more robert doing karaoke please? he needs to put that voice to good use
Friday nights at Heroes' Tap are, somehow, louder than all the other days of the week combined.
Not just because of the bartenders shouting over each other behind the counter, or because of the overlapping conversations from drunk customers packed throughout the room, or even because the karaoke stage attracts every off-duty hero within a hundred-mile radius who secretly believes they were born to headline sold-out stadium tours.
It's because everyone walks through those doors carrying the relief of having survived another workweek.
It's become the Z-Team's unspoken tradition to meet up at the end of every Friday and catch up after work. They usually end up at the Chili's closest to SDN, grabbing drinks, sharing appetizers, and complaining about clients, that week's missions, terrible dates, and whatever else comes up. Over the past few weeks, though, they've started hopping between different bars just to keep things interesting.
This Friday's destination is Malevola's pick.
She'd pitched Heroes' Tap as the perfect place for the whole team: close to SDN, spacious, surprisingly cheap for the portion sizes, with good drinks, good food, and — most importantly — karaoke.
What Mal either forgets to mention, or simply doesn't think is worth mentioning, is that the entire place is themed.
Every booth is dedicated to a different legendary hero, decorated with framed magazine covers, vintage promotional posters, replica gear sealed behind acrylic displays, and painfully cheesy motivational quotes pulled from old interviews covering the surrounding walls. There was a booth for Vitalia, another for Trackstar, a brand-new one celebrates Blonde Blazer...
...and tucked against the back wall beneath glowing blue neon lights, sits the Mecha Man Blue booth.
Despite the name, it also features magazine clippings and memorabilia honoring both of Mecha Man Blue's predecessors: Mecha Man Prime and Mecha Man Astral.
Robert looks at it once, then immediately looks away.
"No."
That's all he says after Flambae suggests they sit there.
Which, naturally, means Flambae spends the next five minutes insisting.
"Oh, come on, Robbo," Flambae teases, already slipping an arm around Robert's neck and steering him toward the booth.
"No," Robert repeats, digging in his heels as if that somehow keeps Flambae from dragging him closer to the obnoxiously eye-catching display.
"It'll be fun."
"For who?" Robert asks.
He's already halfway defeated by the time they stop in front of the booth dedicated to his alter ego.
The rest of the Z-Team trails behind them, grinning from ear to ear while throwing their own teasing comments Robert's way, each person enjoying the situation to a different degree.
Eventually — and mostly because Flambae has already claimed a seat and outright refuses to move — Robert lets out that long, familiar sigh through his nose.
"...Fine."
Victory.
Sweet, petty, completely meaningless victory.
Once everyone finally squeezes into the oversized booth, drink orders are already being shouted across the table, someone has stolen the song catalog from another booth, and Robert settles into the seat at the very end with all the enthusiasm of someone reporting for jury duty.
Just looking at his expression is enough to make every second of teasing worth it.
Flambae can't stop smiling from his side of the booth.
Every now and then, while conversations bounce around the table and baskets of fries disappear at an alarming speed, he steals another glance toward Robert.
Just because.
Robert wasn't shooting him angry glances anymore. That phase had passed. Now he wore that peculiar expression of resigned tolerance that Flambae has learned to translate, roughly, as: I am choosing peace... even though you still annoy me.
Robert absently taps his fingers against the side of his cocktail glass, keeping time with whatever song someone is butchering onstage. The movements are almost imperceptible, tiny taps against the condensation collecting on the glass.
Flambae fights back another smile.
He still isn't entirely sure why, but watching Robert simply exist after being thoroughly annoyed by him is strangely rewarding.
He tries not to stare too much while chatting with everyone else, though every few minutes his eyes drift back toward the dispatcher anyway.
However, after getting distracted for a little over ten minutes talking with Alice about the newest episodes of Love Island, Flambae glances back toward Robert's seat and finds it empty.
He frowns.
Robert's drink was still there.
So was his jacket, neatly folded over the seat.
Only Robert himself has disappeared.
Probably the restroom, Flambae figures.
Or maybe he's grabbing something to eat.
Or maybe he's trying to escape before someone talks him into singing karaoke.
That thought, carried along by the opening notes of the next song echoing through the bar, earned Flambae a quiet snort of amusement.
But then—
"Clock strikes upon the hour..."
Flambae barely registers the opening lyric to one of his all-time favorite songs. In fact, the first thing he notices isn't even the song.
It's the voice.
It slices cleanly through the overlapping conversations filling the team's booth.
For one long second, his brain refuses to connect that voice to anyone.
Because it can't possibly belong to—
"...And the sun begins to fade..."
His smile disappears before he even understands why, and he slowly turns in his seat.
Around him, the rest of the team does the same.
The karaoke stage sits across the room beneath shifting spotlights that wash everyone in flashes of pink, purple, and blue.
Robert is standing beneath them.
One hand holds the microphone, while the other rests casually in his trouser pocket.
To almost everyone at the table's surprise, there isn't the slightest trace of embarrassment in his posture. No stiffness. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
"Still enough time to figure out... how to chase my blues away..."
Robert keeps singing, occasionally glancing up at the lyrics scrolling across the monitor above him.
Flambae can only stare.
The man onstage looks nothing like the dispatcher he sees every weekday — the one who somehow manages to make even the simplest sentence sound dry and indifferent. This Robert stands beneath the lights singing Whitney Houston as naturally as if he'd done it a hundred times before.
Something twists pleasantly in the pit of Flambae's stomach as he remembers Robert making fun of him for suggesting Whitney that night at The Sardine.
That bitch thinks he's better than me, Flambae thinks.
And yet...
Something about the way Robert carries himself onstage — so unfamiliar, so unexpectedly captivating — keeps Flambae from feeling genuinely annoyed.
Robert's voice has always earned plenty of shameless comments from the team, but hearing him sing is something entirely different. It doesn't sound anything like the voice over comms, always calm, measured, authoritative. It's the voice that issues orders, gives directions, and keeps everyone on track.
When the chorus arrives, Robert finally looks away from the lyrics and out toward the crowd scattered across the bar.
A relaxed smile settles onto his face as he sings the chorus from memory, his shoulders now moving subtly with the beat.
No, he isn't exactly a great dancer. But he has rhythm. And he looks like he's genuinely enjoying himself.
"I wanna feel the heat with somebody..."
Robert's gaze drifts toward the booth where the rest of the Z-Team is sitting.
"Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody... With somebody who loves me..."
His voice isn't shrill. It isn't the kind that demands silence simply by being loud.
Instead, it slips effortlessly over the backing track, soft enough to blend with the music instead of competing against it.
There's an unmistakable tenderness woven into every lyric. Something that keeps Flambae frozen in place, eyes locked on Robert, lips slightly parted ever since his jaw quietly dropped.
The triumphant satisfaction he'd been carrying ever since forcing Robert into the Mecha Man Blue booth evaporates so quickly it almost embarrasses him.
"I need a man who'll take a chance... on a love that burns hot enough to last..."
Right there.
Flambae swallows hard because he could swear Robert sings that particular line while looking directly into his eyes.
"So when the night falls..."
Robert pauses just long enough for another smile to spread across his face.
"My lonely heart calls..."
People are clapping now as Robert launches into the second chorus. The entire bar erupts, voices joining in with unmistakable enthusiasm as nearly half the room sings along to the timeless classic.
Everyone...
Except Flambae.
He's still trying to process the version of Robert standing on that stage. So unlike the man he'd convinced himself he knew. Confident, radiant, with laughter hidden beneath certain vowels. Tiny lifts in his voice whenever he gets carried away by a favorite line without even realizing it.
And before Flambae knows it, he catches himself wondering...
How many other versions of Robert exist outside office hours?
How many sides of him has Flambae never seen?
And—
What would it be like to know them?
The thought lingers long after the final chorus ends. Long after Robert lowers the microphone. And long after applause ripples across the bar.
It isn't until the Z-Team suddenly erupts into deafening cheers and whistles that Flambae's tunnel vision finally shatter, reality crashing back into place all at once.
So I love love making playlist, and since I already have a flambert playlist for my writing I figured I should make seperate ones for Robert and Flambae so here you guys are!!
If you have song recomendations for any of these playlists (or another playlist) feel free to let me know!! I take playlist requests as well <3
The neon sign buzzed in a steady flicker, spilling a dazzling blue glow over the Z-Team’s crowded corner table. The air was thick with the smell of cheap beer, fried appetizers, and that stale, worn-in scent that came naturally with a bar that had seen too many years and too many stories.
It was a rare night off. The team was loud, laughing as they passed around plates of chicken wings. Robert sat beside Prism, posture relaxed for once, a glass of ice water sweating in his hand.
Flambae wasn’t laughing.
His eyes were locked on the booth directly across from theirs.
Four civilians leaned in close to one another, muttering just loud enough to be heard. Their sideways glances sliced through the bar like blades. They weren’t even trying to be subtle.
No one else at the table seemed to notice. No one except Flambae.
Robert was the first to feel the temperature shift. The heat radiated off Flambae in searing, noticeable waves. The ice in Robert’s glass began to melt faster.
Robert looked up from his drink and searched for Flambae’s usually vibrant eyes. What he found instead was something darker. Dangerous. Smoldering.
“Everything okay, Chad?” Robert leaned slightly over the table to check on him—
And then Flambae shot to his feet so abruptly that Robert jerked back in his chair.
Six more heads snapped up as Flambae crossed the short distance to the civilians’ table, both fists already blazing with bright, hungry flames.
Before anyone from the team could reach him — despite trying — Flambae flicked his wrist.
A concentrated jet of orange fire shot across the gap.
It didn’t hit the men.
It hit the “Inferno Nachos”— or whatever it was they were sharing.
Nachos and sliders ignited instantly, transforming into a greasy bonfire. The men shouted and scrambled backward, knocking into the booth. Flambae stepped forward, reached across the table, and grabbed one of them by his stiff collar.
“Say it again,” Flambae growled. Flames licked around his clenched fist, poised to strike. “Say one more word about the Program while looking me in the eyes.”
The man recovered quickly. The taunting smirk slid right back into place.
“You can’t ‘rehabilitate’ a forest fire,” the civilian sneered. “You just wait for it to burn itself out.”
Gasps and mutters rippled through the crowd gathering nearby.
Before Flambae could fulfill the promise blazing in his fist, Robert moved faster. He stepped between Flambae’s hand and the man’s face. Robert did not look pleased.
“Outside. Now.”
Flambae’s brow furrowed — not exactly because of the order, but because Robert didn’t even wait for a response. Robert turned and walked toward the exit, clearly expecting Flambae to follow.
“Go on,” the jackass mocked near Flambae’s unlit hand. “Your boss’s calling you.”
Flambae’s glare flared again, flames crackling up his left fist—
But Prism intervened. She placed a firm hand on Flambae’s shoulder while a holographic duplicate of herself shoved the civilian hard enough to send him crashing to the floor.
“We’ll handle him,” Prism assured Flambae. “Go.”
Flambae huffed in frustration but stepped back, extinguishing his flames as he turned and stalked toward the door.
The cool night air hit him like a bucket of ice water.
Robert was already walking toward a more isolated corner of the parking lot, near Flambae’s own car — the one he had driven some of the team in tonight.
Things between them had been better lately.
But the memory of Robert threatening to write him up after that incident with Waterboy in the break room still lingered in Flambae’s mind.
Robert could be decent.
Robert could also be an insufferable bitch who reminded Flambae exactly why he used to hate him.
And Flambae absolutely did not deserve a lecture right now.
They were alone in the nearly empty parking lot when Flambae finally exploded.
“Did you hear them? I was right!” Flambae snapped, striding up to Robert and stopping with his back against his own car. Sparks snapped through his hair. “I’m so fucking tired of being treated like that, Robert! They don’t know shit, and they still open their big mouths and—”
“Flambae—” Robert sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“And you!” Flambae jabbed his right index finger into Robert’s chest. “You pulled me away like I was a child throwing a tantrum. I was defending myself. I was defending the team. Fuck, I was defending the Program.”
Robert staggered half a step from the force of the jab but immediately caught Flambae’s wrist in his left hand.
“I was defending the work you do to keep me out on the streets!” Flambae continued. “I was right to put that asshole in his place, I was right to—”
Robert shoved Flambae’s hand away.
Hard.
That shut him up.
Flambae’s lashes fluttered in disbelief as he narrowed his eyes further.
So now Robert was scolding him publicly and getting physical?
Oh, absolutely not.
“What?” Flambae said, voice low and velvet-dangerous as he leaned in close. “You wanna fight me now, bitch?”
Robert didn’t flinch.
Instead, he moved.
In one smooth motion, Robert pinned Flambae back against the car. His forearm pressed against Flambae’s chest — not hard enough to trap him, but firm enough to grab his full attention. Their faces closed the remaining distance until Robert could feel Flambae’s heated skin and quick breath against his own.
Flambae gasped, startled.
Their eyes locked in a more intimate way.
Robert held him there, but never with enough force to prevent Flambae from pulling away if he wanted to.
In the charged silence, Robert closed his eyes and kissed him. Soft and warm. But it lasted only a few seconds — just long enough for Robert to confirm that Flambae wasn’t pushing him away.
Then it deepened.
Robert’s hand slid to the back of Flambae’s neck, fingers firm. His other hand tightened at Flambae’s waist, pulling him in with barely restrained desire.
Robert didn’t care if Flambae’s flames burned him.
Flambae definitely didn’t mind being pinned against his car by Robert.
When Robert finally pulled back, Flambae was flushed and speechless.
Now, he was the one without words.
“You did good in there,” Robert said in his usual monotone. “That asshole deserved it.”
There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of Robert’s mouth.
Flambae blinked, more effectively disarmed than any argument could have managed. His flames had gone out minutes ago.
Robert gave him one last assessing look — making sure he was steady, that he was okay — then released him.
“I’ll meet you inside. I don’t want to miss whatever the rest of the team’s doing to that idiot.”
And with that, Robert turned, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked back into the bar.
Flambae stood alone in the parking lot.
Burning. But for a completely different reason now.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, smiling and staring at the door Robert had just walked through. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking Robert?”
He ran a hand through his hair to make sure he looked presentable, forced himself to breathe, and headed back inside the bar, which was probably about to join the growing list of places they’d been banned from.
Inspired (sort of) by the fourth track on my Flambert Playlist.
There is a cathedral bell ringing somewhere inside his skull — an endless, merciless toll. Sunlight slices through the gaps in the curtains like heated golden blades, each beam aimed directly at his eyes. His mouth feels like sandpaper. His tongue tastes like cheap citrus and vodka.
Oh God. He is never drinking like that again.
He groans and tries to roll over, only to realize he is not in his own bed. The sheets are far softer than anything he can afford. The pillows are big and plush and smell faintly of expensive shampoo and cologne. Familiar cologne.
Then he sees it.
A black jacket with flame motif draped over the back of a chair.
Robert’s eyes widen. He has seen that jacket before.
It belongs to Flambae.
The realization makes him groan out loud.
He forces his mind to function — just enough to piece together last night — but the hangover is ruthless. He remembers going to the bar alone. He remembers having more drinks than he can usually handle.
Then... nothing. A blackout.
Robert presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, trying to steady the spinning room.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” he mutters hoarsely.
The bedroom door creaks open.
“You’d better not do that in my bed, bitch.”
Flambae’s voice carries its usual teasing edge.
Robert squints toward the doorway. Flambae stands there wearing a long burgundy silk robe tied at the waist. His long black hair is gathered into a low bun, a few stubborn, sleep-tousled strands falling perfectly around his face. In one hand, he holds a glass of water. In the other, a bottle of aspirin.
It feels unfair that Flambae looks that awake. That beautiful.
“I made breakfast if you’d rather eat before taking these,” Flambae says casually as he walks toward the bed.
Robert hums, momentarily lost. “Can I take them first? I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.”
Flambae hums in agreement and hands Robert the water and pills before sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress dips under Flambae’s weight. He is close enough for Robert to feel the warmth radiating from his body—the same warmth Robert now remembers falling asleep against.
“Then drink,” Flambae instructs gently.
Robert obeys. The water feels like a blessing.
For a few quiet seconds, the only sound in the room is him swallowing and his own shallow breathing.
Then he notices it.
That smile.
It is written all over Flambae’s face, from the corners of his mouth to the brightness in his eyes.
Robert narrows his eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” Flambae says simply, though his expression betrays him.
“You’re going to make me question how I ended up here, aren’t you?” Robert grumbles, already sensing regret.
“You made me pick you up from a bar downtown,” Flambae replies with alarming casualness.
Robert groans and drags both hands down his face and through his hair. “Fuck…”
“Oh, and that was just the beginning of the night, Bob Bob.”
If Flambae is trying to sound reassuring, he fails. The nickname alone makes Robert tense.
Flambae’s smile widens at Robert’s reaction.
Robert’s stomach flips, and not because of nausea.
“…What did I do?”
Flambae tilts his head slightly as he studies him. There is no mockery in his gaze. No cruelty. Just amusement, and something softer, something not fully revealed yet.
“So you don’t remember?” Flambae asks.
Robert searches his mind again. Loud bar. Vodka. Tequila. Blackout. Warmth.
“No,” he says slowly. “Nothing after I started drinking at the bar.”
Flambae chuckles softly and shifts, moving up the bed to sit beside Robert, their backs against the headboard.
“So…”
Robert turns his head carefully to watch Flambae’s profile as he begins recounting what should have been Robert’s own memories.
“You called me around two in the morning, asking me to pick you up because you’d had too much to drink.” Flambae pauses, holding back a small laugh. “When I asked where you were, you got all embarrassed and said you must’ve mixed up your contacts because you thought you were calling Chase. But I told you it was fine. I’d come get you.”
“Nooo…” Robert slowly sinks lower into the mattress beside him.
“And when we got here, you wouldn’t let me let you go.” Flambae smiles as he watches Robert slide further under the covers. “You only fell asleep once you were the big spoon, clinging to me. And then…”
Flambae nudges the lump under the blanket that is Robert’s shoulder.
“…You said you loved me.”
Silence crashes over the room.
Robert goes completely still under the covers. In his mind, he briefly considers never moving, or breathing, again in the faint hope that Flambae will somehow forget he exists.
Several long seconds pass.
Then the mattress shifts again as Flambae slips under the covers too, finding Robert frozen there.
“You okay?” Flambae asks softly, though the amusement is still present in his voice.
Robert nods. Heat crawls up his neck to his cheeks. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry for making you sleep with me clinging to you.”
Flambae shrugs, their shoulders brushing. “It was nice, actually. We hadn’t tried that yet,” he jokes.
“Yeah… I know we agreed to keep this casual, and—”
“That was months ago,” Flambae cuts in gently. “Things have changed between us.”
Robert swallows. He takes a deep breath and turns onto his side so he can see Flambae better. “Are you just saying that because of what I said? Because I was drun—”
“I love you too, Robert.”
The words come out firm and steady, cutting him off mid-sentence.
“I tried pretending I didn’t for months,” Flambae continues more quietly. “But I think I was just avoiding the inevitable.”
He lifts his hand to Robert’s face, tracing the freckles beneath Robert’s eye with his thumb.
Flambae is still smiling but it is no longer playful. It is softer now. Almost shy, even if he tries to hide it.
They stay quiet for nearly a full minute, absorbing everything the other has just said.
Then Robert breaks the silence.
“Drunk me wasn’t lying,” he murmurs. He exhales, closing his eyes and leaning further into Flambae’s warm hand. “I just wish I hadn’t said it like that. I wish I’d said it... sober.”
Flambae laughs softly and slides his hand down to pull Robert closer by the waist. “Well, you may have forgotten it, but you definitely made it memorable for me.”
“Wow. Comforting,” Robert replies dryly.
“Not to pressure you,” Flambae adds, and there it is again, that teasing tone threaded with affection Robert has grown used to over the past few months, “but you can say it again now that you’re sober. If you want.”
Robert groans dramatically before hiding his face in the curve of Flambae’s neck. “You know I do.”
“Do I?” Flambae laughs, trying to lean back enough to see Robert’s probably flushed face — but Robert clings tighter, just like he apparently did the night before.
“Shut up, okay?” Robert laughs softly, his breath warm against the back of Flambae’s neck. “I love you. There. Happy?”
Even hearing it for the second time, Flambae’s heart pounds harder in his chest.
He pulls Robert fully into his arms and holds him close.
He has hoped their casual hookups might someday turn into something more. He has wanted that, badly, but he has been afraid to say it first, afraid of pushing Robert away or losing him entirely.
But now, with Robert curled against him, having said it twice, Flambae finally allows himself to believe that maybe this was always meant to happen.
Raye’s "I Know You're Hurting." has literally been on repeat in my headphones for the past few days and I can’t stop connecting some of the lyrics to Robert and Flambae.
Like, these two parts makes me think so much about Robert.
While these remind me so much of Flambae.
Yup, I'm linking random stuff to Flambert again, cuz that’s just what my brain chooses to do 24/7.
I wish I was one of those people who can make neat little 10/20 song lists that perfectly define a character’s personality, but I just can’t, lol. This playlist is at 100 songs after I removed some in portuguese so I could make it public and drop the link here… and I'm still planning to add more.
There’s a bit of everything in there — songs that remind me of them bc of the vibe, or just the lyrics, songs I personally love and totally used as an excuse to throw in the playlist, etc etc. I’d actually love some recs, btw since I’m still organizing it as we speak.
Also I wish the playlist had a prettier cover bc everything I make using Flambert’s in-game pics just looks like the same 4 or 5 scenes slightly rearranged at this point 💀 but I can’t draw anything beyond stick figures so… this is what we get lmaooo
