All the other syndromes wanted to give their congratulations to Incrediboy~ the Buddy that succesfully became a sidekick.
Xerek!syndrome is not all that impressed and tries to console the other two "what good is it if he doesnt even have dick? He cant even enjoy it properly".
This is my first time writing for Syndrome, so it may be ooc! I hope you enjoy it regardless!
Word count: 1,892
Syndrome hired you as his custom tailor to create, alternate and repair uniforms. Your relationship was strictly professional- he paid you to stay quiet, paid for your big move into his island, and provided you with your own space to be able to work and lounge freely. You were the one who had customized Syndrome's super-suit. A simple, straightforward design, and actually quite enjoyable to create the final output. What made it easy is the clear concept he already had in mind. He was patient with the time it took and paid you handsomely for such a perfect piece of clothing. His personality was surprisingly colorful, a stark contrast to the villain he denied he was.
Due to this island being your entire professional occupation, you two didn't speak often, not if it wasn't about work. Even then, he proved to be awfully friendly at times. Bringing back meals, treats, and new fabrics for your projects.
Most of them revolved around the super-suits he'd bring back of captured and deceased supers for you to repair in order to keep as trophies. As horrifying as it was, dealing with the blood and mild chunks of gore, the stubborn stains, and the dreadful damages- it was fun seeing how excited Syndrome got to view the repaired masterpieces on display in the glass casings. He'd ramble for hours about them, then pause mid-sentence and switch up, talking about how 'they actually suck' and how 'They're so lame for losing to his omnidroids.’ all while staring at the suits like a kid that just seen candy. On rare occasions, he'd stick by your side through the entire process of mending the suits and blurt out random facts about the respective super… which was actually pretty cute how he still had that small spark of childish wonder.
And now, on a quiet afternoon, you find yourself rummaging through different boxes, closets, and mannequins to find a specific article of clothing you've been putting off- not one assigned to you, but one you were working on in your down time. You were about to lose your mind if you didn't find this project soon, you've been working so hard on it!
Stubbornly, you pull a neglected box from the corner of your quite large storage closet, assuming you must've tossed your project somewhere in a box while half-asleep. But upon opening it, you found clothes you don't ever remember bringing or designing...
And that's when you found it.
A small, tattered uniform. Blue and white, with Mr. Incredibles logo embroidered over the heart. It had a blue cape attached, and the more you dug around in this box, the more pieces came together like a little puzzle. You don't remember ever working on something like this, and it seemed designed for a child- by a child, judging by the poor seams and patchwork. Your thumb absently swiped over the logo, staring down at this costume with confusion and intrigue written on your face.
There wasn't a lot of time to linger in thought when the familiar voice of Syndrome called from your open door, startling you out of your trance. You looked over your shoulder as you clenched the uniform to your chest. His voice carried a light and friendly air as he invited himself in, the sound of his white boots clicking against the polished floor accompanying them,
“There she is!” He exclaimed with a chain of light chuckles, “Getting ready to close up for the night, Patchwork?”
He seemed in a particularly good mood— most likely had a very productive and progressive day.
You found yourself mirroring the smile Syndrome wore, answering with that gentle voice you always used, “I guess so,”
Shifting on your knees where you knelt next to the box, you stood and presented the uniform to Syndrome timidly, “But I found this while looking for something else. . . Is it yours?” with a tilt of your head, you observed his reaction— which was far from what you were expecting.
He paused in his tracks, body tensing and eyes widening as they met that damned costume- staring at it like it was some sort of curse to him and his entire career, “Where did you—” he grumbled, suddenly rushing over, nabbing the clothing from your hands. You gave a startled yelp at this, but Syndrome whipped around while balling the costume up and hiding it against his chest, "Give me that!”
You blinked in bewilderment, stunned—
Then he started to tussle with it, stretching it from the seams, edges, and corners in a clumsy attempt to rip it up. Going as far as to trap some fabric between his teeth and yank the opposite direction,
“Dont know how it wound up here—” he muffled in struggle, “I thought I had gotten rid of this a long time ago!”
Scrambling over, you threw your hands out in a gesture to ease him but never touched, simply hovering at his shoulders, “Whoa- whoa! Stop!”
You made the move to snatch it back, “Don't damage it! What are you doing? It's cute!” you scolded lightly, holding the costume in your hands like it was precious, turning it this way and that to make sure it wasn't stretched out or ripped. There was a frown on your face and a wrinkle in your brow as you observed the fabric. Meanwhile, Syndrome gave a small scoff, “Cute!? It's not cute! It's childish- it's ridiculous! A dead dream, a ship that sailed!” he balled his hands at his sides, clearly frustrated.
This made you perk up slightly, speaking slowly as your eyes slid over to him, narrowing just a fraction, “So it is yours…” that statement was laced with smug knowing, a tone that made Syndrome tense up again, eyebrows knitting together with a crinkle in his nose as his chest puffed with air, ready to argue his case until you stepped over, expression softening into something dangerously close to affection and understanding, “No, no— don't get angry. There's no need to get angry.” You cooed, shaking your head slightly with only the smallest tilt to it.
It was almost cute watching his defenses crumble before you, posture slouching and arms falling to his sides as he sighed heavily and hung his head with a pinched expression, “Look— we don't talk enough for you to know all the details, just- hand the stupid costume over.” His hand stretched out weakly, expectantly, but never got what it was waiting for.
Instead, it was met with the warmth of another— yours, cradling his gloved hand carefully like he was an overwhelmed, defeated animal who just needed some kindness, “Then let's talk…” you spoke, hushed and patient. That tone threw him off, causing his eyes to flicker open in surprise, fixed on your gentle hand that held his before meeting your gaze— and damn if that wasn't the cutest expression you've even seen him make. His blue eyes, all big and dilated like a puppy who found hope for a loving home.
"Wh— Just— talk? Like… talk-?” He stammered with awkward uncertainty laced in his tone. You just nodded before you retracted your hand to carefully fold up the costume and place it back in the box it came from, wanting to keep it safe. Then, you turned to face him, “If you're not busy, take a seat,” your head gestured to the rather spacious section of your studio that you made into your own personal relaxation place. Decorated to your liking, cozy yet classy to fit the rest of Syndrome’s modern base.
To your surprise, it was actually pretty easy to get him to settle down. He was awkward, stiff, and uncertain with every gesture and word he spoke like he wasn't used to actually talking about himself in a way that wasn't stroking his own ego or used in a monologue… but you were patient the whole time, sitting across from him with a soft expression through it all, nodding along and occasionally adding a comment or question. As he continued to talk, he became more animated and comfortable. The old fascination with Mr. Incredible coming back to him with each word that came from his lips, and soon, you could almost see the little boy he used to be. Before rejection, before this island, before the anger.
He wasn't shy about details, giving each and every one he can remember, expressing himself through hand gestures as if painting a picture of the scene as it played out. You learned a lot about him that you never once considered before— even simple things. Like his favorite snacks growing up as a kid, the collection of merchandise for Mr. Incredible, the relationship he had with his mom, rocky and a little complicated. And he talked until he got to the point of now, and only then did he fall silent, after placing careful detail into how he became rich, looking over at you with this new expression— searching for approval, praise, maybe just simple acknowledgement.
And when he saw you sitting there, slightly leaning forward like you were just waiting for the next story- expression content and interested, he paused, suddenly realizing he may have said a little too much and feeling naked under a spotlight.
He stammered a bit, eyes now flickering around, “Uh. . . But uh— I just. . .- uh..I—”
“—You're an intelligent and interesting person,” you said steadily, “Buddy.”
Syndrome completely froze up at that. Had he accidentally let his name slip somewhere in that story? Did you really just call him. . .
“Thanks—” He blurted out stiffly, voice cracking slightly to which he cleared his throat quickly-
“Thank you…” He corrected… then, his gaze fell to his lap, where his hands had balled into shy fists without him even realizing it happened, gloves creasing with each bend of his fingers.
You frowned, something tugging at your heart strings. Then you stood, approaching him and before he could even look up at the sound of your footsteps, he had arms around him.
Warm, welcoming. . . Safe—
And he found himself melting into it despite his ego demanding that he push away, preserve his whole powerful and dangerous facade and scold you for being so unprofessional. But your arms held him so carefully, the steady beat of your heart drumming in his ear and his hair being pushed out of place to accommodate the way your head rested above his.
Then he was putty in your embrace. His body slouched into you, and a soft sigh of content and maybe a little relief left his lungs. Maybe he needed to get all of that off his chest. He just needed someone who would listen to his side of the story for once.
And you did that. Not to hold it against him, not to manipulate it…but just to listen.
Who knows when you both ended up laying there on your sofa. He was still in your arms, curled up, quiet. Maybe a little embarrassed. But that didn't matter to you— you just wanted him there, stroking his long red hair slowly and humming the tune to Mr. Incredibles theme song. This was the first time in a long time Syndrome felt like he didn't have to prove himself. And it was so nice.
He could lay here forever if he could. And you'd let him, too.
All the different AUS Syndromes I could find from @wookiecookiesfactory in my style, a gift from me to her, but I must also confess that I will continue drawing them, after all I love how they look, Incrediboy looks so silly haha.
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If you have any problems with any of them, tell me and we'll sort it out ^^)/
Perdona si no los dibuje como humanos, no me sale ese estilo qwq, lo intente.
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And I've wanted to draw Syndrome fighting Mr. Incredible for a long time.
