things. Fingers even caressing along one particularly nasty mark till the palm settled comfortably against his stomach, the other against his chest. Right over his heart. Like you were checking to make sure it was still beating. Still functioning. Still his.

Holding him. Anchoring him. The kind of embrace that wasn't about passion or possession but simple connection. Simple being together. Simple existing in shared space without needing justification or explanation or anything beyond this.

A cheek pressed to his shoulder. Weight settling against his back in a way that spoke of absolute trust. Of comfort so complete it didn't need justification. Of safety that went both ways—you feeling safe enough to be vulnerable, him feeling safe enough to be held.

"Traumatizing our neighbors again?"

Your voice. Muffled slightly against his shoulder blade. Sleep-rough and warm and so achingly familiar that Robert's chest constricted painfully. That particular timbre that came from just waking. From being pulled from dreams. From comfort and safety and belonging. The slight rasp that meant you'd been sleeping hard, deeply, the kind of rest that only came when you felt secure.

God, he'd missed your voice. Even though it's been less than 24 hours since he'd last heard it. Just a couple before the two of you finally succumbed to the pull of rest. But every moment without it felt like deprivation. Like going without air. Like something essential had been removed from his environment.

He huffs in amusement, shifting. His weight settling more comfortable against you, hands lifting to cup the back of yours. Holding you there. Making sure you know he wants this. Wants you. Wants this moment to last as long as physically possible. "Of course. Unless you've forgotten my favorite pastime." He squeezes your hands gently, thumb tracing the familiar topography of your knuckles. "Half-nude, staring at innocents as they—" a pause. His brain catches up to his mouth, processing how that actually sounds. "I sound like a creep... should probably stop talking.”

He could feel you shake, a tremble of laughter vibrating against his back. That particular silent laugh you do when something catches you off guard. When you're trying not to wake the whole building with your amusement. When joy bubbles up so naturally you can't contain it.

You pull away slightly and he turns in your arms, his hand settling on your side—caressing in a motion he's done dozens of times before. Hundreds, maybe. Thousands. The movement so practiced it's become instinct. Muscle memory that exists independent of conscious thought. You were warmer from deep slumber, sleep mused and looking ready to return to hibernation once given the chance. Your hair is doing that thing where it sticks up in odd angles. Your face still has pillow creases. Your eyes are heavy-lidded and soft.

It was—is—perfect.

"What are you doing up anyway?" You ask before breaking into a big yawn, face scrunching and eyes watering. The yawn is contagious—it always is—but Robert fights it. His eyes still water though.

Robert catches one of the sleepy tears with his thumb, lips twitching. Fighting the urge to smile like an idiot. Failing. "Have to get ready for work." The words came automatically. His tone lighter with you, has been for a while thanks to you. No constant undercurrent of exhaustion and stress that had been his default for the majority of his life. Just... ease. Comfort. The ability to exist without armor.

He tilted his head slightly, examining your face. Cataloging details. The exact shade of your eyes in this light. The way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. All these tiny details he'd memorized without meaning to. Without permission. Just absorbed through proximity and attention and the desperate need to know everything about you.

You meet his eyes, mirroring his tilt. A unconscious mimicry that speaks to how in sync you've become. How you've started adopting each other's mannerisms. How the lines between where one of you ends and the other begins have blurred into something beautiful and terrifying.

The warmth that flooded through him at that simple action felt almost painful in its intensity. Paired with that soft eye contact. Like staring directly at the sun. Like something too bright and good to look at directly but impossible to turn away from. Like he was Icarus and you were everything he shouldn't reach for but couldn't help flying toward anyway.

You presenting the comfortable intimacy of someone who belonged here. Who belonged with him. Not as a guest or a visitor or someone temporarily occupying space. But as someone who had a right to be here. Who had earned their place through time and care and all the small moments that accumulate into something bigger than their individual parts.

"At 4 AM?" Your tone carried amusement. That particular affectionate exasperation reserved for when someone you love does something adorably stupid. The kind that says 'I'm judging you but I'm also endeared by your ridiculousness.'

"Yes at 4—" He paused. Brain catching up with reality. Processing the information that didn't quite align with his internal clock. "It's 4 AM?"

Your laughter vibrated against his skin before it filled the air as your head briefly fell back. Draws his eyes to your throat. The laugh is warm and genuine, a kind of sound that made his entire body relax involuntarily. Made tension he hadn't realized he was carrying bleed out of his shoulders. Made everything feel lighter just by existing. "Yes, 4 AM." You confirmed, peering at him with those eyes that always saw too much. That cut through his bullshit with surgical precision. And after a beat, you pointedly add in a teasing whisper: "On a Saturday."

The information filtered through his brain slowly. Too slowly. Like his neurons were trudging through molasses trying to make connections that should be obvious.

Too early.

Way too early.

And he doesn't even work weekends.

What the hell had he been thinking? How had he gotten so turned around that he thought it was a workday? That he needed to be anywhere other than here, in this moment, with you?

"I'm an idiot." He said it out loud. Felt your arms tighten around him in response. Felt your smile against his chest as you nuzzled closer. That particular burrowing motion you do when you're comfortable. When you're content. When everything is exactly as it should be.

"You're my idiot." You corrected. The possessive so casual it felt like breathing. Like stating a fact of the universe. "But yes. An idiot."

The possessive should probably bother him. Should trigger all his usual hang-ups about being a burden, about being too much, about not deserving to be claimed by anyone let alone someone like you. All those deeply ingrained beliefs his father had instilled. All that toxic masculinity about being independent and strong and never needing anyone.

Instead it just made him feel... good. Warm. Safe. Wanted in a way that went beyond physical attraction or temporary affection. Permanent. Solid. Real.

Like coming home.

He hugs you in turn, caressing as he breathes you in. Feels the slight stiffening as his scruff tickled you, followed by the melt as he presses a kiss to your skin.

"Come back to bed?" The question was soft. Hopeful. Your hands had started tracing idle patterns against his skin. Nothing sexual. Just touch for the sake of touching. For the comfort of connection. For the simple pleasure of feeling him beneath your fingertips.

Robert didn't hesitate.

"Okay."

The word came so easily. No internal debate. No weighing of pros and cons. No anxiety about whether this was the right choice or whether he was being weak or whether he should push himself to stay awake now that he was up. No complicated calculations about what staying meant or what it implied or how it would look.

Just: Okay.

Because you asked. Because he wanted to. Because the idea of crawling back into bed with you sounded like the best possible use of his time. Because everything else could wait. The world could spin without him for a few more hours.

You unwrapped yourself from him slowly. Reluctantly. Your hands sliding away in a way that suggested you'd rather not let go at all. But the promise of bed—of warmth and comfort and more contact—made the temporary separation worthwhile. Robert reached almost unconsciously to find your hand. Fingers threading through his without hesitation, without thought. Without second guessing. Because this was natural now. Normal. Expected.

Because why would it be second-guessed? You've been doing this for years.

You both pause when you first step inside, letting him slide the balcony door shut and fix the curtains before resuming the journey to bed. The apartment is dark still. Quiet except for the ambient sounds of life—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic, Roast's soft snoring from wherever the little demon had decided to sleep.

It took some time for him to get used to it. Having a place that was actually a home.

Where Robert's usual dwellings over the years were sparse to the point of depressing—furniture sold off to make rent, walls bare except for water stains, the general aesthetic of "gave up"—this space was lived in. Actually inhabited by people who gave a damn about their environment. Who thought comfort mattered. Who believed that where you lived should reflect who you are rather than just being a place to store your body between shifts.

Cozy in ways Robert hadn't experienced since childhood. Where he does remember having a nice home. But even that felt empty when your father was consistently absent. When "home" was more concept than reality. When the space you occupied felt more like a training facility than a place to actually live.

But this? This was warm.

Art on the walls—actual art, not just whatever came in the cheap frames you could buy at Target. Framed photographs; all consisting the two of you and of course, Beef. The newer additions also include Roast. Concert posters from shows you'd attended together. Some hand painted pieces from your visits to Painted Earth in Temecula. A drive that is over an hour and often only taken during necessary visits but worth it each time. Shelves lined with books and plants and small sculptures. Personal things. Collected things. The kind of objects that accumulate over time when you actually think a place is worth decorating. When you plan to stay. When you believe in permanence.

Thrifted things that seemed horrible together but were actually perfect thanks to you and doing whatever the fuck you wanted. Because your home was never meant to be a touchless place that made people wonder if it was okay to even use a couch. A couch that looked actually comfortable with throw pillows and blankets. A coffee table covered in what appeared to be a half-finished puzzle—something abstract and complicated that you'd been working on for weeks.

The TV was larger than Robert's had been. Mounted properly instead of being balanced on cardboard boxes (and later sold for extra cash). Evidence of actual adult life. Of having priorities beyond immediate survival. Of believing you deserved nice things.

There are signs of life everywhere too. A jacket thrown over the back of the couch—his from a couple days ago that he keeps forgetting to put away and you simply let be. Never nagging. Never making him feel like a slob. Just accepting his mess as part of the ecosystem. Shoes by the door in haphazard arrangement, whether it was because you scolded him to take them off (he forgot) or because Roast decided to play with them. A few dishes in the sink visible through the kitchen doorway, submerged to avoid any ants swarming through the night but still technically dirty. Books stacked on the coffee table next to what looks like unfinished paperwork. A blanket half-draped off a beanbag where someone—if not the both of you—had been using it recently.

All these little things make it perfect. Because it's real. Because it's the kind of space that exists when two people share a life together. When they're comfortable enough to not constantly maintain appearances. When home means safety instead of performance. When you can leave evidence of your existence without fear of judgment or complaint.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Warm light spilled through the crack. The kind of amber glow that came from a salt lamp or one of those sunrise alarm clocks people swore by. The kind of lighting that was supposed to help with circadian rhythms or mood or whatever the latest wellness trend claimed.

But it's what is at the door that makes the both of you pause.

Beef, plopped there, waiting. Patient but clearly displeased.

Of course Beef was waiting.

The dog looked deeply offended. Those dark eyes fixed on them with the particular accusation only a dog can achieve when they've been wronged despite the narrowness that spoke of sleep also clinging onto his canine form. His whole posture screamed betrayal. Ears slightly back. Tail tucked. The full performance of a creature who has been abandoned.

You left me, those eyes said. You got out of bed and LEFT ME ALONE and I am VERY UPSET about this.

Robert felt laughter bubble up while you were already giggling. Already dropping yourself to scoop up the offended canine. Beef went willingly despite his obvious displeasure, allowing himself to be cradled like an overgrown baby. Which is what he is. What he's always been. A twenty-pound infant trapped in a dog's body. Your face buried in his fur, pressing exaggerated kisses to his head while making those ridiculous cooing sounds people make at animals. The kind that would be embarrassing if overheard but felt perfectly natural in private.

"I'm sorry, baby boy. I'm so sorry we abandoned you. That was so mean of us. Yes it was. Yes it was." Your voice had gone up an entire octave. That special baby-talk register reserved exclusively for animals. The one that made Robert's chest warm even as he fought the urge to tease you about it. "Did you think we weren't coming back? Did you? Poor sweet potato. Poor little bowling ball."

Robert moved to join you. His hand finding Beef's head as his other settled on your opposing shoulder. Scratching behind those ears in the exact spot that made the dog's eyes half-close in contentment rather than sleepy-fury. The chubby body wiggling with pleasure despite the continued offense. Tail starting to wag despite himself. Forgiveness coming easily because dogs are better than people that way.

"We're terrible parents," Robert said solemnly. Trying to keep his face straight. Failing. "The worst."

"Absolutely awful," you agreed, looking at him with an equally solemn expression that was undermined by the smile tugging at your lips. "Should probably be reported to dog protective services."

"I hear they're very strict about the proper cuddle-to-abandonment ratio."

"Oh definitely. We've probably violated several regulations tonight alone."

Your giggles twine together, a symphony of pure elation that makes him feel so achingly alive. It brings the two of you closer together too, heads dipping like a happy little family that has years of memories ahead of them. Like this is just one moment in an infinite series. Like there will be thousands more mornings just like this. Like the future stretches out warm and welcoming instead of uncertain and terrifying.

"Okay, okay, back to bed," you whisper, smooching Beef as you return to your shuffling. There's but a slight adjustment so you can shift a hand free, finding Robert's once more. He's there, of course. He's always there. His hand settles in yours once more, pressed close and doing a sort of waddle-walk to remain so. He's mimicking the hold you had on him on the balcony, the hug from behind, pressing his face to your shoulder blade then the shoulder. Close enough to breathe you in. To feel your warmth. To exist in your immediate orbit.

The bedroom is just as lovingly put together as the rest of the home. Not just a room with a bed in it, but an actual space designed for rest. For intimacy. For the kind of vulnerability that comes with sleep. For shared existence in its most basic form.

Filled with things that neither of you would've had years ago mixed in to the everyday items. Because being with another also meant loving yourself. As even before being in a relationship, it means you should find love in yourself too. Sometimes it just becomes easier when someone else is there to encourage or simply be the anchor in the tedious ways of life. When someone else believes in you enough that you start believing in yourself. When their faith becomes scaffolding for your own.

There's an actual bed too. A proper one with a frame and a headboard and everything. Not a mattress on the floor or a plastic chair or any of the sorry excuses for sleeping surfaces that Robert's been making do with years ago. This is furniture. Real furniture. The kind that requires assembly and probably cost more than Robert's entire current living situation. The kind that represents investment. Commitment. The belief that you deserve comfort.

The bed itself is... it's almost obscene in its comfort-promising appearance. Made but not military-made. Covers pulled up but rumpled in that way that suggests recent occupation. Pillows arranged in haphazard comfort rather than decorative precision. The kind of bed that looks like it would be a pleasure to sink into. That invites you to stop fighting and just rest. That promises safety and warmth and the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that actually restores instead of just passing time.

But it's also clearly been disturbed. There are two distinct Robert-and-you-shaped indentations in the covers. Two sides that have been occupied. Two spaces marked by body heat and weight. Evidence of shared sleeping. Of bodies arranged around each other through the night. Of unconscious adjustments and instinctive movement toward warmth and comfort.

A nest.

That's what it looks like. The bed has become a nest, not nearly circular like a bird's but still considered nesting. Covers pulled this way and that. Pillows migrated from their original positions. The sheets twisted in ways that suggest movement. Restlessness. Or the opposite—such complete comfort that staying still wasn't necessary. Wasn't required. When you trust someone enough to be completely vulnerable. When you can surrender to unconsciousness knowing you're safe.

This is where you sleep together.

Not sex—though that too, though that's happened, though that's part of this equation, definitely part of the equation—but sleep. The actual act of sleeping. Of being unconscious and vulnerable beside another human being. Of trusting them with those hours of defenselessness. Of believing they'll still be there when you wake. Of knowing that even in sleep, you're not alone.

This is where you rest.

Together.

You set Beef down on the bed with excessive care. The dog immediately begins the complex ritual of circling, pawing, circling again before flopping down dramatically right in the middle. Claiming the prime real estate. Establishing himself as the center of this universe. The axis around which everything revolves. His parents' parents, as it were.

You're already climbing back in. Sliding under covers that accept you like water. Moving to your side and settling in with the ease of habit. Of routine. Of having done this countless times before. Of this being normal. Expected. Right.

Robert hesitates.

Just for a moment. Just long enough to really look at this scene. He's done this before. He always does this actually. Because even after years of it, he can't help but bask. Can't help but stop and appreciate. Can't help but catalogue this moment like he's afraid it might disappear if he doesn't consciously acknowledge its existence.

You. Beef. A real bed. A real home. A real life.

This is what he's always wanted.

Not the hero work or the legacy or any of the things he spent years destroying himself over. Not the approval he never got. Not the impossible standards he could never meet. Not the weight of expectations that crushed him slowly. Just this. This simple domestic scene. This quiet intimacy. This peaceful existence. The mundane magic of waking up next to someone you love. Of shared space and shared life and shared future.

And now he has it.

Actually has it. Not as a dream or fantasy or distant possibility. But as reality. As his life. As something he gets to keep. As something that chose him back.

"You coming?" Your voice is already going drowsy again. Sleep reclaiming you now that the brief adventure of retrieving your human is complete. You're propped on your elbow slightly, looking at him with fond exasperation. Like he's being ridiculous. Like this is silly. Like obviously he should be in bed already. "Or are you gonna stand there all night analyzing the bed?"

"All night?" Robert glances at the windows. The curtains are drawn but he can see the edges of predawn light seeping through. "It's morning."

You roll your eyes, a silent 'ok, smartass'. That particular look that says you're judging him but also endeared by his need to be technically correct. "Fine. All morning then." You pat the space beside you. His space. The right side. Where he belongs. The dip in the mattress that's shaped itself to his body over time. "Come on."

Robert climbs in.

The bed is amazing as always. The mattress supports his weight properly. The pillows are real pillows, not flat sad things that gave up being useful years ago. The blankets are warm without being suffocating. Everything is just... right. Perfect. Exactly as it should be. The kind of comfort he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve. That he didn't need. That was frivolous or weak or unnecessary.

But it isn't unnecessary. It's essential. This comfort. This rest. This safety. All of it matters. All of it contributes to being able to function. To being able to think clearly. To being able to exist as something other than survival mode.

He settles on his back. Head sinking into the pillow that knows the exact contours of his skull. Looking up at a ceiling that isn't water-stained or concerning. Just a ceiling. Plain and boring and perfect. Clean white paint. No cracks. No evidence of structural damage or neglect. Just... a ceiling being a ceiling.

He feels Beef's bulk pressing against his side, creating a buffer between his parents. A warm, furry, gently-snoring buffer that radiates contentment and dog-warmth. The weight of him familiar and grounding. Proof that this is real. That this isn't just another dream he'll wake from in his empty apartment.

You're on your side. Facing him. Having let yourself melt and cushion against arm and pillow. Staring at him with that particular angle you do when you're thinking. When you're processing something. When you're trying to figure out what to say or whether to say it at all. When you usually answer his 'what are you looking at?' (playfully) with your unrepentant, 'you” that leans to laughter and kisses.

It's soft. Open. Vulnerable in ways you usually aren't when you're fully awake and aware. The kind of expression that exists only in safe spaces. Only with safe people. Only when you trust that what you're feeling won't be weaponized against you. When you can be honest without fear of rejection or ridicule or abandonment.

It's love.

That's what Robert is seeing.

Not friendship or obligation or habit or any of the things he usually told himself to explain your presence in his life. Not gratitude or pity or convenience. Just... love. Pure and uncomplicated (at least to the two of you) and utterly terrifying in its simplicity. The kind that doesn't demand. Doesn't keep score. Doesn't require justification. Just exists. Steady and constant and real.

You love him.

The realization should be earth-shattering. Should remake his entire worldview. Should change everything. Should send him into a panic about whether he deserves it, whether he can keep it, whether it's real or just wishful thinking.

But Robert takes it as fact. Has for awhile. As obvious. As something that exists as naturally as breathing or gravity or the sun rising every morning. Not something to question or doubt or agonize over. Just... truth. Simple and absolute.

Of course you love him.

And he loves you.

That's just how it is.

How it's always been.

How it was always going to be.

There's a slight shift between the two of you. Beef sniffing and huffing at the other small dog that jumped onto the bed with that particular graceless thud that suggested he'd misjudged the height. Roast, a fellow small dog that was one of those generic 'crusty white dogs'—Shih Tzu Maltese's mix. So two crusty white dogs mixed… and it was brown instead of white… So not the same but also yes? Genetics were weird. Biology didn't care about human expectations. The guy was still crusty in his own way.

He was found during the initial move here by a curious Beef. A street pup—although he's actually quite an old puppy, maybe eight or nine—that had been digging through trash and chewing on things he shouldn't be. Matted and skinny and mean. Snapping at anyone who got close. Feral in that way street animals become when humans have proven untrustworthy. Now the thing is a mini tank. Not at all like Beef just yet but filled out since being snatched up and domesticated. And despite your scolding, you and Robert often let Roast and Beef play vacuum during meals. Cleaning up whatever dropped or was offered.

A little human food never hurt nobody.

Unless that human food is chocolate or grapes or onions or any of the other surprisingly long list of things that are toxic to dogs. But you're both responsible pet parents. Mostly. When you remember. When it's convenient.

There's that audible huff off and in the peripheral you can catch Roast throwing his head with a dismissive toss. Those bangs bobbing indignantly. The attitude of a creature who believes himself far superior to the plebian Beef despite being roughly the same size and significantly less well-behaved. Roast is a gremlin. A menace. The kind of dog that would absolutely start problems at the dog park against much bigger peers if given the chance.

It makes you smile, it makes him smile, now the two of you are smiling at each other. Again. For the thousandth time. For the millionth time. Never getting tired of it. Never finding it boring or routine or anything less than exactly what it should be.

"Miss Matilda wants us to visit soon." You say eventually, watching as he moves; rolling and adjusting to his side so he can look at you properly. So he can give you his full attention. So he can read every microexpression and know what you're actually saying beneath the words.

"Does she?" He isn't particularly interested in your former landlady. Not as much as he is in staring at you. In memorizing the exact angle of your nose. The way your eyelashes cast shadows. Everywhere he loves to kiss. "What for?"

Your expression reading 'you clearly know what' before you speak. That particular look that says he's being deliberately obtuse. That he knows exactly what Miss Matilda wants and is pretending ignorance to be difficult. "The usual."

Ah, the usual…

"We have children for her to baby though," he argues. His voice taking on that particular stubborn quality he gets when he knows he's fighting a losing battle but refuses to surrender. "Fur babies are still babies." Cue the slight scuffle of said two well-fed old pups playing with each other. Roast trying to assert dominance. Beef completely unbothered.

"She has dozens of fur babies, Rob." You smile, lifting your head to watch Beef roll while pawing at the air toward Roast. The larger dog playing along despite clearly being able to overpower the smaller one. Gentle despite his strength. Patient despite his size. "Now she wants a distinctly non-fur grandbaby."

"Yeah well," he huffs, adjusting again, punching his pillow into a more comfortable position. It pulls him closer by simple coincidence, of course. Totally accidental. Not at all intentional. "That hag can lay off."

"Rob." But there's laughter in your reprimand. That particular tone that says you're scolding him but don't actually mean it. That you're delighted by his irreverence even as you pretend to disapprove.

"You know I mean it affectionately," he murmurs in the pillow, pointedly making a visible show of hiding away from the conversation. Becoming one with the bedding. Refusing to engage. "Usually."

“Usaully.” You echo with a giggle.

The silence stretches between you after that. Comfortable. Full of things that don't need saying. The kind of quiet that exists between people who know each other well enough that not everything requires words. When presence is enough. When just existing in the same space is its own form of communication.

Neither of you really care to have the conversation of children—human children, that is. Whether it be by more physical means or adoptive, it just isn't a topic either of you focus on. The biological clock thing isn't ticking yet. The societal pressure hasn't become unbearable. You have your whole lives to decide if you want to involve a little spawn; especially longer as adoption can be visited. Years to figure out if you want that responsibility. That permanent change. That complete upheaval of everything comfortable and familiar.

And maybe you won't. Maybe it'll just be the two of you and whatever animals you accumulate. Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's perfect. Maybe the nuclear family ideal is overrated anyway.

He manages to open his eyes in time to see your hand reach out. Fingers tracing idle patterns on the sheet between you. Not quite touching him but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. The gesture is unconscious. Soothing. The kind of movement people make when they're thinking. When their mind is working through something and their hands need occupation.

Then—

"I love you."

The words fall into the space between you.

Simple. Clear.

Definitive.

No hesitation. No qualification. No uncertainty. Just statement of fact delivered with the weight of absolute truth. The kind of truth that rewrites reality. That changes everything. That can't be taken back or ignored or dismissed.

Robert can see the way your lips form around the words. Can see the slight purse between the "I" and "love." The way your mouth shapes the "you" with particular care. Deliberate pronunciation. Making sure each syllable lands properly. Can see every micro-expression that accompanies the statement—the slight nervous tension in your jaw, the hope in your eyes, the vulnerability of putting these feelings into words. Of making them real. Of giving them weight and substance instead of leaving them safely implied.

But he can't hear it.

Can't grasp onto the sound.

There's a strange sudden muffling. Like his ears have suddenly filled with cotton. Like he's underwater and the words are reaching him distorted. Like there's interference on a phone line causing the most important part of the conversation to cut out. Like the universe itself is conspiring to prevent him from hearing what he needs most.

He sees your lips move.

Sees you say it.

Sees the truth of it written across your face in expressions he's spent years learning to read. In the soft vulnerability of your eyes. In the slight nervous energy in your shoulders. In the way you're holding your breath waiting for his response.

But the words don't land. Don't register. Don't reach the part of his brain that processes language and meaning and the world-altering significance of what's just been said. Don't sink in deep enough to become real. To become something he can hold onto. To become something he can believe.

"Again."

His voice is urgent. Demanding in a way he rarely is with you. Too raw. Too desperate. Too much need bleeding through the single word. His hand reaches out—moving faster than should be possible, but desperation allows him to close distance without the normal constraints of movement and physics. Without considering whether he has the right to demand anything.

"Say it." He's pushing himself up. Moving closer. His hand finding yours and gripping with intensity that slightly hurts. Fingers wrapping around your wrist with bruising pressure that he doesn't register. That he can't modulate because all his control has evaporated. "Say it again."

Your expression shifts. The openness clouding with confusion. Concern. That particular worry that appears when someone you love is acting strange and you're not sure why. When something has gone wrong but you don't understand what. When the script has suddenly changed and you're scrambling to catch up.

"Rob—?"

"Please." He's definitely moving too fast now. Closing the distance between you with jerky, uncoordinated movements that speak to panic rather than intention. His other hand reaching for you. For your face. For anything he can hold onto. "Say it again. I need—"

He needs to hear it. Needs the words to land properly this time. Needs them to sink into whatever part of him has been starving for them without knowing it. Needs them to be real and solid and something he can carry back to waking with him. Needs proof that this isn't just another fantasy his broken brain has constructed. Another elaborate lie he's telling himself.

"I don't—" You look lost now. Actually lost. The confidence and warmth from moments ago dissolving into uncertainty. That expression dissolving into something that's almost fear. Almost withdrawal. The vulnerability closing up like a flower sensing frost. Petals curling inward protectively. "What's wrong?"

No.

No, that's not right.

This isn't how this is supposed to go.

You're supposed to say it again. Supposed to smile and repeat those three words with patience and understanding. Supposed to cup his face and kiss him and tell him everything is okay. Everything is fine. Everything is exactly as it should be. Supposed to see his desperation and meet it with reassurance instead of confusion. Supposed to understand what he needs even when he can't articulate it properly.

Not this.

Not confusion.

Not fear.

Not you pulling away from him like he's done something wrong. Like he's scared you. Like he's ruined this perfect moment through his own desperate neediness. Like he's revealed something about himself that makes him unlovable. Unworthy. Exactly as damaged as he's always believed himself to be.

"I just—" His grip on your hand is too tight. He can see it now. Can see the way his fingers have gone white-knuckled. Can see the slight wince you're trying to hide. The way you're instinctively trying to pull back even as you're fighting that instinct. Even as you're trying to stay present with him despite his spiral. "I need you to—"

But the words are failing.

Dying in his throat. Choking him. Because what is he even asking for? What does he need? Why can't he just accept this? Why does he have to ruin everything good in his life? Why can't he just be normal for once? Just be okay with happiness when it's offered?

"Robert—"

You're looking at him with something that might be pity. Might be sadness. Might be the horrible realization of what he's really like—desperate and broken and so starved for love that he can't even accept it properly when it's freely given. When it's offered without conditions. Without expectations. Without the demand that he earn it or deserve it or prove himself worthy.

That he's fundamentally unlovable. That something inside him is twisted wrong. That he's exactly the disappointment his father always said he was.

"I'm sorry," he tries to say. The words tumbling out in a rush. Overlapping. Tripping over each other. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

But before he can finish—before he can try to explain or apologize or fix this—

Robert's eyes snap open.

No gradual awakening. No gentle drift from sleep to consciousness. No merciful buffer of grogginess to soften the transition. No slow realization of where he is or what's real. No moment of disorientation.

Just instant, terrible, complete alertness.

Terribly wide awake.

The kind of awake that happens after nightmares (like the one he had of you not so long ago). After dreams so vivid your brain forgets they weren't real until reality comes crashing back with malicious clarity. That spike of adrenaline that floods your system. That horrible moment of disorientation before everything clicks into place.

Where am I?

When is it?

What's real?

His heart is hammering. Actually hammering like he's been running. Like he's in danger. Like his body is preparing for fight-or-flight despite being completely stationary. The rhythm is wrong. Too fast. Too hard. The kind of pulse you can feel in your throat. In your temples. In your fingertips where they're pressed against—

Against the floor.

He's on the floor.

Of course he's on the floor.

That's where he sleeps now. Has been sleeping. Ever since... when? He can't remember when it started. When the plastic chair stopped being enough. When even that minimal comfort felt like too much. Like he didn't deserve it. Like the floor was somehow more appropriate for someone who's fucked up as completely as he has.

The floor is cold. Not just cool or slightly chilly. Cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones when you've been lying on it for hours. When your body heat has been slowly leeching away all night into concrete and cheap wood flooring that provides no insulation whatsoever.

His back screams. Aches.

Immediately. Obviously. The dull throb that comes from sleeping on an unsuitable surface spreading across his spine like spilled ink. His shoulder blades feel bruised where they've been pressed against the hard surface all night. His hips hurt. His neck is stiff from whatever angle his head ended up at.

Every old injury makes itself known. Every scar tissue area that doesn't quite bend the way it used to. Every place that took damage during his career as Mecha Man and never properly healed because proper healing requires rest and Robert has never been good at rest.

The cold is worse on his exposed skin. Seeping into the scars particularly. Those areas where flesh isn't quite right anymore. Where nerve endings got damaged and temperature regulation is off. Where the body's natural defenses are compromised in ways that make every sensation feel more acute. More painful.

It's not just uncomfortable.

It's actively hostile.

Like the floor is alive and intent on punishing him.

He pushes himself up.

The movement is automatic. Mechanical. Requiring no thought. Just muscle memory and the grim determination that comes from having done this countless times before. Wake up. Sit up. Begin the process of existing for another day.

His hands press against the cold floor. Taking his weight as he rises. The floor is slightly gritty under his palms. Dust and dirt and whatever else accumulates when you don't clean regularly. When you've given up on maintenance. When existing takes all your energy and things like "sweeping" feel impossible.

He doesn't look around.

Doesn't need to.

Doesn’t want to.

He knows exactly what he'll see because nothing ever changes. Because this is his reality and reality doesn't spontaneously improve just because you want it to. Because dreams lie but waking never does.

The apartment is exactly as he left it last night.

Same empty walls. Same lack of furniture. Same general air of neglect and abandonment. Same evidence of a life not being lived so much as endured.

Everything is just how he left it.

Same old same old.

The phrase cycles through his mind with bitter familiarity. Because yes. Same old. Every day the same. Every morning the same. Every waking the same crushing disappointment of reality.

He hates it.

God, he hates it.

He's always hated it.

But he'd accepted it somewhere along the way. This is what he deserves. This is what his life is. This is the natural consequence of every choice he's made and everything he's failed to do.

Living like this—if you can call it living—is his penance.

Except he mulled over this exact thing just last night. Lying here in the dark. Staring at the ceiling. Cataloging all the ways his life is a disaster and doing nothing about it.

That dream didn't help.

It made it worse.

So much worse.

Because now he knows. Now he's seen it. Now he can visualize exactly what he's missing. What he could have if he wasn't such a fucking coward. If he could just do the bare minimum of basic human communication and emotional honesty.

The dream showed him the life he wants.

The life he can't have.

Not because it's impossible. Not because circumstances prevent it. Not because of bad luck or wrong timing or any of the external factors that people usually blame.

But because of him.

Because he's too broken. Too damaged. Too fucking scared to reach for it.

The apartment feels emptier now. Colder. More hostile. Like the dream's warmth has made the reality's chill more obvious by contrast. Like seeing what home could be has made what home actually is unbearable.

There's a specific quality to this emptiness. This nothingness. It's not just the absence of things—though god knows there's plenty of that. The missing furniture. The blank walls. The lack of any personal touches that would make this place feel lived-in instead of just occupied.

It's deeper than that.

Emptier.

A vacuum.

The kind that can't be described to someone who's never felt it. Who's never experienced that particular brand of hollowness that settles into your bones and makes everything feel pointless. Makes existing feel like too much effort. Makes the gap between how things are and how they could be feel insurmountable.

The dullness.

That's what it is.

That grey flatness that coats everything. That makes colors seem muted. Makes food taste like cardboard. Makes music sound distant. Makes laughter feel impossible. Makes everything that's supposed to bring joy feel like too much work for too little payoff.

Like trying to find warmth in a photograph.

Like trying to taste honey through glass.

Like trying to feel something—anything—when your emotional range has been compressed down to variations of numb.

This is depression.

Depression is its real name.

Not sadness. Sadness would be easier. Sadness has edges. Has specific causes. Has the possibility of resolution. You're sad because something happened. Remove or resolve the something, and the sadness goes away.

Depression isn't like that.

Depression is the absence. The void. The nothing that eats everything. It's not about being sad. It's about being nothing. Feeling nothing. Caring about nothing even when you desperately want to care.

It's the constant exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix. The constant ache that painkillers don't touch. The constant static in your head that makes thinking feel like wading through concrete. The constant weight on your chest that makes breathing feel like a chore.

Most people call it a pain in the ass.

Filled with whys and won'ts—particularly "why won't it go away no matter what I do?"

But Robert hasn't really done anything, has he?

The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. Sharp and accusing in ways his usual mental fog doesn't allow. Maybe because he's still partially in that space between sleeping and full consciousness. Maybe because the dream has left him raw and vulnerable. Maybe because eight days (for yesterday still doesn't seem like it counts) of avoidance have finally accumulated into something that can't be ignored anymore.

He hasn't done anything.

Sure, he's written messages, stared and zoned out in thought and played scenes behind his eyes. But none of it happened.

And nothing is nothing.

Unsent messages resolve little, personal thoughts apologize to no one other than the fantastical mind.

He’s just been sitting in his self-pity. Drowning in his own inadequacy. Feeling sorry for himself while doing absolutely nothing to change the situation. Like somehow if he suffers enough, if he punishes himself thoroughly enough, it'll count as atonement.

And that dream—

God, that dream was his guilt and shame and insecurities painting him as someone deserving of such warmth. Someone worthy of forgiveness he hasn't even tried to earn. Someone who has their shit together enough to have a real home. A real relationship. A real life.

Someone who isn't him.

It was a fantasy.

A fantasy that felt so terribly real.

Robert closes his eyes. Pressing against his eyes again, chest heaving as he feels emotion prick the corners.

Three words.

That's all it takes.

I am sorry.

Or I'm sorry.

Or even just: Sorry.

One word would be better than the nothing he's currently offering. One word at the very least.

A stifled sound vibrates against the back of his throat, making his shoulders hunch and head dip. Forward, curling in on himself like he's trying to make himself smaller. Trying to disappear. Trying to fold himself into nothing because nothing is what he deserves.

He's crying.

Crying like a pathetic loser.

Hot tears sliding down his face unchecked. Dripping off his chin onto his bare chest. His breathing has gone ragged. Uneven. Each inhale catching on something sharp in his chest. Each exhale shuddering out with sounds he can't control. Sounds he doesn't want to make. Sounds that prove just how broken he really is.

His father was right, he was always right.

The thought comes unbidden. Unwanted. But true. Has to be true. Because look at him. Look at what he's become. A grown man crying on his apartment floor at dawn because he's too much of a coward to send a simple text message. Too weak to do the right thing. Too pathetic to deserve the good things in life.

You're soft. Weak. You'll never be half the man I was. You'll never live up to the name.

His father's voice echoes in his memory with perfect clarity. That particular tone of disappointment tinged with disgust. That look that said Robert would never measure up no matter what he did. That certainty that he was fundamentally flawed. Fundamentally insufficient. A disappointment from birth.

And he'd spent his whole life trying to prove that wrong. Trying to be strong enough. Brave enough. Good enough. Worthy of the Mecha Man name. Worthy of the legacy. Worthy of existence.

But here he is. Proof positive that his father was right all along.

Robert shouldn't be here this early. He doesn’t want to be actually. Not today.

But after that dream, the apartment felt more suffocating than usual.

So he'd gotten up after wiping it all away. Showered. Put on his SDN uniform with the kind of mechanical precision that comes from muscle memory rather than conscious thought. Fed Beef. Grabbed the dog and his backpack and left before he could second-guess himself into paralysis.

The drive had been... autopilot. Dangerous, probably. The kind of thing that should worry him more than it does. He has zero recollection of most of the route, his brain both too occupied with things that he can't quite remember now.

What he does know that he’s been shivering since he started moving about this morning. It was cold. A sudden downpour from last night that didn’t make sense to have during this season but couldn’t be a surprise because of the climate. Since his coma, since the struggle to truly return to what he once was, the shift in weight made it easier for him to get cold. Made him shiver like some stick in the wind. But the best thing he had is that hoodie and he was too out of it to put it on before leaving the house. The only reason he had turned on the heater in the first place was because of Beef in the back of his mind. Said dog content in his arm (bundled with said hoodie) to keep him warm and off the damp ground.

"Mornin', Doc!"

Robert freezes, faltering his step toward the building.

That's Punch Up's voice. Unmistakable Dublin accent, that particular cheerful bellow that suggests the man has never encountered a volume he couldn't exceed. Coming from somewhere near the employee entrance.

Your voice answers immediately, filling the morning chill with alert warmth that makes something in Robert's chest constrict painfully. "Morning, Knockout."

Knockout?

The word hits him like a physical blow, especially after the morning he had. Settles in his stomach like lead. Because that's a nickname. Clearly. A personal one. The kind you usually don't give to someone you barely know or only have professional interactions with.

Knockout.

For Punch Up.

What the fuck?

Since when was that a thing?

Robert's frown deepens, carving lines into his face that mirror the permanent furrow between his brows. His fingers tighten on jacket—the dog having lifted his head happily at the sound of your voice, sniffing the rain-scented air to seek yours.

"How are you? Have a good night?" Your voice continues, casual and friendly in a way that makes Robert's throat feel tight.

He should leave. Should just walk inside or get back in the car like he forgot something or literally do anything other than what he's currently doing which is standing there like a creep in the parking lot listening to a conversation that doesn't involve him.

But his feet won't move.

His perfidious eyes lock onto the scene unfolding down the way, to a car parked on the opposite side near the middle. Lock onto you—stepping out of a car that is definitely not yours. Not your grandfather's beloved Toyota-something with its mysterious smell and decades of history. This is a newer model. Nothing fancy, but functional. Well-maintained. The kind of practical vehicle someone who actually has their life together would drive.

You're smiling. It's genuine despite the whisper of sleepiness that kisses the corners of your eyes and the edges of your lips. That soft, natural smile that used to be reserved for him. For lazy mornings when you'd show up at his apartment with coffee and breakfast sandwiches. For late nights when exhaustion made you both punchy and everything was funny. For quiet moments when Beef did something adorable and you'd both just... look at each other and smile because words weren't necessary.

Now you're smiling like that at Punch Up.

"Aye. Had a night of drinkin' and knockin' some fellas down a peg at the bar." Punch Up's voice carries across the parking lot as he makes his way over. There's a pointed flex of those considerable arms—‘Theresa and Susan’ getting their morning stretch—before his fists settle at his hips in that classic strongman pose. "What about you? How did ‘Margarita Thursday’ fare?"

Margarita Thursday.

The words feel like they're in a foreign language. A phrase from a life Robert isn't part of and doesn't understand. Because when did Margarita Thursdays become a thing? When did you start having regular social events with coworkers? When did you build this entire social calendar that exists completely separate from him?

Somewhere in the back of his mind, if he wasn’t so addled with that dream, he would’ve remembered that Galen has definitely texted him about it. That it’s the whole thing and they make their own margaritas and enjoy themselves among coworkers, make cammadrie, become friends. But he’s been so busy with the Z-Team…

"Mm." You make a sound—acknowledgment or just a verbal placeholder as you heave your backpack strap onto your shoulder, adjusting it with a slight bounce. "Fun is one word. Regret is another."

You went out drinking. Had enough to drink that you're experiencing regret. Which means probably too much. Which means you were relaxed enough, comfortable enough, safe enough to let your guard down like that.

With them.

With people who aren't him.

Because when’s the last time the two of you shared a drink? Cracked open a beer just for the fun of it?

Didn’t you hate drinking?

Robert's jaw clenches hard enough that his molars grind together. The sharp pain in his temple intensifies, spreading across his forehead in waves that make his vision blur slightly at the edges.

"Hey!" Another voice. Male. Unfamiliar for a split second before Robert's brain catches up and identifies it as Galen. Speak of the devil.

Galen's head appears above the car roof, popping up from the driver's side with the kind of casual ease that suggests this is easy now. Just like it was easy for you to carpool home with Waterboy yesterday, making sure he got to his place safe then—unknown to Robert, just said fuck it and told Galen you’d attend the event that night. (Partially because you really didn’t want to linger in your apartment or perhaps bother Herman with your personal mess). You don’t regret it though.

So while you drive Waterboy home, where the two of you likely can have dinner or talk or do things friends are expected to do together… Galen drives you to work, the two of you likely doing the same as you do with the janitor but in terms of coffee and breakfast.

And if you drank last night, that could also possibly mean you slept over at his place?

A coworker you've known for less than a week. Getting you to open up in a way Robert wasn’t sure he ever was able to allow you to.

"We had fun!" Galen's grin is visible even from this distance. Genuine. Warm. The kind of expression people wear when they've actually had a good time instead of just going through motions. "You had fun. You said you did.”

"We did, we did." You reassure, fond and exasperated in a way Robert wished that was him on the receiving side. "But I definitely had too much too.”

There's a moment where you're sliding a box from the backseat. Maneuvering it with that particular care that suggests fragile contents or at least things you don't want damaged. Probably more stuff for your office. More personal touches to make that space yours. More evidence that you're settling in, making yourself at home in this new life.

The box looks heavy. Awkward. The kind of thing Robert would normally be helping you with because that's what he does—did. Past tense. That's what he used to do before he fucked everything up so completely that asking him for help probably didn't even cross your mind.

"Allow me."

Punch Up steps forward before Robert's brain can even process the offer. Those hands taking the box from you with the kind of ease that comes from literal superhuman strength. Making it look effortless even though Robert can see from the way you'd been holding it that it wasn't light.

"Oh, why thank you." Your voice is warm. Appreciative. You exchange a look with Galen over the car roof—something knowing and amused that speaks to inside jokes Robert isn't privy to. "What a gentleman."

Gentleman.

The word echoes in Robert's head with uncomfortable intensity.

Because you used to call him that. Used to say it teasingly when he'd hold doors or carry your bags or insist on walking you home even when you said it was unnecessary. "Such a gentleman," you'd say with that particular tone that made it clear you were making fun of old-fashioned chivalry while also appreciating the gesture.

Now you're saying it to Punch Up.

With the same warmth. The same genuine appreciation.

Like it means the same thing.

Robert's fingers have gone white-knuckled on the jacket. The bundled Beef is looking up at him with concerned brown eyes, sensing the tension radiating off his human. That particular anxiety dogs pick up on instinctively, knowing something is wrong even if they can't articulate what.

He should move. Should do something other than stand here like a stalker watching you interact with people who aren't him. This is creepy behavior. Obsessive behavior. The kind of thing that would absolutely justify you being uncomfortable around him. Something that wouldn’t have existed in the first place if he had just said sorry within 24 hours.

Run to your apartment, Beef in arm straight after the shower. Beg for forgiveness outside your door, something that likely both earned and lost your landlady’s approval. He knows you probably beat yourself up over it, that you argue with yourself and anyone else that it wasn’t that big of a deal. But that’s not true. Sure, it wasn’t a fight, it could've been worse and you’d tell yourself that; that you could just forgive him. But he hurt you. It hurt you more than ever, made you uncomfortable, confused you, beat you down in the way that ‘simple’ words do to everyone. Because words aren’t just words and even the most ‘basic’ comment can cling to someone like stepped gum. Gum that never truly goes away.

So he stands there with that echoing once more in his thoughts, unable to look away. He can’t.

Can't stop cataloging every detail of this interaction. The way you laugh at something Galen says. The comfortable way you walk beside Punch Up toward the building. The casual camaraderie suggests you’ve hit it off and time is simply a construct when itcomes to making friends.

While Robert has been arriving deliberately late to avoid exactly this kind of scene.

The small group is heading toward the entrance now. Moving past his position in the parking lot. Close enough that he should say something. Should acknowledge them. Should act like a normal person who just happens to be arriving at the same time as his coworkers.

It’s Punch Up that looks at him in passing. There’s a pointed once-over, something that is both dismissive and knowing. Perhaps even hints of what? Disgust? Pity? Judgement? Followed by a slight shake of his head and… an eye roll?

That was definitely an eyeroll.

Robert's brows furrow. What the hell is his problem? Sure, he knows they're whatever with him but… He doesn't say anything, doesn't make a deal about it yet as the odd party stalk off. You're too busy talking to Galen about something—drinks, the party, another coworker, comedy night—to notice the interaction.

To notice him.

You don't see him standing there. Don't look his way even once. Just continue your conversation like Robert doesn't exist. Like he's invisible. Irrelevant. Part of the background scenery instead of someone who used to be the center of your world.

The realization hits him like something physical, like the air had been knocked from his lungs.

You're moving on.

Not just professionally. Not just building a career and making friends and thriving in this new environment.

You're actually, genuinely moving on from him.

Building a life that doesn't include him. Finding people who make you laugh and drink margaritas with you and drive you to work and call you Doc with casual affection. People who haven't spent years taking and taking and taking until there's nothing left of you but exhaustion and resentment and the kind of deep, bone-tired weariness that comes from caring for someone who can't—won't—take care of themselves.

People who give you the confidence to drive but also don’t mind driving you. People who aren’t him. And in some selfish way, in his own turmoil, he wants that back. The codependency, the slight reliability you had on him for some things. It’s shameful thinking, something he shouldn’t wish upon you now that you're actually settling in.

But again, seems like Robert has been making rash decisions these days that ruins years of relationship.

“I’m just saying, Margarita Thursdays should move to Fridays so I can actually suffer with a hangover without the promise of work the next day.”

“No one wants to deal with each other on Fridays. Aren’t you also technically on call over the weekends too?”

"Y’know,” a pause as you squint at Galen. “I had forgot about that. I don’t appreciate the reminder.”

Galen laughs, pulling the door open to allow Punch Up and you ahead. “It’s not set in stone, dude. I doubt you’ll be called in most days given we’re off on the weekends. Prime time to party.”

“You’re jinxing it.”

“Oh, c’mon. I’m not!”

“You definitely are, right now. You’re dooming me to 7 days a week.”

Robert is envious again. In the way that is more painful than blinding in stupid, undignified irritation and anger. Jealously is normal, he can remember you saying some time ago. He doubts it feels the same, that reassurance, that understanding, especially while on the lashing, confusing receiving end.

"Hey. Blabbering bitch, the fuck are you doing?"

Fuck.

The voice cuts through Robert's spiral with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Flambae. Because of course it's Flambae. Of course the universe would send literally the last person Robert wants to deal with right now to interrupt his pathetic parking lot stalking.

Robert forces his eyes away from where you've disappeared into the building. Forces himself to turn and face the hero approaching from the other side of the parking lot. His signature sunglasses on even without the sun out, keys in hand. He has a car. Guess that makes sense. Can't really fly properly in rain, can he?

"What?" Robert's voice comes out more defensive than he'd intended. Sharper. Like he's been caught doing something wrong and is preemptively arguing against the accusation.

"You're standing there like a creep." Flambae doesn't slow his approach, doesn't modulate his volume, doesn't show any concern that this conversation might be overheard. "You peeping at people?"

"No." The denial is automatic. Too fast. Too forceful. Exactly the kind of response that makes you look guilty even when you're not.

Except Robert is guilty. He was absolutely standing there watching you like some kind of obsessed weirdo. Has been standing here for several minutes just... staring. Processing. Spiraling.

Being pathetic. Again.

"Right." Flambae's tone makes it clear he doesn't believe that for a second. "So you just habitually stand in parking lots staring at people for fun? That's your thing? Your hobby? Like a creep? You a fuckin’ creep or something?”

"I wasn't—" Robert cuts himself off. Because what's the point? He can't explain without sounding worse. Can't articulate that he wasn't being creepy, he was just... what? Gathering intelligence? Confirming suspicions? Watching his best friend interact with people who've clearly become important to them in the span of days?

Yeah. That definitely sounds better.

“Sure. Yeah. You caught me. It’s my favorite hobby.” Robert accepts dryly. “Standing in parking lots. Staring at people for fun… Like a creep.” Seems weirdly like a callback to the dream. At the very least he wasn't shirtless this time.

Flambae’s face scrunched lightly in disgust. "Whatever, man." Flambae waves a dismissive hand, clearly losing interest now that Robert isn't providing entertaining resistance. He starts to turn away, heading toward the building entrance.

Robert should let him go. Should just get inside and start his shift and pretend this didn't happen. Should absolutely not engage further with someone who's clearly looking for reasons to antagonize him.

His mouth opens anyway.

"You know I know, right?"

The words hang in the air between them. Loaded. Significant. Carrying weight that Robert can't quite articulate but feels with absolute certainty.

Flambae pauses. Doesn't turn around. Refuses to, maybe. Prism had commented not long ago—during one of the team's many arguments that Robert pretends not to hear—that Flambae is too expressive sometimes. That his face gives away his lies, his tells, his secrets. That he's terrible at poker for exactly that reason.

Microexpressions. Which Flambae swears is a load of bullshit.

So he simply stands there, frozen mid-stride. Peering into his peripheral to keep Robert in that barely visible view. His shoulders have gone tense. Not fight-ready exactly, but alert. Wary.

"Know what?" Flambae's voice has lost its aggressive edge. Carefully neutral in a way that's somehow more telling than anger would be.

"I know." Robert repeats, letting his own voice go dry. Matter-of-fact. The tone someone uses when they’re absolutely certain of something and wants the other person to know that lying would be pointless. "And because I know, I just wanted you to know that I do."

It's vague enough to be deniable. Specific enough to be threatening. The kind of statement that could mean everything or nothing depending on context and interpretation.

Robert doesn't actually know. Not for certain. Not with the kind of evidence that would hold up if questioned. But he suspects, has been beyond his wallowing. Has enough puzzle pieces to see the shape of the picture even if some details are still missing. The Z-Team's sudden interest in Medical—followed by their actual kindness toward them, toward you. Their coordinated behavior. The mysterious baked goods. Your appearance at SDN days after that disastrous Friday.

Someone—probably multiple someones—had orchestrated your hiring.

Had made sure you got this job. Had created circumstances that led to you working here. Had integrated you into their weird little found family before Robert even knew you were in the building.

And Flambae knows something about it. Robert knows that now at least. Can see it in the tension radiating from the man's shoulders. A vague lick of flames quickly reeled in. In the careful way he's controlling his expression by not showing it at all. In the fact that he's not immediately denying or demanding clarification.

The silence stretches between them. Heavy. Significant. The kind of moment where what isn't said matters more than what is.

Beef whines softly, pulling against the leash. Wanting to move. To go inside where it's warm and there might be treats and certainly there's you because Beef can probably smell you from here. Can sense your presence somewhere in the building calling to him like a beacon.

"You don't know shit," Flambae finally says. But his voice lacks conviction. Sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than Robert.

"Sure." Robert agrees easily. Too easily. "I don't know anything. Just making conversation."

"Conversation." Flambae repeats the word like it's foreign. Like he's testing how it tastes. "Right. Fuckin’ weirdo.”

He starts walking again. Faster than before. Not quite fleeing but definitely retreating. Putting distance between himself and whatever mess this conversation might become if it continues.

Robert watches him go. Watches the way Flambae's shoulders stay tense even as he disappears through the entrance. Watches the door swing shut behind him.

He shouldn't have done that. It was unnecessary. Rash. But he's learning quite quickly when it comes to you, he’ll probably continue making rash decisions till it finally comes to bite him in the butt. More than it already has.

—

Work was mechanical. He fell in the dangerous rhythm of zoning out and reaching for thoughts that slip between his fingers. And while he isn’t restless like yesterday, he isn’t sure this is any better. While yesterday he was forgiving and unable to sit still, today he’s motionless and unfairly sharper with the Z-Team.

Their attitudes grating his nerves, literally. Scar tissue pulsing in irritation because it’s just one of those days—the unexplainable irritation that makes even the most mundane sounds upsetting and overstimulating.

His father, if he were still alive, would've thought he was utterly pitiable. Not just for what happened this morning—not like he would ever tell him about that if he was alive—but for everything else. His father would say things that would irritate him too, call you things that would probably make Robert lash out. Take him down himself before Shroud ever had the chance to.

It’s morbid and horrible. Especially because his heart aches—has ached for years in starvation to prove himself to a man that never seemed satisfied with his existence. A hate-desperately want-love relationship. Daddy issues to the T. Issues that he hated were so complicated and exhausting and when it did get worse, when maybe he came seeking you during his truly vulnerable moments (sometimes after a mission or with liquid courage in his veins, both isn't far fetched either)—your words comforting and so painfully understanding that you swear you could talk anyone away from a path of villainy.

You would argue that may not truly be possible but again, he’s never quite listened to you. In more ways than one.

"The fuck is your problem today?"

Robert's hand freezes on his mouse. Every nearby dispatcher turns slightly, trying to pretend they're not listening while absolutely listening as the voice is clearly heard through the headset. Or reality have also been eavesdropping this entire time because in reality, they caught his harsh tune too.

"You have to be more specific," Robert replies carefully. Professionally. Even though his first instinct is to snap back with something cutting.

"You're on our asses for no reason," Invisigal continues, frustration bleeding through every syllable. "We're doing exactly what you asked. Following protocols. Not causing problems. And you're still being a dick about it."

"Am I?" Robert's voice comes out flat. Detached. "I didn't notice."

The sarcasm is unintentional. Automatic. A defense mechanism that's been honed over years of deflecting actual concern with false levity.

It lands poorly.

"We're doing the shit you're asking us to do," Invisigal's voice rises slightly. "What more do you want?"

Robert stares at his monitor. At the GPS markers representing his team scattered across the city. At the incident reports and status updates and all the documentation of another day of barely-controlled chaos.

What does he want?

For them to stop meddling. Stop interfering. Stop reminding him that they care more about your wellbeing than he apparently did.

"Uh," he looks around his cubicle in mock thought, even though they obviously can't see him. "I don't know what you want me to say to that."

"We're just asking maybe you could be nicer or some shit," Prism's voice joins in. "Your tone is not it."

And there it is.

The thing Robert's been trying to hide. The irritation and hurt and frustration that's been bleeding into every interaction whether he wants it to or not.

Something in him snaps.

Not violently. Not loudly. Just... breaks. Like a frayed rope finally giving way under sustained pressure.

"So what? You want a cookie each time you do your job?" The words come out cold. Cutting. "Or praise for each time you guys do something right like you're in kindergarten? 'Wow, you colored in the lines, good job!' Which would really just be, 'wow, thanks for not killing anyone, you're the best.'"

Robert knows he's being an asshole. Knows he should stop, should back down, should find some way to defuse this before it escalates.

He doesn't stop.

"Hey, man—" Sonar tries to interject but Robert simply cuts him off:

"Flambae probably told you that I know so you guys can drop the innocent act." His tone is sharp but controlled. Making it somehow worse than if you'd been yelling. More deliberately cruel. More calculated in the way it's designed to cut.

The silence that follows is different. Charged.

"And yeah, I know. Took longer than I'd like to admit—probably should've noticed the first day but hey, I figured it out. In what? Three days, if barely, given today just started.”

Robert can picture them. Scattered across the city, frozen in their various assignments, probably exchanging glances or gestures or whatever non-verbal communication they've developed. Realizing their little secret is out.

"I know you guys don't like me or whatever," Robert continues, his voice carrying that particular edge that comes from hurt masquerading as anger. "But I'd prefer you stay out of my personal life."

"Listen, we were just trying to help.” Malevola's voice. Serious with growing irritation.

“By what? Putting doing 'let's do good to get our dispatcher to quit' project? Maybe next time pick something that doesn't involve forging federal documents and stalking someone for days."

He should stop. Should leave it there. Should let them process and regroup and figure out how to respond. He dosen’t.

“Really makes a guy wonder what else you’ve been lying about.” His fingers are drumming on his desk now—rapid, agitated movements that match his racing heartbeat. “What other little operations you’re running behind my back. Whether anything you do is actually about rehabilitation or just…”

He trails off deliberately.

Just criminal behavior with a hero veneer. Just manipulation wearing a different mask. Just the same old shit with better PR.

“That’s not fair.” Coupé’s voice cuts through, and the words are childish—something a kid would say on a playground—but coming from her mouth they carry weight. Accusation. Hurt that she’s probably not equipped to process in healthy ways.

“You don’t know what we saw,” she continues, and there’s something dangerous in her tone now. That assassin edge creeping in. “What we—”

“What you saw?” Robert’s laugh is sharp. Cutting. “Let me guess. You saw one argument. One bad night. One moment of conflict and decided that gave you the right to interfere in someone’s entire life?”

“There’s no way in hell you all stalked me back from home together on Friday,” he continues, his logical mind catching up with his emotional spiral. Working through the logistics even as anger clouds his judgment. “Had to be one of you. And then you twisted what you saw—or thought you saw—into pieces and told the others until everyone was convinced they’d witnessed something that required intervention.”

“Telephone game with someone’s life,” he adds bitterly. “Real heroic.”

“I know what I saw—” Invisigal’s voice returns, defensive and sharp.

“Of course it was you, Invisigal. I’m not even surprised.” Robert’s voice drips with venom he didn’t know he possessed. “I know you have issues but projecting them onto someone else’s life is a whole other level of psycho.”

The words land like a physical blow. He can hear the sharp intake of breath through the comms. Can sense the collective shock from the team.

“Maybe behind bars really is a better place for you,” Robert finishes, and the words are quiet. Deadly. The kind of thing that can’t be unsaid.

The kind of thing that will haunt him later when his anger fades and he’s left with the wreckage of what he’s done.

“Hey, asshole!” Invisigal’s voice is furious now. Properly furious. Beyond hurt into rage.

“Okay you need to chill the fuck out—” Prism’s voice overlaps, her own anger rising to match.

“Obviously we hit a nerve and you wanna be whiny about it—” Flambae adds.

“—but don’t go—” Malevola tries to finish.

The voices overlap and tangle. Multiple people trying to respond at once. The comms channel devolving into chaos as the team collectively loses their shit at their dispatcher’s completely inappropriate behavior.

Robert can't handle it. Can't process the cacophony of angry voices all trying to defend themselves or attack him or both simultaneously.

He removes the headset.

Just pulls it off and lets it drop to the desk with a clatter. The voices cut off abruptly, leaving blessed silence in his ears.

His hands are shaking. Slightly but noticeably. From anger probably. Or adrenaline. Or the crash that comes after an emotional explosion. This has been a build up, sure. Which he hates. Because it feels like just because he finally (yes, maybe he wished long before he had more dreams that involved sweet ole you) had a dream with you that he’s acting out like some… some….

He stares at his hands—at the slight tremor, at the white knuckles, at the physical evidence that he's not as controlled as he pretends to be.

Robert knew, intellectually, that he has better control than this. Usually. Has spent years practicing emotional regulation because his father demanded it. Because weakness couldn't be shown. Because Mecha Man didn't get to fall apart.

Usually he can maintain his composure even when everything inside is screaming.

Usually.

Always the usually. Always the qualifier. Always the asterisk that means except when it really matters.

Always the same shit that's barely any different than before despite his insistence that he's changed, he's better, he's learning.

"You handled that well."

Robert's head snaps up so fast to the left something in his neck cracks. Painful and sharp. Ouch.

Galen is standing there, visible over the cubicle. Coffee mug in hand—one of those oversized ones with some sarcastic saying Robert can't make out from this angle. Robert just knows it reminds him specifically of you. Is that where you got that mug he saw yesterday? His headset for his own team is hooked casually around his neck instead of on his ears.

But his expression remains unreadable behind his glasses. That same neutral look he always wears. The one that makes it impossible to tell if he's being sarcastic or sincere.

"Didn't ask for your opinion," Robert mutters, and the harsh tone is completely unnecessary. Uncalled for. Misdirected anger at someone who's done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

He hasn't had a problem with Galen. Ever. The man's been nothing but professional. Helpful even, in his quiet way. Never intrusive or judgmental or anything that would warrant hostility. The only thing Robert’s mind deems ‘threatening’ is him spending time with you. And just like he has previously with Royd (only once, very briefly during some mutual work on the suit), he lashes out on them.

Because that's what Robert does now, apparently. Because when he’s jealous—or would it be envious? The distinction feels important but Robert's too wrecked to parse it properly—then they become his next punching bag. His next target.

Galen seems surprised at the bitterness. Robert can see it in the slight widening of his eyes, the fractional lean backward. But by grace—or perhaps just years of dealing with difficult people—he remains unoffended.

Not yet, at least.

"Didn't offer one," Galen's tone is dry. The usual dryness that's casual and expected if you don't know him well. Plain without being cruel. "Just made an observation."

Which is somehow worse than if he'd been sarcastic. Because it means Galen genuinely thinks Robert handled that well. Thinks calling out the team was the right move.

Or—more likely—he's being genuinely neutral. Simply stating a fact without judgment attached.

The tone is so different from this morning. From the light and playful spirit Galen had shared with you (and perhaps, by some extension, Punch Up) as you guys headed in for work. The casual warmth Robert had witnessed as he stood there like an idiot; listening, watching you laugh with Galen, watching the easy comfort between you, watching another person slot seamlessly into your life while Robert fumbled and failed.

"They crossed a line," Galen continues, adjusting his mug so he can cradle the warmth of coffee. "You called them on it. That's appropriate."

The validation should feel good. Should provide some relief. Some confirmation that Robert's reaction was justified.

"Then why does it feel like shit?" Robert asks, and his voice comes out smaller than intended.

"Because you're human." Galen shrugs one shoulder, the gesture casual but somehow profound. "And because despite everything, you were starting to care about them. Which makes this harder."

He pauses. Tilts his head side to side in that particular way that means he's considering whether to say more. Whether to push further or leave well enough alone.

Apparently he decides to push.

"And because maybe you were an asshole… Just a little bit."

The words are gentle. Non-judgmental. Stated as simple fact rather than accusation. It still hits Robert hard.

Robert doesn't respond. Can't respond. Because Galen is right and admitting it feels like weakness. Like confirming that he's exactly as pathetic as his father always believed. As incapable of emotional regulation as everyone probably suspects.

"For what it's worth," Galen continues, and his voice has dropped lower. More confidential. The tone of someone sharing something they probably shouldn't. "I think they genuinely thought they were helping. Doesn't make it right, but..." He pauses. "Intent matters sometimes."

"Intent doesn't unfuck the situation," Robert says flatly. His eyes are still on his hands. On the tremor that's starting to fade but hasn't disappeared entirely.

"No," Galen agrees easily. "But it might be worth considering why they thought your friend needed help in the first place."

Robert's jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists on his desk.

"What they saw," Galen continues relentlessly, and his voice is still gentle but there's steel underneath now. Purpose. "That made them decide to risk their rehabilitation—their freedom—to get them out of what they perceived as a bad situation."

The words land and they land hard.

Hit right in the center of Robert's chest where all his guilt and shame and self-loathing live. Where he keeps all the truths he doesn't want to examine.

Because that's the real question, isn't it?

Not what gave them the right but what did they see that made them think intervention was necessary.

What was so bad—so obviously wrong—that criminals decided helping you was worth risking everything they'd worked toward?

"You saying this is my fault?" Robert's voice is dangerous now. Low and sharp. The tone that precedes either violence or complete shutdown.

Hold your horses. Because no one said that… eh. yet. well...

"I'm saying maybe everyone fucked up here." Galen's expression doesn't change. Doesn't soften or harden. Remains perfectly, maddeningly neutral behind his glasses. "Them for how they handled it," he elaborates, ticking off points like he's presenting a case study. "You for whatever you did that made them think it was necessary."

He pauses. And Robert can see the moment Galen makes another decision. Can see the slight shift in his expression that means he's about to say something he knows wil now, likely cause problems.

"Your friend for..." Another pause. Longer this time. Like he's weighing his words carefully. "Actually, your friend seems like the only innocent party in this whole mess."

The statement is delivered with finality. No room for argument. Just fact as Galen sees it.

And Robert—

Robert wants to argue. Wants to defend himself. Wants to point out all the ways this isn't his fault, how he's been trying, how he's doing his best with limited emotional tools, that he will. (Lies, lies, lies.)

Instead what comes out is:

"You barely know them to be talking like that. You guys met a day ago."

Defensive. Territorial. Exactly the kind of response that proves he's not handling this well. The same kind of response he had yesterday when Waterboy came stumbling into your office. Where he reared and just had to make a point to mention somehow ‘I’ve known them longer than you’ like he’s some child declaring his greater friendship with some kid at the playground.

Galen arches a brow. Expression shifting into something that might be amusement if Galen did amusement. "Three days ago, actually."

The correction is mild. Factual. Devastating in its implications.

"Met on their first day," Galen continues, and now there's definitely something in his voice. Not quite smugness but close. Satisfaction maybe. Pride. Or maybe, again, Rob is reading too much into it. "Became real good friends since then."

And—

Okay.

Maybe Galen said that with intent to provoke.

Maybe he recognized Robert's jealousy—because apparently everyone can see it except Robert himself—and decided to poke at it. See what happens when you press on a wound that's already infected.

It works.

Robert shoots to his feet. Chair rolling backward with enough force to hit the cubicle wall behind him. Several staff and dispatchers look over with varying expressions, some of which remain unseen. Chase’s head turns sharply from his neighboring space, Beef—in the bed at Chase’s space—even lifts his head from where he’s been dozing, ears perking at the commotion.

"Listen," Robert's voice is low. Dangerous. Every word precisely enunciated through clenched teeth. "You may have had a little fun time making your little margaritas with them last night," The jealousy that floods through Robert is immediate and irrational and so intense it's almost nauseating.

"But you still don't—" Robert starts, voice rising.

An alarm emits from his headset.

Loud. Insistent. The distinctive pattern that means emergency. A disturbance, something that the team or someone needs guidance one. Given the just-seconds-ago confrontation with the Z-Team, it had to be either an intentional thing—someone acting out, causing a scene to annoy him or prove a point—or an actual emergency.

Robert's eyes strain, an instinct driving him to look to the monitor but that male posturing bullshit making him feel lesser if you chooses to back down from Galen.

His jaw clenches.

And Galen—

Galen, being Galen, with his perfect timing and his dry delivery and his ability to read situations with uncomfortable accuracy:

"You should probably deal with that."

Robert wants to scream. Wants to throw something. Wants to continue this confrontation until someone bleeds—emotionally if not physically.

He doesn't.

With visible reluctance. With a glare at Galen that promises this conversation isn't over. With hands that shake slightly as he reaches for his headset.

He pulls the headset back on. The voices flood back in—chaotic, overlapping.

Robert is aware of Galen still standing there. Watching. Evaluating.

Then, with a slight shake of his head that could mean anything or nothing, Galen takes his leave.

Walks away like he hasn't just dropped multiple emotional bombs. Like he hasn't just highlighted every one of Robert's insecurities and jealousies. Like this is just another day at the office instead of a complete disaster in progress.

This dude has issueeessss… Galen can’t help but thing has he does leave.

And yes.

Yes, he sure as hell does, Galen.

Issues upon issues upon issues. Layers of dysfunction and trauma and emotional constipation that would take years of therapy to even begin unpacking. Speaking of, he should really make an appointment with Doctor Monster. Or preferably, apologize to you THEN make an appointment with Doctor Monster.

Robert found Chase about an hour later.

Or rather, Chase found Robert.

The moment lunch was called, Robert fled. Fled being the most accurate term because simply "went on break" was inadequate and yet another lie to add to the growing collection he'd been accumulating. One more brick in the wall of self-deception that was slowly burying him alive.

The hallways of SDN had blurred together. Robert isn't paying attention to where he's going, just moving on autopilot. Taking turns based on muscle memory rather than conscious decision. His mind is too full—too loud, too much, too everything. A cacophony of thoughts that won't shut up, won't give him peace, won't let him breathe.

He's spiraling. Again. Each thought dragging him further and further into the depths, each one worse than the last. Each one picking at wounds that haven't healed—perhaps never actually healed in the first place, just scabbed over with denial and avoidance. Exposing truths he doesn't want to examine. Revealing the ugly reality he's been running from.

That he's the problem.

Not Shroud. Not his father's legacy. Not the accident or the coma or the loss of the suit.

Him.

Just him.

Robert Robertson III, professional fuck-up. Expert in destroying the good things in his life. Master of pushing away the people who care about him until they have no choice but to leave.

Inevitably, he finds himself in one of the more isolated hallways. The kind that connects different wings of the building but rarely sees foot traffic because there are more direct routes. The fluorescent lights here flicker occasionally, adding to the general atmosphere of neglect. The walls are a dingy beige that might have once been white, decorated with the occasional water stain that speaks to plumbing issues no one bothered to fix properly.

Plus, it's also the farthest place from you that he can be on the second floor.

Why not go to the first floor? Take the stairs if not the elevator? Because some part of him doesn't want to. Can't stand being completely apart—at least not anymore—even when he finds himself breaking apart and knows you were always the one to gather the pieces and put him back together every time.

Even now, even after everything he's done, some pathetic part of him still gravitates toward you. Still seeks your proximity like a plant turning toward the sun. Still can't quite let go even though letting go would be the kindest thing he could do.

He leans against the wall, slides down until he's sitting on the rough carpet that Torrance SDN likely doesn't have the budget to clean properly. The industrial fibers scratch against his slacks, catch on the fabric of his uniform shirt. His head hits the wall with an audible thud. It hurts but it's barely anything compared to the tolerance he's grown over the years. Barely registers against the constant background noise of chronic pain that's become his new normal since the accident.

Fuck.

The word echoes in his mind like a mantra. Like a prayer to a god that stopped listening years ago.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He should have apologized. Should have done it that night. Should have knocked on your door—on Miss Matilda's door when you inevitably fled there—and said the words that needed saying.

I'm sorry.

I was an asshole.

Please don't leave me.

Three sentences. That's all it would have taken. But Robert's never been good with words when they matter. Can banter and joke and deflect with the best of them, but actual vulnerability? Actual emotional honesty?

Might as well ask him to fly without the suit.

"You going to keep running away?”

The voice makes Robert's head snap up. Pain lances through his neck—he'd been holding tension there without realizing, muscles locked tight enough to strain. Chase is standing at the end of the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable under that distinctive office lighting that makes everyone look slightly corpse-like.

"Jesus Christ," Robert breathes out, heart still hammering from the surprise. "How do you keep doing that? Are you actually teleporting now? Is that a new power?"

"I'm old, not magic." Chase approaches slowly, deliberately. Like he's approaching something volatile that might explode if startled. Which, given Robert's current mental state, isn't far from the truth. "And you're not as subtle as you think. Half the building heard you lose your shit."

"Great," Robert mutters, dropping his head back against the wall with another thud. "Professional."

"Professional went out the window when you started giving shit to your team then got snappy with Galen of all people." Chase stops a few feet away. Doesn't sit—his joints probably can't handle floor-sitting anymore, the price of aging fifty times faster than he should have—but leans against the opposite wall. Creating space while still being present. "You don't get snappy with Galen. That's like... the last person you get snappy with."

"Yeah, well." Robert's voice is hollow. "Apparently I'm full of bad decisions lately."

"Lately?" Chase's eyebrow arches. "Kid, you've been making bad decisions since you were old enough to walk. The only difference is now they're affecting someone other than yourself."

The words hit harder than they should. Robert flinches, actually flinches, and Chase's expression softens marginally.

"You wanna talk about it?" Chase asks, and the gentleness in his voice is almost worse than if he'd been harsh. Worse because it suggests he actually cares. Worse because Robert doesn't deserve that care.

"Not particularly."

"Tough shit. We're talking anyway." Chase settles more firmly against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. The posture is deceptively casual—Robert knows from experience that Chase can move fast despite his age when he wants to. "Because whatever's eating at you is affecting your work. Affecting your team. And it's clearly tearing you apart."

Robert laughs. The sound is bitter, scraping out of his throat like broken glass. "My team. Right. The team that went behind my back to meddle in my personal life. The team that stalked my best friend and forged federal documents to get them hired. That team?"

"Yeah, that team." Chase doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch away from the anger in Robert's voice. "The team of reformed criminals who looked at a situation and decided intervention was necessary. Who risked their freedom—their second chance—because they thought someone needed help. They had no right—"

"They had every right to be concerned about what they saw." Chase cuts him off, voice going hard. Sharp in a way that makes Robert's mouth snap shut. "You know what it takes for criminals to give a shit about someone they barely know? What kind of situation has to exist for them to risk everything they've worked toward? Listen, I hate those fuckers just as much as the other guy but I’m not an idiot to ignore that they clearly are taking this seriously.”

Robert doesn't answer. Can't answer. Because he knows. Deep down, he knows exactly what Chase is getting at.

"I won't say they aren't fucking idiots for how they handled it," Chase concedes, and there's a weariness in his voice that makes him sound every one of his chronologically-mismatched years. "But I also won't say you aren't a fucking idiot either."

"They forged documents, Chase." Robert's voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through as he rises. "Did everything illegal to get my best friend hired. Which also means they stalked us—or at least them—since Friday."

"Where they saw something." Chase's response is immediate. Pointed. "Something that made them believe that your friend, your alleged best friend, needed saving."

The emphasis on "alleged" cuts deep.

Chase pushes off the wall slightly, taking a step closer. His dark eyes are sharp behind those reading glasses, seeing too much. Always seeing too much.

"Saving from you."

The words hang in the air between them. Heavy. Undeniable.

Robert’s eyes turn sharply toward Chase. "Who's side are you on?"

"I'm on my own fucking side." Chase counters. "I'm just saying—they're criminals and assholes and whatever else you want to call them. But obviously they give a shit about your friend. More than you seem to, apparently. Because those idiots know what it's like to be hurt. And if they saw you hurting—"

"I would never put my hands on them!" Robert explodes the words erupting before he can stop them. Defensive. Immediate. Automatic.

"Hurting someone doesn't just mean physically, you dumbass!" Chase cuts him off, voice rising to match Robert's volume. "Last I remember, feelings aren't physical and words sure hurt like hell."

Robert's mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out.

Because Chase is right. Chase is always fucking right.

Robert did hurt you. Maybe not with his fists—he'd never, could never—but with his words. With his coldness. With his deliberate cruelty wrapped in the guise of having a bad day. With every moment of that Friday evening where he chose to push you away instead of letting you in.

The silence stretches. Robert can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Can feel the familiar tightness in his chest that precedes either a breakdown or a blowup.

"So what?" Chase looks him over. "You saw them yesterday, didn’t you? Then what? Your balls shriveled up and disappeared just because you didn’t what to say sorry? That what this is about?"

"It wasn't the time!" Robert argues. "I couldn't just—it wasn't—"

"When will it be the time then?" Chase's voice cuts through Robert's stammering. Quiet but devastating in its simplicity. "You just keep jumping around the fucking pool and that shit ain't drying up anytime soon."

"I don't—" Robert's hands come up, gesturing helplessly. "I don't know what to say to them."

"How about 'I'm sorry'? Like I fucking told you to do.” Chase suggests, and the sarcasm is thick enough to choke on. "I. Am. Sorry. Or hell, even just 'sorry' if you're really struggling with syllables."

"It's not that simple.”

"It's exactly that simple." Chase takes another step forward. He's in Robert's space now, close enough that Robert has to adjust to meet the fiery gaze. "You fucked up. You apologize. You do better. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked. The only thing making it complicated is your pride and your fear. And whatever fucking twisted ass masculinity shit you’re dragging with you.”

"I'm not—"

"You're scared." Chase's voice has gone gentle again. Soft in a way that makes Robert's throat tight. "You're scared that an apology won't be enough. That you've broken something that can't be fixed. That they'll tell you to fuck off and you'll have to accept that you destroyed the best thing in your life."

Each word is a direct hit. Chase isn't even trying to be subtle about it anymore, just laying out Robert's deepest fears in plain language.

"So you do nothing," Chase continues. "You avoid and deflect and make excuses. Because doing nothing means you never have to face rejection. Never have to hear that you're not forgiven. Never have to confront the possibility that you've finally pushed them too far."

Robert's vision is blurring. He blinks hard, refusing to let tears fall. Not here. Not now. Not in a goddamn SDN hallway where anyone could walk by.

"But you know what doing nothing gets you?" Chase asks, silver brows tense. Perhaps because in a way, he had his own once upon a time. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No closure. No resolution. No chance at fixing it. Just you, sitting in your shitty apartment, drowning in your own misery while they build a life without you. While everyone enjoys their lives and you fester like some stubborn mold.”

The description is too accurate. Too close to the reality Robert's been living for the past week. It makes something crack in his chest, splinter apart like ice under pressure.

“I didn’t raise you to be like this.”

The words are quiet. Disappointed in a way that cuts deeper than anger ever could.

"You didn't—" Robert starts, the automatic protest forming before he can stop it.

"You say I didn't raise you and I'll do more than slap you silly." Chase's finger jabs into Robert's chest. Hard, precise, an additional four times with his pointed (literally) comments. “You know I did. We both know I did. That's why you have such a bad mouth on you. I did that."

Despite everything, Robert feels a ghost of a smile tug at his lips. Because it's true. Chase had been more of a father figure than his actual father ever was. Present in ways that mattered. Teaching him things—good and bad—that shaped who he became. And yeah, he got his potty mouth from Chase. That’s what happens when you have an teen take care of some kid.

"I wasn't around for as long as I wanted," Chase continues, and there's genuine regret in his voice now. Old pain that he's carried for decades. "But at least I was around. And I sure as hell didn't teach you to be a coward."

Coward.

Is that what he is? Is that what he's become?

"You man up and apologize, Robert." Chase's voice goes firm again. Final. "Or so help me—"

"Woah."

The new voice makes both of them freeze. Turn toward the source.

Blonde Blazer stands at the entrance to the hallway, hands raised placatingly to her sides. Her blue eyes are wide behind her mask, darting between Chase's aggressive posture and Robert's defensive one. She looks uncertain in a way that's isn’t uncommon for her. But clearly uncomfortable with having walked into what is clearly a private moment.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asks carefully, like she's defusing a bomb. "Because I can come back later. Or never. Never works too."

Chase straightens, immediately shifting back into professional mode. The transformation is seamless—from aggressive mentor to casual coworker in the span of a heartbeat. "Nah, we're done here. Just having a conversation. Isn't that right, Robert?"

It's not a question. It's a statement with the weight of expectation behind it.

"Yeah," Robert manages, his voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again. "Yeah. Just... a conversation."

Chase gives him one final look—meaningful and pointed and full of everything they just discussed—before turning and heading past Blonde Blazer. He pauses briefly as he passes her, says something too quiet for Robert to hear. Whatever it is makes her nod slowly, expression shifting into something that might be understanding.

Then he's gone, leaving Robert alone with his boss in an isolated hallway that suddenly feels far too intimate for a professional conversation.

Blonde Blazer approaches slowly. Cautiously. Like Robert might bolt if she moves too fast. Which, given his current mental state, isn't an unfair assessment.

"Is—are..." She looks after Chase's retreating form, then back to Robert. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah." Robert brushes it off automatically, the deflection as natural as breathing. "Yeah. Just, a conversation."

"Looked like a really serious conversation." Her voice is gentle. Concerned in a way that makes Robert's defenses rise. "Almost had to go hero and step in.”

It's meant to be a joke. Light-hearted with a small laugh that's meant to ease tension. But Robert's face must show his discomfort because she immediately stops. The laughter dies. The smile fades.

"Sorry. This isn't the time, clearly." The awkwardness is palpable. Although that seems like Blazer's perpetual state sometimes—trying so hard to be approachable and relatable that it sometimes has the opposite effect.

"Right, anyway." She gently claps her hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway. "You wanted to talk to me about something?"

Robert blinks. Had he wanted to talk to her? His brain feels like static, struggling to remember what he'd been planning before everything went to shit today. He texted her at one point. ‘Need to talk’—he wanted to talk about the Phoneix Program.

But all of that feels distant now. Irrelevant compared to the mess of his personal life.

"I forgot," he says finally.

Blonde Blazer's brows furrow. "You forgot?"

"Yep. I forgot. My bad." He shrugs, hands sliding into his pockets. "Brain fog. Whatever I was going to tell you slipped my mind."

It's obviously a lie. A transparent one. But Blonde Blazer seems torn between pressing the issue and letting it go. Her hand half-lifts, like she's considering reaching out to him, then drops back to her side.

"Robert," she starts, and her voice has gone softer. More personal. "I know we haven't known each other very long, but if you need to talk about anything—work-related or otherwise—my door is always open. Literally and metaphorically. You can knock anytime. Or text. Or email. I check my email obsessively, it's probably not healthy. But we’re friends—”

She's rambling now. That nervous thing she does when she's trying to be supportive but isn't quite sure how. It would be endearing if Robert had any emotional bandwidth left to appreciate it.

"Thanks," he interrupts gently, cutting off what was about to become a dissertation on her email habits. He nods, trying to inject some sincerity into the gesture even though he feels hollow inside. "But I got a..." He waves his hand vaguely. "Therapist. Wouldn't really be, y'know, appropriate to talk to my boss about personal issues."

He steps backward as he says it, creating physical distance. Letting Blonde Blazer's hand—which had started moving toward his shoulder in a gesture of comfort—fall away naturally. Not quite avoiding her touch, but not accepting it either.

"Professionalism and all that," he adds, and the words taste like ash in his mouth.

Because it's another lie. He doesn't have a therapist. Has Doctor Monster's business card sitting on his kitchen counter, untouched and likely to remain that way. Because therapy requires vulnerability and honesty and all the things Robert is spectacularly bad at.

"Oh, right. Yeah. Of course." Blonde Blazer pulls back immediately, respecting the boundary he's established. "Gotta be 'profesh.'"

The word is a callback to his first day—the whole conference room stripping incident. It should be funny. Should lighten the mood.

It doesn't.

"Don't want any issues and having to talk to HR," she continues, trying to maintain the lighter tone even though her eyes show concern.

At this point does SDN—or at least the Torrance branch—even have an HR department? Robert's brain latches onto the irrelevant question, grateful for the distraction from more painful thoughts. I mean, surely if you're getting paid they must. But if gossip is true and he's connected the dots, it's probably a different branch giving funding specifically for your position. For your skill set that they likely want to snatch once they deem the time is right.

Or he's just got the short end of the stick.

Again.

"Right." He flashes a closed-lipped smile. The expression feels wrong on his face, like wearing someone else's skin. "Sorry, again."

For what, he's not entirely sure. For lying? For wasting her time? For being a disaster of a human being who can't seem to get his shit together long enough to do his job properly?

All of the above, probably.

Blonde Blazer watches him for another moment, clearly wanting to say more. Wanting to push past his deflections and get to the actual problem. But she's also professional enough—or perhaps uncertain enough in their relationship—to respect his boundaries.

"Alright," she says finally. "But the offer stands. If you change your mind. About anything."

"Noted."

Another beat of uncomfortable silence.

"I should..." Robert gestures vaguely down the hallway. "Get back. Lunch is probably almost over."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." Blonde Blazer steps aside, clearing the path. "I'll see you later?"

"Yeah."

He walks past her, movements mechanical. Each step feeling heavier than the last. He can feel her eyes on his back, tracking his retreat. Probably full of concern and confusion and all the things a good boss should feel when their employee is obviously struggling.

But he doesn't turn around. Doesn't acknowledge it. Just keeps walking until he rounds the corner and she's out of sight.

See how easy it is, Robert? How saying it now instead of ignoring it and letting it bulb is far less complicated?

—”Oh.” Blazer turned in the empty hall. “Shoot, I forgot to ask…”

Meanwhile, your breath clouds the air as you look over your shoulder; briefly back at SDN. Skin prickling cold as you're bundled against the chilling weather, layers upon layers trying to keep warm after something caught your eye through the window—a flash of red and blue that seemed too vibrant against the gray afternoon. You had abandoned your place, made sure your pager was tucked safely under, and stepped outside into the biting wind.

You hadn't expected it to be… well. This.

Phenomaman, simply lying in a parking space like some abandoned vehicle, a fruit basket—very much destroyed or at least waterboarded with a droopy big red bow—tucked at his side as he stared at the gloomy sky with an expression that could only be described as profoundly, devastatingly empty. His cape spread beneath him like a crimson blanket against the wet asphalt, darkened by puddles that reflected the slate-gray clouds overhead.

This is the hero you've seen on hundreds of billboards plastered across the city, the very mascot of SDN with his confident smile and thumbs-up pose, the chibi guy dangling from your keychain whose cartoonish face of ‘the lights are on but no one’s home’ aesthetic. Very niche, very cute, from a small business that knew what the people wanted. Beady-eyed trinkets of their favorite heroes to carry around them like mini companions.

The total opposite of the reality before you.

The real Phenomaman looks less like a symbol of hope and more like a sculpture of grief, all six-foot-four-or-so of him sprawled in parking space like he'd simply given up mid-flight and decided the cold, wet ground was as good a place as any to contemplate existence.

You've never met him before so… this felt awkward. Or rather maybe intruding? Maybe this was just… usual and not documented behavior? Perhaps heroes had their own rituals of mourning that civilians weren't privy to, and you were stumbling into something private, something raw that the cameras never captured between the commercial shoots and rescue operations.

"Hey… big guy." Calling him by his hero name felt… impersonal. Weird. Disconnected. Like you'd be addressing a brand rather than a person, and whatever this was—this broken person lying in a parking lot—deserved more than corporate branding. You shuffle closer, your shoes squelching through a puddle you hadn't noticed. "I'm [Name]. Just wanted to see if you were okay? …Aren't you cold out here?"

His eyes—eerily human but also… different, something in the way they caught the light, a subtle iridescence like oil on water—finally shift toward you. A deep mourning echoed through them, their dark depths (grey? grey blue? Darkgreen?) unseeing in a way that reminds you of your own reflection on bad days, those mornings staring in the mirror before faltering under your personal scrutiny, before having to look away because the person staring back knew too much about your failures.

"Cold…" Phenomaman intoned, his voice carrying that slight accent, that almost-but-not-quite inflection that marked him as other even when his words were perfectly articulated English. "Nothing is more 'cold' than this loneliness entrenched within me. The temperature of this planet's atmosphere is irrelevant when one's soul has been frozen by rejection."

Okay, poet. Go off.

You bite back the sarcastic response because clearly this isn't the time, even if part of you wants to point out that hypothermia doesn't care about metaphorical soul-freezing. Instead, you try for gentleness. "I completely understand," you ease closer, even if you don't fully understand. Well, at least not yet. Not the specifics, anyway, though the general shape of heartbreak is universal enough. "Would you like to talk about it a bit more? Maybe off the wet ground and inside somewhere warm? There's a cafe right over there—"

"The Blonde Blazer and I have ended our relationship."

The words cut through your suggestion like he hadn't even heard it, his eyes returning to the sky, to those heavy clouds that threatened more rain. His hands remained folded on his stomach, fingers interlaced with an odd precision, like he'd seen humans do it in movies and was mimicking the gesture without understanding its comfort.

We're talking about it. That's good. Progress, maybe. But I guess ground time is the preferred method for whatever this is.

"It was very abrupt." He continues, his tone flat, clinical almost, like he's describing someone else's tragedy from a great distance. That fruit basket still tucked to his side—you notice now it contains similar fruits, skewered and arranged with perhaps some card that is now ruin. "One moment we were savoring uni straight from the urchin at Matsuhisa, indulging in what she called 'the finer things,' the next moment… I'm contemplating flying into the sun, absorbing all its energy and casting this planet into infinite darkness so that I never have to see her or anyone else ever again…"

Oh!

Your eyebrows shoot up because that escalated quickly, from sea urchin to apocalypse in one breath, and you're suddenly very aware that you're talking to someone who could actually do that, who has the literal power to end the world over a bad breakup, and you're just some random person who noticed him from your office.

"Maybe then I would be free from the torment in my soul. And maybe then, I could quiet my mind from these destructive thoughts that circle endlessly like your Earth vultures." His eyes narrow slightly, focusing on something beyond the clouds, beyond the atmosphere perhaps. "The isolation would be… peaceful. No more billboards. No more teleprompters. No more pretending I understand why humans laugh at things that aren't funny or why they say 'how are you' when they don't want to know the answer."

"Perhaps that's why it hides today." His eyes narrow further, accusatory now, glaring at the cloud cover. "The sun knows of my plans. It fears me."

You stand there, searching for… something. Words, wisdom, anything remotely helpful. Because… okay. How does one respond to that? What's the protocol for talking someone down from potential solar genocide? I mean, you should know, right? You’re playing therapist to a whole branch of heroes… but this is… Different. Not quiet criminals whispering about their hatred for the government—for that's a me too thing—to the hurts that others have caused them and now that's all they know how to do.

"I don't know about that," you finally, hopefully smoothly, speak up, trying to keep your voice calm. "Either way, you should probably not do that… Fly into the sun, I mean." You contemplate your next move before finally, against every screaming instinct of self-preservation and comfort, dropping to join his basking. There's immediate regret. Frigid water immediately soaks into your clothes, seeping through layers and clinging to your skin like ice water, and you can feel it freezing your ass through your clothes, turning your tailbone numb within seconds.

Fuck. Fuck this is cold. This is so cold. Why did I do this? Why am I like this?

But you're committed now, sitting in a puddle next to an alien superhero having an existential crisis, and standing back up would just make this weirder.

"Why?" He turns his head fully now, really looking at you for the first time, cataloguing your face with an intensity that feels almost invasive. His eyes scan your features like he's memorizing them or perhaps trying to understand what would compel a stranger to sit in freezing water just to talk to him. A person he doesn't know, someone without a SDN badge or corporate obligation (at least, as far as he can gather), yet one that is still providing comfort even when those he assumed were friends—teammates, partners, colleagues—hadn't. "Why should I not pursue the only solution that makes sense? I have the capability. I have the motivation. The sun's energy would be… transcendent. I would finally feel something other than this."

You can't help but shrug, your shoulders hunching against the cold wind that's picking up, carrying the scent of rain and car exhaust and that particular urban smell of wet concrete. "Because…" You pause, unsure of how to answer truthfully or perhaps how to word it properly. Because why indeed? What can truly convince someone, a superhuman with godlike abilities, to not exercise that power in his darkest moments? What gives you, some random civilian whose biggest accomplishment today was remembering to water your plant, the right to tell him what to do with his cosmic-level abilities?

Oh god.

Don't do it.

Don't think about it.

Don't quote Spider-Man.

Don't you dare quote Spider-Man at the actual real-life superhero, that's so fucking cringe—

Fuck it, you're going to quote Spider-Man.

"Because with," you're regretting it even as the words leave your mouth but it's happening, the cringe is real and immediate, "—with great power comes great responsibility." It's unironically a meme move at this point. Obviously you're being serious, your tone is serious, your intentions are genuinely good, but your very serious conversation just happened to also involve directly quoting a massive franchise of fictional heroes while talking to an actual, real, breathing hero lying in a parking lot contemplating solar annihilation.

God, he probably thinks I'm an idiot. He probably hears that all the time. He probably—

But his expression doesn't change to mockery or dismissal. If anything, he looks… considering. Thoughtful, even. Maybe he's never had the chance to watch movies. A win. And a loss. He needs to watch more movies.

You continue before you can lose your nerve. "And wielding that power to hurt others doesn't heal what's already happened to you. Your pain is real, I'm not dismissing that, but… if you act on it that way it means everyone is suffering alongside you, except they didn't choose it. They didn't break your heart. That you—" You struggle for words, gesturing vaguely at the sky. "That sudden darkness, the cold that would come… people who may have been going through the same thing you are, but maybe they finally getting a hold of their lives again after their own heartbreaks and losses, they'd take it—the sudden darkness, the freezing, the end of everything—as… I don't know. A sign…? That none of it is worth it. That all their hard work, all their healing, all their progress amounts to nothing because the universe is cruel and random and even heroes give up."

You stare at your hands, your nails, picking at the dirt under them. "You have the power to do what you want. To… fly into the sun and leave the world in that darkness, sure. Nobody could stop you. But it will only get colder. It'll only get worse. The planet will freeze and when most of us… when most of us die off because of how cold and dark it became, because we can't survive like you can…" You trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence, how to make the abstract horror of billions dying something he can connect to emotionally.

"I forget how fragile humans are." Phenomaman murmurs, his head turning to stare back at the cloud-dense sky, acknowledgment rather than revelation. His lashes flutter briefly as the mist increases, that barely-there sprinkle that's beginning again, tiny droplets catching on his moustache. "That they can't withstand lesser air pressure or greater gravitational forces. Cannot see the stars without their odd suits and ships… They are soft. Delicate. Their bodies meant for softer activities."

"Meant to be cherished." You finish, and you mean it, putting firmness in your voice because this matters, this is the point. Your smile is delicate—you can feel it, tentative and small—perhaps the way he believes humans are. Or perhaps, he truly does just see it as an echo of himself, of someone who understands the emptiness that comes from heartbreak, from being left behind, from not being enough.

"Someone made you cold too." It's not a question. His eyes flicker back to you, studying your face with new interest, and there's something uncomfortably perceptive in that gaze, like he can see through skin and bone to the scars underneath.

You falter, eyes widening because you hadn't expected the conversation to turn, hadn't anticipated that your attempt to comfort him would result in your own wounds being exposed. Then an eventual sigh escapes, heavy and resigned, head tilting as you return your attention to your hands, searching them for answers they've never provided. Again and always. "It's… complicated. As many things are. As most things usually are when people—when feelings are involved."

At some point—you're not sure exactly when because you'd been lost in your own thoughts—Phenomaman had sat up. His fruit basket set carefully aside, his shoulders hunching forward to accommodate the height difference because the guy is large, larger than most humans, broader and taller, and sitting he's still somehow at your eye level. Plus he's not really in the mindset to truly hold himself with that manufactured confidence, that billboard-ready posture humans and SDN handlers have taught him to maintain. Right now he's just… collapsed inward, like a star cooling.

"Does that mean…" He pauses, and you can see him working through the logic, trying to connect concepts that don't quite align in his understanding of the world. "It doesn't matter if someone is not a person? That they can still get hurt like one? That the pain is… equivalent?"

"What… What do you mean by that? 'Not a person'?" Your brow furrows because that's a strange way to phrase it, concerning even, and you're trying to figure out if this is a language thing or something deeper.

"I am not a person." He straightens for a moment, hands waving toward himself in a gesture that encompasses his entire being—the costume, the muscles, the alien physiology beneath human-passing skin. "I just resemble one anatomically. Similar configuration, bilateral symmetry, appropriate number of limbs. But I am not… I am not of Earth. Not of humanity." He slumps again, that brief moment of animation fading. "Blonde Blazer had told me so, many times, that I am not really a person. For I am an alien. From Urgot-52dc. My genetic structure is completely different. My homeworld's atmosphere would kill you in minutes. I am not… I am fundamentally other."

"That's—" You cringe before you can stop yourself, a full-body wince at the sheer awfulness of that, before heavily exhaling and shaking your head to ground yourself, to gather your thoughts. Rain is falling more steadily now, cold drops hitting your face. "I wouldn't live by that… particular brand of thinking. That's actually pretty… harsh." And that’s you being diplomatic.

"Why not? Is it not accurate? Taxonomically speaking, I am Urgotian, not human. This is scientific fact, not opinion."

"It… It is factually true, yes, that you're biologically alien." You squint, trying to find the right words because this feels important, like you're standing at a crossroads of something significant. "It's just… weird, I guess. Or I don't think a lot of people, or at least those I'm around, have really ever thought about it… that way. Like, we know you're from space, obviously, everyone knows that. But…" You gesture helplessly. "Humans' definitions for a lot of things shouldn't be taken as absolute gospel. Especially when not all humans define things the same way… You, by species classification, may be alien, but I can still consider you human. Or person-like. Or… I don't know the right terminology. Deserving of being treated as a person."

The way his eyes squint is… comical, to say the least. His whole face scrunches up in confusion, like you've just told him water is dry. "What does that mean? How can I be human when I am observably not? When my very cells are structured differently?"

"There's species, yes? Biology and taxonomy and all that scientific classification." You're gesturing now, hands moving as you think out loud. "But being a human, being a 'person' is—should—mean something deeper than just DNA. Should be through actions not spawn. Especially when even some humans aren't… considered humans by their peers." You pause, seeing his confusion deepen. "Like, throughout Earth's history, people have used all sorts of bullshit reasons to claim other people aren't really people... And every time, it's been used to justify treating them terribly, to excuse cruelty and violence and denial of rights."

His head tilts, processing. "But those instances involved humans reclassifying other humans. I am genuinely, factually, not human."

"Right, but the principle is the same." You shift in your puddle, your ass now completely numb from the cold. "If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck… You think, you feel, you have relationships and emotions and preferences. You experience pain and joy and apparently devastating heartbreak. Those are person things. Human things, in the sense that they make you part of the community of… of beings that matter morally. You're not a rock or a plant or some mindless drone. You're a person who happens to be from a different planet."

Phenomaman was quiet, but his attention was completely focused on you now. That intensity that had felt uncomfortable earlier now felt more like genuine interest. Like he was really listening, really trying to understand.

“And being different doesn’t mean being less,” you continued. “It definitely doesn’t mean you’re incapable of connection or understanding or growth. It just means you have to work harder sometimes. Have to actively learn things that might be more intuitive for people who grew up here. There’s a lot of humans like that too, so you aren’t alone in this confusion just because you’re different…”

His brows furrow. “There are humans who… struggle with understanding humans too?” He questions.

“Yes!” You chirp, mostly because you're actually really freezing now. Shivering with chattering teeth. “Yes. There are.”

He seemed to finally notice the predicament, brows furrowing as he examined you.

“You are freezing,” he observed with what sounded like surprise.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “Turns out sitting on wet concrete in November isn’t great for maintaining body temperature. Who knew?”

“You should have said something,” Phenomaman said, and there was concern in his voice now. Genuine worry that made him sound more human than alien. “You did not need to stay. You could have conducted this conversation from a standing position. Or from inside.”

“I could have,” you agreed. “But you were down here. And it seemed important to meet you where you were. Literally, in this case.”

You tried to push yourself up, but your legs had other ideas. They’d gone past numb into that dangerous territory where they just… weren’t responding properly. Your muscles felt weak and uncoordinated, refusing to cooperate with your brain’s commands.

“Oh,” you said, with a calmness that was probably inappropriate for the situation. “I can’t get up. That’s. That’s not ideal.”

Before you could figure out a solution—maybe crawling? Was crawling dignified? Did dignity matter when you were potentially experiencing the early stages of hypothermia?—you felt hands under your arms.

Large hands. Warm, gentle hands. Apparently alien physiology included better thermal regulation than human bodies, because Phenomaman didn’t seem bothered by the cold at all despite wearing what amounted to a thin bodysuit. And he lifted you. Just… lifted you straight up from sitting to standing in one smooth motion that required absolutely no effort on his part. You were suddenly vertical, your legs wobbling beneath you like a newborn deer trying to figure out how joints worked.

“Whoa,” you managed, grabbing onto his arms for stability. His very muscular, very solid arms that felt like they were carved from marble or perhaps from whatever alien equivalent existed. “Okay. Standing. This is good. This is progress.”

Phenomaman kept his hands on your arms, steadying you while your circulation struggled to remember how to function properly. Pins and needles shot through your legs as blood flow returned, that uncomfortable prickling sensation that was somehow both painful and relieving.

“You sacrificed your comfort for my emotional wellbeing,” Phenomaman observed, still holding you stable. “That is a very person thing to do.”

You laughed—actually laughed, the sound surprised out of you, especially as it brought your shiver to a rather violent tremble. “Yeah, well. Persons take care of each other. That’s kind of the point.”

“Even when the other person is not technically a person?”

“Especially then,” you corrected gently. “Because that person—you—needed someone to recognize that the technical classification doesn’t matter. That your pain is real and valid and deserving of care regardless of what planet you’re from.”

His hands were still on your arms, and you realized that he hadn’t let go yet. That he was still touching you, maintaining that contact even though you’d mostly regained your balance. His expression had shifted into something you couldn’t quite read—something complex and vulnerable and maybe grateful?

“I’ve never had a friend pick me up like this,” you murmur, an observation mostly to yourself. “Kinda nice.”

“Friend…” He’s said the word before, thought of it, but it's different on his tongue now. “Yes. We are friends.” Like he was making an official declaration or perhaps proposing a business arrangement. “I have had companions before… but never someone I could… truly call a friend. If this is what friends do, that is. If that is acceptable to you. I believe you would be a good friend to have.”

You huff in amusement, legs slightly kicking. “Yeah buddy, I would like that to,” you said, meaning it. “Though maybe future friendship activities can happen in locations with better temperature control. Just a thought.”

“I will take your human fragility into account for future planning,” he said solemnly, and you were pretty sure he was making a joke. It was hard to tell with the delivery, but there was something in his eyes that suggested humor.

“Appreciated,” you said.

“Thank you, [Name].” Sincere. Sweetly so. “I wish to make love to you now.”

Huh.

"Woah, what?!"

Thankfully, oh so thankfully, ‘love’ meant hugging. His muscular arms encasing you and give you a squeeze. One that is maybe a bit too tight than normal but oddly regulating. Perhaps keeping in mind of the ‘fragile’ conversation shared.

“Oh—“ you laugh, a bit more than necessary due to the slight pressure. “Oh okay. Yeah. This is ok.”

You… can't remember the last time you hugged someone… or were given a hug. It's nice. Really nice. Your hands pressing into his back and shamelessly, for this moment, allowing yourself to let it happen. Your features pinch, a pointed self regulation as you mentally whisper to yourself not to cry. A hug. It's just a hug. No need to cry. At least now right now.

He pulls away after a moment, and perhaps you both are reluctant to do so, holding you out like some stuffed animal.

“I am glad you enjoy us making love. It does bring me happiness.”

You kinda wanna laugh-cry. “Hugging. It’s called hugging not… making love.”

His grip adjusts, eyes searching. “There’s a difference?”

“Yes. Yes… We’ll talk about it—once we’re inside. Or another day. Probably another day.” Or never. “When my rear is dry.”

He visibly looks around you and you do that closed eyed expression, accepting your silent fate because okay. Yeah. That's… okay.

“Yes. Your posterior is quite wet.”

Please kill me.

Finally, he releases your arms. But he stayed close as you both moved toward the exit, ready to catch you if your still-wobbly legs gave out. The fruit basket remained abandoned in its parking space, a bizarre memorial to this conversation.

“Should we…” You gestured toward it.

“I will retrieve it later,” Phenomaman decided. “Temperature regulation takes priority over fruit basket recovery.”

“Words to live by,” you agreed.

As you walked—slowly, carefully, with Phenomaman hovering protectively—you found yourself thinking about personhood. About how arbitrary the lines were between person and not-person. About how easily those classifications could be weaponized, used to hurt people who were already vulnerable.

“Have you ever tried hot coco?”

“I have not. Is it good?”

“Oh, it’ll explode your mind.”

“It is a weapon?”

Your laughter trails into the building, “No! No. Just. It's really good. Trust me. No literal exploding minds. I think you’ll like it.”

author’s note: I was listening to laufey while writing this chapter so I was like *sigh*; this woman is making me suffer. Which, in turn, means I should make Robert suffer. I lowkey just am continuing to put him through the ringer, everything just moved way too fast for me through the game. Anyway, this is late because I got distracted by Cupid my Cupid (thank y’all for the support on that), some other projects and also… maybe making a sort of Arcane-Adjacent/Earlier timeline of whatever League of Legends excerpt from my friend. Because of Darius from the Noxus trailer and I was like whatever. Then I got fixated on that/League of Legends (LOREWISE, I WILL NOT TOUCH THAT GAME), Warhammer again (used to be in that fandom), One Piece, then again, some other ideas I had for Dispatch fics. Plus my family celebrated Thanksgiving early so we didn’t have to deal with the day hell that IS Thanksgiving. And then I have uni stuff. Urgggghhh. Anyway, just explanation of my delay (over a week my bad!). Hopefully y’all enjoyed this waited chapter.

IMPORTANT: I didn’t do the wet dream for this chapter because I felt like it’d sour the moment of the previous chapter, ykwim? Obviously not to say Robert doesn’t possible want a sexual relation with a partner but I did want his emotions at the moment to really build on the starvation of love outside of sexual bounds. (Although I’m def writing him like he’s starving and pathetic in sexual notions). So more yearning and more soft love type deal this time. I WILL be adding the wet dream sometime in the future tho so don’t worry… I just wanted more pathetic wet dog that is Robert.

Tag List (feel free to ask/comment if you want to be in future ones!): @kbd-cryptid @moonlight-sonata99 @milkyshukes @idioticstar @lokigirlszendaya @sxftiebee @send-me-places @noodleryworld @susanhill @sunbl3achedfly @aberix @rileeznuts @encantedoasis @tsukikyo @boundedtodream @steadyzombiehottub @2tty @lizzythalizzard @shin0buk1nn1e @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @oreeowe @parcetamoldaisy @misdollface @asmaraloca @fayewebluv @dovey-quacks2332 @penabuttahhh @lucycarlisleswife @lizbix @pri00r @isabellaferreiras2-blog @yourbelovedtoaster @jackierose902109 @levisungjingwoo2099 @jellyedkazoo @crackmuffins @mixplara @lillanirobertson @suddenlysquelch @lettucel0ver @no1eyedressfan @bakugouswh0r3 @iammariposa @killerwendigo @bitchysouljellyfish @hibiscus-paradise @superdupersunny420 @rimuuuo @viosilein @frozenballsack69 @iv-vee @umiexe

pollinationtech007

just in time for my bed time reading !

#this fic is single handedly getting me through finals #pray for me yall #i am gonna barely pass this class #beto is the nickname i gave him #robert robertson #the third #dispatch

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