Robert is woken up at ass-o’clock in the morning by a call from Flambae's phone. When he picks it up, it’s an emotionally exhausted bartender telling Robert to come pick Flambae up before he causes any more trouble. And Robert’s confused, because what the fuck is his contact name in Flambae’s phone that the bartender chose to call him??
But still, Flambae’s part of his team and Robert’s responsible for him, so he drags himself out of bed, throws on some ratty clothes and makes his way to the bar, where he finds Flambae slumped over the bar with far too many empty glasses in front of him.
Robert’s never seen him this drunk—messy and red-faced, not quite able to stay upright on his own. He takes his latest drink away from him, sliding it back toward the bartender, and tells Flambae he’s had enough. Flambae, stumbling over his words a little, tells Robert to fuck off. And then, uncharacteristically sheepish, he mutters something about how he’s not usually such a messy drunk.
“Hey, I’m not in any place to judge,” Robert tells him. “I have my own track record with—”
“I already know about your Mezcal breakup,” Flambae interrupts, casually waving his hand.
Robert dodges the uncoordinated limb. “You do?”
“Phenona…Phenom…anan…Phenonanan—Phen told everybody,” Flambae says, giving up on using the hero’s full name. “Fucking gossip girl.”
“I guess I’m not surprised,” Robert says dryly. “He’s got a weird sense of bounda—”
“Did you actually fuck him?” Flambae asks before Robert’s even gotten his whole sentence out.
Robert sighs heavily. “No, we didn’t ‘make love,’ if that’s what he’s been saying. There’s been some confusion on his part about what that phrase mea—”
“So you didn’t kiss him?” Flambae insists, weirdly dogged for how hazy his eyes are. “He was lying?”
“Okay, technically, he kissed me,” Robert defends himself. “And he only did it because he was worried that—well it’s kind of convoluted, but there were no feelings involved.”
And then Flambae, Mr. You’re Not My Type, who’s basically Robert’s frenemy at this point, asks for a kiss of his own.
Robert, completely thrown by the sudden pivot in Flambae’s attitude toward him—and understandably assuming it’s alcohol-inspired—says no.
And then Flambae puts his arms down on the sticky bar top, rests his face in them, and actually starts to cry.
Loudly. Like, embarrassingly loudly.
“Okay,” Robert says frantically, tossing an apologetic grimace at both the bartender and anyone close enough to see and hear the spectacle Flambae’s making. “Let’s not—”
But it’s too late. Apparently the reason Flambae never gets wasted around the team—besides the fact that it takes more alcohol to get him there than a regular person—is because he’s a weepy drunk.
Robert manages to talk him down from his tears, acutely feeling the judgmental stare of the bartender the whole time, but Flambae’s still stubbornly arguing for that kiss.
“You kissed Phenomanan,” he protests, almost but still not quite getting the hero’s name right.
“Okay, again, I didn’t kiss him,” Robert says, exasperated. “He kissed me. And it didn’t mean anything.”
“It doesn’t have to mean anything if we kiss,” Flambae wheedles, and it would be cute if he wasn’t half a foot taller and a good deal heavier than Robert. And a thirty-six-year-old man. “We can just do it once and then you can forget about it!”
Yeah right, Robert mentally scoffs. It would take one hell of a whack to the head for him to forget a kiss with Flambae.
He declines, and Flambae actually starts sulking.
“Nobody wants me,” he says pitifully. Which is fucking ridiculous, because Robert knows damn well there are at least fifteen people in this room who would have him in a heartbeat if he offered.
“Oh come on, that’s not true,” Robert tells him flatly. “What about that British guy you made out with the other night? You talked about it all morning shift.”
“I lied,” Flambae sniffles. “We didn’t make out. He wanted to but I didn’t.”
“Why not?” Robert asks quizzically. “You love British guys.”
“Not any—more,” Flambae hiccups. “Now I like stupid skinny bitches with brown hair and deep voices.”
“Well—” Robert hedges, but Flambae cuts him off.
“Real asshole types who cut off my fingers and knock out my fucking teeth and shit,” he continues, as if to really make sure Robert can’t possibly mistake Flambae’s type for anyone but him.
Robert feels the bartender’s assessing stare travel up and down his body and cringes, trying to quiet Flambae before he gives away any other damning information. “Okay, please don’t say it like that.”
Flambae gives him the stink eye. “That’s how it fucking happened, Rob. You fucked up my fingers and my teeth, and now you're fucking up my dick.”
“I promise it’s not what it sounds like,” Robert tries to tell the bartender, who’s now casually holding the bar phone like she’s prepared to have to call the cops.
“It’s actually worse,” Flambae says unhelpfully. “He’s also my boss.”
"I'm technically in charge of him, but I'm definitely not his boss," Robert tries to explain, but even he has to admit that the whole thing sounds fucked, and he's extremely annoyed with Flambae for choosing to air all of this out in a noisy bar at four am when Robert's head is already pounding from exhaustion.
By the time he manages to ease the bartender’s suspicion, Flambae’s crashing, and Robert practically has to drag him out of the building. He helps him fold his ridiculously big body into the passenger side of the repaired Firebird parked outside, and then he slides into the driver’s side, adjusts the seat, and drives Flambae home.
He tweaks his back half-carrying Flambae into his apartment, but he's able to get him settled him into his bed, and does his best to take care of him. He gets him out of his suit and into some pajamas (by Flambae’s request), finds and helps him into some fuzzy socks (again, by Flambae’s request), and makes him drink some water (definitely not by Flambae's request, as demonstrated by the fight he puts up).
“Okay,” he huffs, propping his hands on his hips. “You’ve got your socks and your pajamas, and I put some more water and painkillers on the bedside table for later. Is there anything else you need before I go?”
“No no, look, I’m completely sober, I swear,” Chad says, hauling himself up out of the bed—presumably to show Robert how coordinated he is. He trips over his own (fuzzy socked) foot instead, and Robert has to catch his entire weight with a strained grunt. Fuck, his back is going to be useless tomorrow.
Finally, he manages to wrestle Flambae back into his bed, the hero whining and complaining the whole time about how unfair it is that Robert will kiss some team members and not others, and how he’s actually creating like, a super toxic workplace environment if you think about it.
Robert sighs, looking down at him. Despite the bitching and complaining being very on-brand, he seems a lot more vulnerable than he usually is, and it pulls on Robert’s heartstrings a little.
“Tell you what,” he says finally. “If you still want a kiss from me when you wake up tomorrow—and if you can manage to ask me in a polite, non-insulting way—I’ll kiss you. Okay?”
“Promise,” Flambae demands, flinging his hand at Robert.
Robert huffs, manually separating Flambae’s pinky from the rest of his fingers and wrapping his own pinky around it. “There, I promise. Now go to sleep.”
“Yeah no that was weird,” Flambae mutters sleepily, turning over and pulling his pillow closer. “Nevermind.”
He stays for a few minutes to make sure Flambae falls asleep safely, and then he lets himself out and orders a ride home.
He’s not really thinking much about the promise he just made—mostly he’s just exhausted and in pain and more than ready to be back in bed. Besides, he's sure Flambae won’t remember a single moment of this.
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