you snooze you lose
"What If" Masterlist
<- Chapter 7. || Chapter 8. [You ARE Here] summary: Robert isn't an idiot. Allegedly. More candy, more Z-team, more worries. author's note: This took longer than I’m used to—my sleep was actually the worse and my motivation staggered for a bit, I also had this assignment that literally killed me on the inside. 😭 The recent episodes didn't help my happiness either. I became a bundle of horror sadness…. I'm all gucci now. No sweat. Anyhow, I drafted this properly on Saturday predawn (DAYS after Ch.7 came out) and it only started coming to life at like 3AM while I was half asleep then again at 5AM before I promptly fell asleep (thank goodness). But hey, it honestly made me feel better because I liked the continued plot. Apologies for the delayed update, hope you enjoy. xoxo, V [Tag List is Active/Open, Feel Free to RQ to be tagged for future updates in the comments! <3 Tell me if I missed you too!] + working on requests after this <3 I got a lot of them YIPPEEEEE SPOILERS FOR EP 5-6. CANON DIVERGENT BUT SOME INFO IS FROM THOSE EPISODES.
[wrds: 10,323 | chrs: 61,215] Short one </3
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Coming back from lunch was expectantly easy for the team.
The usual shit resuming—dealing with problems that probably could've been more efficient if people who specialized in it were called instead (tech support, plumbing emergencies, electrical issues that required actual electricians (which, Golem sure as hell wasn’t), the casual noise complaints, the boring reports of suspicious packages that turned out to be Amazon deliveries, the occasional exciting high-speed chase, the close calls that got the adrenaline pumping just enough to make the job feel worthwhile.
In other words, the usual nonsense that comes from being a hero at SDN and answering the calls of dear subscribers.
All in the name of rehabilitation! (Or rather for the money and not dealing with actually staying in prison—but it's not like any other person wouldn't do the same if given the option between freedom with supervision versus a cell and three questionable meals a day...)
But something was off.
The air felt different. Like when you can smell the rain coming before it finally begins its downpour rather than its initially predicted sprinkle. Except this wasn't weather—this was something else. Something that made veteran criminals turn paranoid, even more than usual, made reformed villains remember why they'd developed survival instincts in the first place. Second glances over their shoulder or at something they saw in their peripheral, scoping out the area, checking corners more than usual—the same things you did before you did something. Something that was often illegal but this time existing felt like a broken law.
It was actually Malevola who messaged the group chat—because of course they had a group chat, duh, what kind of team doesn't have a group chat in this day and age—while waiting at her current location to be dispatched to her next call instead of returning to SDN. She was perched on the edge of a building downtown, her tail swishing behind her with the kind of agitation that meant something was bothering her but she couldn't quite articulate what.
Malevola: tf is going on?
The phones buzzed across Torrance, drawing the attention of the reforming criminals in varying states of activity. Some were mid-patrol, others grabbing an additional snack or other from food trucks or convenience stores; just killing time between calls by doing absolutely nothing productive.
Flambae: ???
There was a pause. Then another buzz as Malevola's fingers flew across her screen, that uncomfortable feeling crystallizing into something she could finally name.
Malevola: Idk everything feels… weird
Prism: You too? Thank God I wasn't alone Thought I was going crazy
Sonar: Define weird
Malevola: Like we're being watched More than usual
Punch Up: Aren't we always being watched? That's kind of the whole dispatcher thing
Flambae: No she's right Something's off Bob's been too quiet today
Invisigal: *Robert And yeah actually Where's all the nagging?
Coupé: He congratulated me earlier For a successful extraction Without any sarcasm
Golem: That's… that's actually pretty nice though?
Coupé: It would be If it didn't feel like he was setting us up for something
The group chat went silent for a moment as everyone processed that. Because Coupé was right—Robert had been too pleasant since returning from lunch. Too accommodating. Too... normal. Which was deeply abnormal for someone who usually operated with at least three layers of sarcasm and a persistent undercurrent of "I can't believe I have to deal with you people."
Prism: Okay so we're all feeling it
Malevola: The question is WHY
Sonar: Perhaps he's finally accepted his role? Embraced the position with grace and maturity?
Flambae: Or he knows
Invisigal: Knows what exactly?
Flambae: About the medical liaison About us knowing About ANY OF IT
Various team members started typing, only to delete their responses. Because that was the real question, wasn't it? How much did Robert know? Had he figured it out? Was he putting pieces together? Was this calm demeanor just before everything came crashing down just before it could get started?
Punch Up: We've been careful though Haven't we?
Invisigal: Did you do something while you were there, Flambae???
Flambae: No! Wtf I didn't do shit Just got patched up and left Like a NORMAL person visiting medical
Invisigal: then how does he know?
Punch Up: We don't know if he knows Could just be coincidence Maybe he's having a good day?
Several people started typing responses to that pathetically optimistic statement, but before anyone could reply to Punch Up's hopeful thinking:
"What are you guys doing?"
Several bodies froze at the voice in their ears piping up through the comms. It was like witnessing a colony of odd beasts freeze after the warning sound of a predator was cried. That particular stillness that only comes from being caught red-handed—or in this case, red-screened—doing something you absolutely shouldn't be doing.
It was comical from an outside view, really.
A bunch of heroes freezing in their scattered spots across the city. Not even remotely close together but knowingly connected in the moment of ‘shit’.
Kids, really. If kids had felonies and superpowers and were technically adults but still made the same stupid mistakes, that is.
Malevola went completely rigid. Her tail stopped mid-swish, frozen in the air like a taxidermied specimen. Her phone was still in her hands, the group chat clearly visible on the screen, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard where she'd been about to type another message.
Flambae, who had been leaning against a lamp post while scrolling through his phone, actually dropped it. The device clattered to the sidewalk with a crack that suggested his screen protector had just earned its keep. "Shit—"
Prism, in the middle of taking a selfie to post later (because hero work was also personal brand maintenance), fumbled her phone so badly she nearly threw it into traffic. "Oh my god—"
Sonar, who had been in his human form and very obviously looking at his phone instead of paying attention to his surroundings, transformed instantly into his bat form—like his animal brain decided the best response to being caught was to literally become something else. The sudden transformation caused his phone to drop onto the roof he'd been standing on, the screen still lit up with the group chat. (Honestly, Sonar. Pre—ejac, I mean, Pre-transformation? Thought you had more control than that man.)
Punch Up's reaction was perhaps the most dramatic. He'd been sitting on a bench, and the surprise made him actually fall off it. Just—toppled right over backward, his short legs flailing briefly in the air before he hit the ground with a thud and a string of Irish cursing that made passing parents gasp and cover their kin’s delicate ears as they hurry past. Although he’d likely be more frustrated at no one tried to help than being scandalized at. Bunch of assholes. Lend a hand like a nice person would.
Coupé, ever the professional, simply went very still. Her expression didn't change behind her mask, but her grip on her phone tightened imperceptibly. She was already calculating—how much had he seen? How long had he been watching? What was the best way to explain this without incriminating anyone? Maybe she should just kill him like she initially planned…
Golem, bless his rocky heart, was the only one who didn't immediately panic. Mostly because his phone was had been zoomed in to maximum because he struggled with the tiny keyboard sometimes or reading the small text that caused him to hunch uncomfortably to read properly. Hence the adjustment. Which meant the group chat was comically large on his screen. He tilted his head, looking at one of the nearby security cameras with genuine confusion. But hey, smart to actually look for the first possibility of exposure.
Invisigal—who had been walking about, going in an out of invisibility while typing—froze. Flickering out of existence from pure shock, leaving but her phone floating mid-air before it bobbed in movement as she scurried to hide in the nearest alleyway.
The pause seemed to stretch.
Malevola: Maybe he isn't talking TO us??
"No, I am talking to you." Robert's voice came through the comms again, dry in that particular way it nearly infuriatingly was—dry with parts that spoke of someone amused and exasperated. Like a teacher who had just caught the entire class passing notes and was deciding whether it was worth the effort to discipline them or just let it play out for entertainment value. "All of you."
"Specifically," Robert continued, and they could hear the smile in his voice now that they all wanted to punch off, "I'm talking to whoever has their phone out right now instead of paying attention to their surroundings. Which appears to be... let me check my screens here...” he didn’t really have to, obviously, “all of you. Literally every single one of you."
The comms exploded.
"PRIVACY!" Prism's voice cut through first, sharp and indignant. "This is a violation of privacy! You can't just—"
"Can't just what?" Robert interrupted. "Monitor the team I'm dispatching? Check to make sure you're all safe and doing your jobs? Use the security cameras that are literally installed all over the city for exactly this purpose?"
"That's different!" Malevola argued, her Australian accent thickening with irritation. "Looking at our phones is—"
"Not my fault Golem's screen is the size of a billboard," Robert pointed out reasonably. "I can literally read his texts from the traffic cam angle. Not even trying to spy, it's just there. Taking up like forty percent of my monitor when the camera is pulled up."
"Oh fuck—" Golem's rumble carried embarrassment now as he snapped out of his stare, turning his back toward the camera while curved around his device like a rather odd boulder. Which isn’t entirety wrong.
"And before anyone else chimes in," Robert continued, clearly happy to point out all their mistakes, "Sonar, your phone is still on the roof displaying the chat. Flambae, you dropped yours screen-up on the sidewalk where literally anyone walking by can see it. Punch Up, you're currently lying on the ground—are you okay by the way?—with your phone three feet away, also screen-up. Malevola, you're holding yours at an angle where the sun is creating this beautiful glare directly into the camera. Very cinematic. Prism, you nearly threw yours into traffic which would have been both hilarious and expensive. Coupé, you're actually holding yours at a discreet angle, well done, except you forgot you're standing directly under a traffic light with a camera pointed down. And Invisigal—"
"I was invisible," Invisigal interrupted defensively. "You couldn’t have seen me."
"But I could see the very visible phone floating in mid-air on its own down the sidewalk because you went invisible but your phone didn't." Robert's tone was deadpan. "Really subtle. Very stealthy. Peak invisible person behavior."
There was a beat of mortified silence.
Then Invisigal turned to glare at a camera, shoving her phone into her jacket pocket like it had personally offended her. "I hate you."
"The feeling's mutual. Now—" Robert's voice took on that particular dispatcher tone that meant he was about to give orders whether they liked it or not, "—can we please get back to actual work? Or do I need to confiscate everyone's phones like a substitute teacher dealing with a classroom of teenagers?"
"You can't confiscate our phones!" Flambae protested up at the nearest camera (much to the confusion and fear of innocent bystanders), clutching his previously dropped device after trying to smudge away the new crack across the screen. "These are our personal property!"
"Then stop looking at your personal property during work hours when you're supposed to be on patrol," Robert countered. "I'm not asking for much here. Just basic attention to your surroundings. Awareness of your environment. Not texting and walking. Returning to SDN rather than wandering where you shouldn’t be. The ability to do your jobs without constantly checking your group chat."
"How do you even know it's a group chat?" Sonar asked suspiciously, collecting his phone with a talon. For if he honestly just turned back human now he’d be butt ass naked and despite what some people may think, he has decorum. No nude sun roofing unless it’s the Wednesdays or a holiday weekend.
"Because all of you stopped moving at the exact same time to look at your phones. Either you're all getting the same spam calls about your cars' extended warranties, or you have a group chat. Not exactly rocket science."
"Could be a mass text," Punch Up suggested, having finally gotten back to his feet and brushed himself off.
"From who? Each other? That's just a group chat with extra steps."
"He's got us there," Coupé admitted quietly.
Several people started trying to talk over each other through the comms—protests about privacy, arguments about monitoring, questions about what Robert actually saw, defensive explanations about why they were all on their phones at the same time that definitely weren't coordinated.
"Alright, ALRIGHT!" Robert's voice cut through the chaos. "Enough. Here's what's going to happen. You're all going to put your phones away. You're going to get back to work. And if I see anyone on their phone again for non-emergency purposes during this shift, I'm making everyone do written reports about today's activities. Detailed written reports. With proper grammar and everything."
The collective groan that went through the comms was almost musical in its harmony of despair.
"That's cruel," Malevola muttered.
"That's motivation," Robert corrected. "Now get back to work. All of you. Golem, you've got a call coming in about a collapsed storm drain. Malevola, domestic dispute, sounds like it might need your particular brand of intimidation. Prism, noise complaint at the art museum, probably nothing but someone needs to check it out.”
“Ugh, not an art museum!”
Robert pointedly ignored her groan. “Flambae—"
"I know, I know, I'm going," Flambae grumbled.
The comms went quiet as everyone got back to their actual jobs, phones disappearing into pockets and pouches and wherever else they'd been stored before the great group chat incident of Thursday afternoon.
But as soon as they were sure Robert had moved on to other things, the group chat lit up again.
Invisigal: THAT WAS TOO CLOSE
Punch Up: My arse still hurts from falling
Prism: Did he see what we were talking about though???
Sonar: Nope He mentioned the chat but not the content
Coupé: He's playing it cool Seeing if we slip up
Flambae: Or he actually doesn't know And we're all paranoid for nothing
Malevola: Since when do we get paranoid for nothing? We're criminals Paranoia is basically our love language
Golem: Sorry about the screen size thing guys Didn't realize it was that visible
Invisigal: Not your fault He would've caught us anyway Dude's like a hawk
Prism: A really annoying hawk With dispatch powers
Punch Up: Do hawks have dispatch powers?
Sonar: I think she's making a metaphor
Punch Up: Oh Right Metaphors
Coupé: Back to the original question Does he know about the medical liaison?
Malevola: If he does, he didn't mention it
Flambae: Yet
Invisigal: We need to be more careful
Punch Up: Or we could just TELL him??
There was a long pause in the chat.
Malevola: And ruin the surprise?
Prism: What surprise? We're not throwing him a party We just helped his friend get a job
Sonar: A job he doesn't know they have In his workplace Where they'll be in constant proximity
Coupé: When you put it that way It sounds worse
Punch Up: It IS worse That's the whole point Make him sweat
Golem: I thought the point was to help their friend?
Invisigal: It's BOTH We can help someone AND make Robert uncomfortable Multitasking
Flambae: I'm just here for the chaos honestly
Malevola: Shocking
Back at SDN headquarters, Robert leaned back in his chair and stared at his aged monitor. Eight different camera feeds showing eight different heroes now actually doing their jobs—after sending whatever final messages they had—instead of huddling over their phones like a bunch of teenagers. He smoothly closed them all, monitoring their GPS instead of dealing with being that creepy and tracking them with all the cameras around Torrance.
He wasn't an idiot. He'd seen the way everyone had paused, pulled up one camera then another… and one by one it became obvious they were in some sort of group chat. He hadn't been able to read the actual messages, not even from Golem’s phone—the angle was wrong, the text too small even with Golem's aggressive zoom—but he'd seen enough to know they were talking about something that warranted ALL of their attention to answer.
It didn’t help they had been previously been whining about injuries that could possibly land them visiting the infirmary or rather a visit with the Medical Liaison. With you… You.
He had just seen you but he found himself growing restless again. Something he wasn’t used to. Not with years of stakeouts and endless hours of scanning through dozens of screens at the same time—and now sitting behind a desk for most hours of the day. In other words, him sitting in one place for long periods wasn’t meant to feel so uncomfortable. Wasn’t usual to make him feel restless.Like he had to get up and pace as if he was some overexcited pup.
Robert's fingers drummed against his desk. He should be focusing on work. Should be monitoring calls, tracking the team's movements, making sure nobody was setting anything on fire or accidentally causing property damage that would require even more paperwork. Make sure his heroes are actually, y’know, doing hero work like he caught them not doing but moments ago. Gotta follow your own example, right? Do your job when on hours…
Instead, he found himself pulling up the employee directory. Scrolling through names until he found yours. Listed officially now, with your credentials and department and extension number. Additional proof that you worked here. That you existed in his professional sphere as well as his personal one.
Except the personal sphere was currently in shambles, and the professional sphere was brand new and fragile and he had no idea how to navigate it without making things worse.
He wasn’t sure if it was divine or sinful intervention when the voice crackled back into his ears.
"Uh, hey?" Flambae's voice, uncharacteristically hesitant. "I might need medical again."
Robert's hand went to his headset. "What happened?"
"Nothing! Nothing serious. Just... maybe twisted my ankle. Might've landed wrong coming out of a portal. Mal's portals are tricky sometimes—"
"I resent that," Malevola's voice cut in.
Robert sighed. “I swear,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just told you guys not to do anything that would cause injury to each other—”
“We didn’t!”
"It’s not my fault he doesn’t know how portals work.”
“My fault? How was that my fault? You’re the one that portaled me on a fucking corner with one of those shitty ass ledges—”
“And how is that MY fault? You just go through portals without looking where you’re going? What are you, five??”
“Okay. OK! Holy shit, head back to medical.” Robert interuptted the bickering. “I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
"The medical liaison specifically? Dr. Candy?" There was something odd in Flambae's tone. Something that made Robert's eyes narrow. Dr. Candy? Are you serious? It sounds like a fucking pornstar. A thought that caused him to internally groan at the imagination he truly didn’t want flashing behind his eyes of you, especially not at work. Oh my god.
Robert rubbed at his temples. "Unless you'd prefer someone else—” because he’d honestly prefer someone else, anyone else, to deal with Flamabe.
"No! No, Dr. Candy is fine. Great. Perfect. I'll head there now."
Great. He is serious with that nickname.
Robert stared at his screen. At least his suspicion was right. For whatever reason, the Z-Team had something to do with… you. Or at least had more interest and want that even Flambae complies with medical orders with more excitement than argument.
Robert pulled up the internal communication system and typed out a message to your extension:
Flambae incoming with possible ankle injury. Sorry for the repeat customer so soon.
He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Should he add something else? Something personal? Something that acknowledged the weirdness of this situation? Why is he so anxious to send a message? Would it show that he’s incapable of taking care of his team? That he is actually a horrible dispatcher and doesn’t know what he’s doing?
Before he could overthink it further, he hit send.
His finger lingered on the button, as if the computer would hesitate with him and just not send it. Of course, that’s not how it works. It sent.
It being you though, you responded quite quickly:
Ouch. Those suck. It’s okay! Things happen. Thanks for telling me, I’ll take care of him and update you! :)
That…
That wasn’t half bad.
Relieving even.
While he found himself a bit happy about the smiley face (even if it was meant in the topic of Flambae of all people), at least it didn’t seem like you were mad or overtly professional over text. You always found it hard to express through messages without things like emojis or emoticons or something akin to such—don’t want to come off serious and cause unnecessary anxiety. Former situations where he remembers you spam correcting yourself or over-explaining about whatever you said because you believed you may have come off wrong (you hadn’t); until he had to stop you before you think he hated you rather than him finding fond amusement of it all.
And maybe he hovered his cursor over the smiley face like some stupid lovesick idiot before minimizing (not closing) the tab. All whilst the Z-Team’s group chat stirred to life again.
Prism: AGAIN?????
Flambae: IT'S LEGITIMATE THIS TIMEActually hurts like a bitch
Invisigal: Sure it does
You baby dude
Flambae: I'm serious! Mal's portal was weird Landed wrong
Malevola: My portals are fine You're just clumsy
Sonar: This is the second medical visit today Robert's definitely going to notice a pattern
Coupé: He already noticed Did you hear his tone?
Punch Up: What tone?
Coupé: Suspicion He knows something's up
Golem: Or he thinks we're all just accident-prone Which, to be fair, we kind of are
Flambae: Look I'm going whether you all approve or not My ankle hurts And maybe I'll get more lollipops
Prism: BRING ME SOME
Punch Up: Me too!
Malevola: If you're taking requests Cherry flavor
Sonar: I prefer the blue raspberry If they have it
Coupé: Green apple
Golem: I'll eat whatever Not picky
Invisigal: This is ridiculous We're superheroes Reformed criminals And we're bartering for candy like children
Flambae: Your point being?
Invisigal: ... Get me watermelon flavor
Flambae: CALLED IT
Prism: We're all disasters
Punch Up: The best kind of disasters though
Invisigal: Debatable
Sonar: But also accurate
That message having the addition of some crypto-mascot gif that said ‘100%’ with rising ‘stonks’ in the background. Really just brainrot things that earned a mix of thumbs-down emojis and question marks as reactions.
Sonar simply sighed, shaking his furry head. These people just don’t get the joy that is crypto life… A bunch of incels.
(In truth, which Sonar might argue with, he is actually—very much so—closer to an incel than the rest of them… Being a crypto bro truly doesn’t help his case either.)
A long day meant a night of drinking. It’s the sacred rite.
No getting drunk—yet, the weekend starts just tomorrow—but at least getting buzzed. They went to the Sardine this time because Flambae simply can’t avoid causing trouble (in other words, he just can’t stop getting himself banned from the places they all enjoy). Obviously, they didn’t want to ditch him so they came here instead. Their other bar was closed for the night too so that meant no ‘accommodating’ seating for Golem, his big butt sitting outside. Not like he truly minds, enjoying his music—or is it poetry? Plus candy. Flambae had gave him extra, plus the others gave him the wrappers too. Both his and their mouths lingering with the flavors of sweet, sweet sugary nonsense. A not-so surprisingly good mix with some liquor combos.
"Maybe it was a mistake. Working with your ex is totally not worth it."
Prism’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation and clinking glasses that filled The Sardine's back corner. The statement hung there, casual yet pointed, like she’d been turning it over in her mind and finally decided to just throw it out into the open.
Malevola arched a brow as she looked up from her drink, stating matter of fact, "They never dated."
"Or fucked," Invisigal added, her tone matter-of-fact as she reached for the bowl of stale pretzels that had been sitting on their table since before they'd arrived. Probably dirty as fuck or drugged (both is most likely) but she couldn’t find herself to care that much right now. As long as they tasted like edible.
Several pairs of eyes snapped toward her. Flambae paused mid-sip. Punch Up's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Even Sonar tilted his head with sudden, sharp interest.
"What?" Invisigal asked, defensive now.
"How do you know that?" Flambae asked slowly, very carefully. Whether it was because he was interested in details or in general wasn’t obvious. Or maybe he was now recognizing just how much Visi uses her ability in the moment.
Voyeur nonsense or whatever it’s called.
But they also sort of knew the answer. She’s been watching them since last week, that Friday of Robert Robertson’s first day, the fall of his personal life. She knew routines, habits, the lack of interactions after Roberts’ idiotic self decided to be well, his idiotic self, and more.
But had she really... watched for that? That would be fucking weird. Even for her… eh. Sorta. Details details.
"I just... I mean, it's obvious, isn't it?" Invisigal scrambled, trying to sound confident. "Body language. Proximity patterns. The complete lack of sexual tension despite the emotional codependency."
"Proximity patterns," Punch Up repeated, deadpan. Even he wasn’t falling for this. "Right. Normal thing to notice."
Meanwhile, Sonar—far, far too curious for his own good and probably everyone else's sanity—opened his mouth to speak. His eyes had that gleam they got when he was about to dig into something he absolutely did not need to know. Anatomical details, his expression screamed. Tell me all the details you may have observed during your totally-not-creepy surveillance operation. I NEED to know!
(Fucking horn bat. Of course he wants to know if Visi watched them shower or something equally invasive.)
"Did you see—" Sonar started.
"A best friend breakup is the same thing," Prism cut in, mercifully derailing whatever deeply uncomfortable question was about to emerge from Sonar's mouth. She waved a hand dismissively, like the distinction between romantic relationships and platonic ones was purely semantic. "It's like if Flambae and I broke up."
"That'll never happen," Flambae said immediately, automatic, like it was a fundamental law of physics.
"—because I'd just kill you first—" Prisim said at the exact same time. "—because our friendship would—" Flambae continued, then stopped. Blinked. "What?"
Prism’s expression didn't change. "Hm? What?"
"What did you just say?"
"Working with your best friend is a mistake?"
Flambae's brow furrowed, suspicion creeping into his features like frost over a window. Ironic… Given he’s literal the flame dude. "After that—"
"That our friendship could never have a breakup because we're just that amazing?" Prism’s tone was so perfectly innocent it wrapped back around to being obviously suspicious.
"Oh." Flambae paused, processing, his brows drawing together as he replayed the last few seconds in his head. "Okay. Yeah. I was going to say the same thing..."
The moment stretched out, Flambae's eyes narrowing just slightly, but then he shrugged and pushed back from the table. "I need another drink. What do you fuckers want?”
Orders were taken with varying levels of 'fuck’s given’ before he stalks off.
Prism watched him go, shoulders relaxing incrementally once Flambae was out of earshot. The bar's ambient noise—someone's too-loud laugh, the crack of pool balls, the ancient jukebox grinding out something from the '90s that nobody had bothered to update on top of drunk ass karaoke on the stage—filled the gap.
Malevola leaned closer, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "Would you actually kill him if the two of you had a fallout?"
Prism didn't hesitate. "Yes." She paused, then added with a heavy, theatrical sigh, "With a heavy heart, obviously." Another beat. "But girl, he just knows too many of my secrets and I know how he can get after a breakup."
Like that time with the fire marshal's car. And the fire marshal's house. And the fire marshal's boat. Honestly, that guy had it coming, but still.
"Trust me," Prism continued, reaching for her own drink, "you don't wanna deal with that."
Malevola made a small noise of understanding, like this was a perfectly reasonable stance to take. Which, in their world, it probably was. Friendship through mutually assured destruction. How very them.
Across the table, Punch Up was shaking his head, either at the conversation or at the absolute dysfunction they all just accepted as normal. Hard to tell.
Invisigal had gone quiet, her attention drifting toward the dartboard in the corner where Coupé stood, methodical and still, studying the board like it held secrets instead of just holes from decades of bad throws.
She pushed away from the table eventually, leaving the others to their increasingly bizarre conversation about the acceptable boundaries of friendship-ending homicide, and crossed to the dartboard. The floor was sticky beneath her feet—some combination of spilled beer, whiskey, and substances she didn't want to identify.
But before she could speak, Coupé's voice cut through the space between them without the woman even turning around.
"You've yet to see them."
Invisigal's stomach did a complicated flip. Of course she noticed. She always fucking notices.
"What do you mean?" Invisigal asked, playing dumb, which they both knew she was doing.
Coupé finally turned, her expression neutral in that way that meant she was reading everything Invisigal wasn't saying. "Despite being the one to start this whole plan, you didn’t try to be the first one to meet them. Nor have you attempted to. Why?"
"What do you mean 'why'?" Invisigal's voice pitched up, defensive. "Robert has been riding our asses since he found out that we were behind this. He's probably going to try to get enough proof before showing Blazer and tossing us back into prison."
And I can't risk being there. Can't risk them seeing me and putting it together. Can't risk the look on their face when they realize what we did.
Coupé's head tilted, just slightly. "How are you sure he knows?"
Hope. Unbelievable hope suddenly filled Visi’s chest. "You don't think he does?"
"No, he does." Coupé's voice was calm, certain. Stomping out the ember of hope before it could catch. “I simply wanted to know why you thought otherwise."
Invisigal felt something deflate in her chest, her shoulders sagging. "I don't think he doesn't, I—..." She paused, fingers fidgeting with one of the darts she'd picked up from the worn wooden ledge. "I guess I hoped. He didn't." Another pause, heavier. "At least not this soon."
She'd underestimated him like an idiot. She knows who he is even if the others don't, the guy is a hero. A real one. One that she treated like he was an a newbie. Not one that understood how to uncover secrets long buried thanks to being pushed onto a pedestal young.
She underestimated him.
Despite knowing full well who he really was. What he was capable of when he actually gave a shit about something.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
Amateur mistake.
"You're more scared of the consequences they may face, not us."
It wasn't a question. Coupé didn't do questions when she already knew the answer.
Invisigal twisted the dart between her fingers, the metal cool and slightly sticky. "It's not like I don't care what happens to us. Obviously I do." She lined up a throw, not really aiming, just needing something to do with her hands. "We're finally doing shit right. Or trying to. So it'd fucking suck if we lost it all."
The first dart flew, straying wide, barely managing to hit the right side of the board with a pathetic thunk.
"But what happens to them?" The words came faster now, like a dam breaking. "What happens when they find that out?" She grabbed another dart, gripping it too tight. "Then they'll think 'Hey, I'm not actually as great as I thought I was and instead a bunch of criminals forged papers just to get back at their boss.'"
The second dart hit, but only barely—catching the very edge near the bottom, tilting at an angle that suggested it might fall out at any moment.
"'Not because they cared but because they didn't want this asshole around anymore. So in reality, I was never wanted in the first place. I was never actually—'"
Her wrist was caught mid-motion, firm but not painful. Invisigal's eyes snapped up to meet Coupé's masked face.
Coupé's expression remained neutral, unreadable and almost eerily aglow at this angle. "We never did it to get back at him, not really."
Invisigal tried to pull her hand back, but Coupé held firm.
"We did it because you spent days watching someone you believed deserved better. Came out of your lone wolf solitude and asked for help—not for yourself, but for someone else."
Coupé carefully plucked the dart from Invisigal's fingers, turning it around with deliberate precision. The point had been facing toward Invisigal's face, not the board. Each pull-back of her arm had been bringing it unknowingly closer to her eye—edging closer and closer to piercing her like some olive on a toothpick.
Shit. I wasn't even—I didn't realize—
"We don't know what they will say or think if they ever do find out how their job came to be," Coupé continued, her voice even, measured. "But we do know—you were right."
She released Invisigal's wrist, letting her fingers settle more comfortably on the dart.
"They deserved better. And you helped them get it."
"It doesn't change the fact we're criminals and did illegal shit—" Invisigal protested, but her voice had lost its edge, gone hollow.
"No. It doesn't." Coupé nodded toward the dart, signaling for the other to throw it. To try again. "But it's not like they see us as criminals."
The dart flew. Hitting the board with a thunk. It wasn't dead center, couldn't be with the way Visi’s mind was racing. But it wasn't off the edge or the wall; so that's better.
"How do you know that?" She asks softly, watching as Coupé stalked toward the board. Smoothly collecting the darts despite her entire being having a collection of blades to wield and throw. Partaking in an actual game.
"Because you weren't the only one stalking."
Coupé stated simply, returning to the non-existent line of distance of the board.
Invisigal's head whipped around. "I wasn't stalking. I was..." She faltered, searching for the right words, for some way to frame months of surveillance and boundary-crossing observation as anything other than what it was. Which was useless, because this conversation had happened before. Just last weekend.
Fuck.
"Stalking," Coupé finished, not unkindly. The dart she launched—with precision and control—embedding dead center, it’s thud echoed the finality of the statement.
Invisigal stared at the board, at the perfect throw, at the casual display of skill that Coupé wielded like she wielded everything else—effortlessly. "When did you—" Invisigal started.
"Monday. Before the offer was delivered.” Coupé examined one of the darts, frowning at a bent tip. "While they were still working at the clinic.”
Invisigal tried to picture it. Coupé, out of costume, stripped of her usual monochrome assassin aesthetic. No mask, no wings, no following darkness that are her shadows. Just... a person. Walking into the clinic where you worked, where you helped people who couldn't afford real healthcare or couldn't risk going to a hospital with questions about how they got injured.
"You went to the clinic," Invisigal said slowly. "As yourself."
"I needed stitches." Coupé remarked simply. "Seemed efficient to address both needs at once."
"What did you—did they recognize you? Did you—" Questions that didn’t truly make sense but when you’re in this state, thoughtful questions are confusing to articulate.
"Then? No. Now? Most likely.” The dart is twirled between her fingertips. A thoughtful gleam in those yellow eyes. “I told them my real name.”
Invisigal felt her jaw drop. Actually drop. "You what?" Because telling someone your real name, in their line of work, especially Coupé was… well, it could be suicide. It is suicide. Visi doesn’t even know Coupé’s name, hell, she doesn’t even know the rest of the teams name. Their titles feeling more and more like their truth than the actual truth.
Coupé shrugged, the movement small, controlled. "It was weird." She paused, and for the first time since they'd started talking, something shifted in her expression. Not quite discomfort, but close. An uncertainty that didn't belong on someone so perpetually composed. "But it felt right at the time."
She still couldn’t explain why. A conflicted flex of emotions that was usually unnatural for Coupé. It didn’t feel wrong, per se. Even though it should. You had been taking care of her, making sure she wasn’t in too much pain, focusing on her well being without question of how or why because you clearly could tell she didn’t want to say. And you accepted that. Your expression soft and understanding even with the exhaustion under your eyes from sleepless nights. Most of which, if Visi’s previous comments were anything to go by, was because of your dragged on crying over the Z-Team’s new dispatcher. Yet you were still at work even in your own emotional turmoil, even if the job itself lacked the purpose it originally had now that you returned to the real world alone.
"Right," Invisigal echoed, disbelieving. "You told them your actual name. The one you've kept hidden for—how long has it been? Ten years? Fifteen?"
"Told them some things I probably shouldn't have too." Coupé lined up another dart, but didn't throw it yet. "I initially believed they may have had an ability. Something to cause an unnatural sense of vulnerability and influence you to confess."
That would make sense. That would make so much fucking sense. Invisgal thinks. Because why didn't she think of that? Why only now was that a thought? Some kind of empathy manipulation, trustworthiness aura, something to explain why everyone who spent time with them ended up spilling their guts like confessional booths had gone mobile.
"And?" Invisigal pressed, leaning forward.
"Nothing." Coupé threw the dart. Another perfect hit, just left of the occupied center. "I found nothing that pointed to being enhanced. No form of manipulation or supernatural ability.” And she had looked into it, extensively. Violated more laws than was initially necessary for this mission just to sate her curiosity. She covered her tracks, of course. In this system, it’s unlikely anyone would’ve ever expected it or ever find out less through a confession.
“They're just... them."
Not eloquently put, but it worked. It fit.
Just them. No powers. No manipulation. Just a person who gave a shit and somehow that was enough to make hardened criminals want to be better.
— “Janelle.” she had said while you were finishing up. “My name is Janelle. Not Maria.”
You had looked up, confused, surprised, followed by a softening that could be described as a a buzz of pleasure. If you had a tail it probably would’ve been swooshing happily in that moment. As if you had won gold at simply being trusted enough to know someone’s name. Their true self. Which, I suppose is practically the same. Especially with how you seem to look at things.
“It’s nice to meet you, Janelle.” You had said simply, softly, warmly, before returning to your task. Making sure she had things necessary for pain management. She didn’t need the pills, not really, but she took them anyway. Agreed to return if anything bad happened. Ring you, even. In another life, and maybe a bit in this one, Coupé would’ve found not only herself but you sloppy. Giving your number to some possible criminal just because you want to make sure they have someone to call? What if they abuse it? Use it to lure you to your doom? Or something equally heinous? Did you truly not care that much if it meant taking care of people in the end?—
Coupé, who had retrieved the darts again and was holding them out in offering to Invisigal now.
"Your turn."
Invisigal took them, the metal warm from Coupé's hands. She lined up a throw, actually trying this time, and managed to hit somewhere in the general vicinity of where she'd been aiming.
"Improvement," Coupé noted.
"Don't patronize me."
"Wasn't. Observation."
And oddly enough, Visi—or perhaps more so Courtney—found a warmth curling in her chest. Something that made her straighten up and her expression soften just so.
“Do you regret it?” Invisigal asked, lining up for another shot. “Telling them your name?”
Coupé was silent for a moment. Not hesitant. Just pausing evenly, as she often did. “No.” Her word ringing true. “I don’t regret it.” This time this was a pause, this time it was hesitant, as if unsure she’d be taken seriously. “It was refreshing, actually.”
Invisigal didn’t need an explanation on why. Because she understood. It’s exposing yourself to your bone. Names have power. You either carry them in dark secret or find others to embrace them. Even if it meant keeping it a little hush hush from the rest of the world.
"You owe me drinks," Coupé commented after a moment, casual, like she hadn't just dropped a bomb about infiltrating the very person's life they'd been trying to protect from exactly that kind of thing. As if she hadn’t just confessed to Visi about confessing to a literal stranger about her deepest secret (her name) and even more simply because it felt ‘right.’
"Drinks? Plural?" Invisigal scoffed, but it was lighthearted, the tension that had been coiling in her chest since this whole conversation started finally beginning to unwind. "Why? Because you gave me a pep talk and it painfully lightened the darkness on your soul?"
"Yes."
The simple affirmation made Invisigal laugh—actually laugh, the sound surprised out of her.
"Fine." She threw another dart, this one going wider than the first. "Just turn away when you do end up throwing up."
"I don't get sick."
"Everyone gets sick. Especially you.”
"Not me." Coupé's voice held the faintest hint of smugness. "Superior metabolism."
"Superior bullshit," Invisigal muttered, but she was smiling now, mouth quirked up at the corners.
Maybe it'll be okay. Maybe they won't hate us. Maybe Coupé's right and they really do see us as more than just criminals playing dress-up in hero costumes.
Maybe.
Invisigal had laughed more with Coupé as they played a couple more rounds. The conversation, not only with the two of them but the others, drifting after that. Bullshit encounters, funny things, the bar’s new martini flavors, whether the fish in the tank (for there is a fish tank near the pool tables) were actually the same fish or if one of the employees kept replacing them when they died (current consensus: definitely replacing them, possibly monthly).
"You really think they'll be okay?" Invisigal asked quietly, just one last time, after some games passed. Just one more reassurance, so quietly that even with Sonar's enhanced hearing across the room, he wouldn't catch it under the ambient noise.
Coupé was silent for a long moment, retrieving the darts one final time. When she spoke, her voice was equally low. "I think they're stronger than Robertson gives them credit for. Stronger than we give them credit for." She paused. "And I think they've already survived worse than finding out some criminals gave a shit about them."
From your mouth to whatever deity is listening.
"Come on," Coupé said, normal volume now. "You promised me drinks. And I'm going to hold you to plural."
"How many are we talking?"
"Enough that you stop spiraling about hypothetical conversations that haven't happened yet."
"So like, eight minimum."
"At least."
As she walked away, Invisigal’s gaze flickered over to the party’s booth. Finding herself smiling in vague fondness at the controlled chaos around it.
They're getting comfortable, Invisigal thought, watching Punch Up laugh at something Flambae said while Malevola rolled her eyes with fond exasperation. Too comfortable. That's dangerous. Comfortable means careless. Careless means we fuck up.
But underneath the cynicism was something else, something she refused to acknowledge directly: relief. They were comfortable because they felt safe. Here, in this shitty bar, with each other. They'd built something—not quite friendship, not quite family, but something in that undefined space between. Something fragile and strange and probably doomed, but real.
She would resettle with Coupé, no one questioning where they had gone or what they had talked about. Simply welcoming them without the extravagance of nosiness that was unnecessary.
She took a sip of her drink for the first at one point—more of a watered down whiskey than one on the rocks now—as she lets the conversation flow through her veins. Warming her blood greater than any hard liquor.
"—absolutely could take a shark," Punch Up was insisting, gesturing wildly. "Size doesn't matter if you know where to hit—"
"Size always matters," Malevola countered. "This is basic physics—"
"I'm talking about technique—"
"You're talking about fantasy," Sonar interjected. "A Great White would eat you before you landed a punch."
"Not if I punched it in the nose first—"
“Like hell you’re reaching it’s nose before it reaches you.” Flambae interjects.
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Your arms are short. Too short to even reach a Great White’s nose. You would have to leave it to the big guns—”
“And you are the big guns?” A dismissive scoff. “Ah, sure. The thing would just put you out and then you’re a soggy cigarette in our way—”
They're idiots, Invisigal thought affectionately. Complete fucking idiots.
Coupé caught her eye from across the table, one eyebrow raised in a silent question: You good?
Invisigal nodded slightly, lips quirking. I'm fine.
The assassin—or rather former assassin—let her lip quirk in a slight smile. Chin dipping in acknowledgement, her and Invisigal’s glasses inclined in a silent cheer.
Outside, Golem waited in the alley, too large to fit through the door, content to sit in the cool night air and count stars while his friends drank themselves into poor decisions inside. He'd get the recap later. He always did.
And somewhere across the city, in a small apartment a certain dispatcher laid on the cold floor, phone resting against his chest like some pathetic lifeline to a world that had moved on without him.
Robert Robertson, former pilot of the Mecha Man suit that had saved countless lives, defender of the fucking Los Angeles, reduced to this.
Eyes heavy-lidded, Robert found himself staring at the ceiling. A scenario that had been more frequent and familiar in the past seven days than it had been in years. Since before the job, really. Before everything went to absolute shit. The ceiling’s water damage, one that seemed to have been the very metaphor of all that has happened, is too blended in for him to notice where it began or ends anymore. The closed curtains—cheap things really, he can’t remember where he bought those, maybe he wasn’t even the one to buy them—keeping the light out of the apartment from the balcony.
He was still in his SDN shirt. The fabric clung to him, slightly damp with sweat from the day's shift, the SDN logo across his chest wrinkled. He'd stripped his pants the moment he'd gotten home, leaving him in just his boxers because if you have no one—no best friend to impress, but even then... were you ever truly impressing them, Robert?—what's the point of wearing clothes?
Not like he had the necessary room to invite anyone over anyway.
The thought settled in his gut like a stone.
He should've felt embarrassed at the state that was himself and his 'home.'
He had been, many blue moons ago, when you first started coming over. You had known about the Mecha Suit for awhile so obviously, that didn’t matter. You had known about the shitty financial struggles of upholding the mantle but it was different when you actually see the it, right? Instead of the words and self-deprecating comments that mix in with the ‘funny’ stories he used to tell. All funny stories about his life.
You looked around the apartment with those eyes—those fucking eyes that saw everything, that never judged but always worried—and Robert had wanted to sink through the floor.
"It's temporary," he'd said then, like a liar. Like someone who had a plan, a future, anything beyond this.
"Hey, no judgment," you'd replied. "I've seen worse."
You had though, despite what Robert may have thought. Thinks. Seriously, this wasn’t bad. It was better for most standards in LA. Just… lonely. Which, either way, it didn’t make Robert feel any better. His grown age (for that’s how he always held himself) and he couldn’t even keep a couch. Couldn't even thrift one like the many times you suggested he should.
"I saw this couch at the Goodwill on Fifth," you'd said once, scrolling through your phone to show him a picture you'd taken. "Sixty bucks. It's in decent shape, just needs a good cleaning. I could help you move it."
"I don't have sixty bucks," Robert had replied, which was true. "And it wouldn't fit."
"It would if we—"
"It wouldn't fit," he'd repeated, sharper than he'd meant to. The apartment was too small. Everything was too small. His life had shrunk down to this pathetic box and he couldn't even afford to fill it with the basic shit that normal people had.
You'd dropped it after that. Changed the subject to something lighter, easier. You were good at that. Good at knowing when to push and when to let things go.
But you never truly judged him for it.
You worried, of course you did. Because he never gave you a reason not to. Even as you were dragged on this rollercoaster that his life. He hadn’t asked for it, sure. But you sure as hell hadn’t asked for it either. Making him something he hated. Something that only broke you apart because of that stupid, stupid fucking Friday. After everything, it was that Friday. Some people would argue that it was just a single thing. That they should get over it. But that’s not something you say. Especially not from his mouth and to your ears. To your face. That’s like ultimate asshole-toxic move.
Robert's phone buzzed against his chest, the vibration pulling him partially out of his spiral. He didn't look at it. Didn't want to. It was probably work, some schedule change or update he didn't give a shit about. Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just the phone's way of reminding him it existed, that the world was still turning even though he was lying here in his underwear feeling sorry for himself.
The memory crept in unbidden, unwanted, but persistent.
"This would look sick on your wall," you would say, both teasing and genuine as you stopped your flipping through those example posters at Target. One of those little displays where a bunch of them were framed and you could move through them like it's a picture book. The plastic numbers corresponding with the sections of rolled up, plastic-sealed posters below. Most of which were probably not in the right place or even numbered right because it was Target and nothing was ever where it was supposed to be. Making you kneel or sit there thoroughly examining each plastic strangled paper that probably been grabbed by who-knows till you found the prize you really wanted.
You'd been looking at a Godzilla poster. The classic one, the monster rising from the ocean with the city burning behind him. Dramatic and over-the-top in the way only those old movie posters could be.
Robert remembered standing close to you. Too close, probably, but you hadn't moved away. The store had been busy, people brushing past them in the aisle, but it had felt like they were in their own little bubble. Your shoulder had been warm where it pressed against his arm.
"I think I'd be called a 'poser,'" he murmured, reaching over to push the one you were viewing further back. He was close to you then. Chest brushing to your back, and he could smell your shampoo—something clean and simple, unscented almost, but distinctly you. Yet, back then, neither of you seemed to have minded the proximity. Or at the very least it wasn't as mind-boggling to him as it became when jealousy started to surface, when he realized what he was feeling went way beyond friendship and into territory he had no right to explore. "I've never watched Godzilla."
"Okay, One. Don't ever say 'poser,' again. Sounds so weird coming from you." You laughed, and the sound had hit him square in the chest. It always did. Your laugh was ridiculous and genuine and it made him want to say stupid shit just to hear it again. "And two, you're such a loser. You haven't watched Godzilla? Your whole thing is like perfect for fighting against Godzilla."
He'd felt the warmth of you against him, the casual way you leaned back into his space like it was natural, like you belonged there.
"Okay. One rude thing after another doesn't ease the pain," he chuckled, and he remembered how easy it had been to smile then. How light he'd felt despite everything. "And do I need to remind you that the suit isn't exactly 300 feet Zilla over here—"
"Depends which version you're talking about. You could totally take on a hundred-footer OG Godzilla."
The certainty in your voice. Like you believed it. Like Robert Robertson in his daddy’s Mecha Suit could take on a monster.
"And I'm the loser," he grumbled, earning a light-hearted glare from you. But that smile—your beautiful smile—spoke of your lack of offense. You'd narrowed your eyes in that playful way, the corners of your mouth twitching like you were fighting not to laugh again. He mirrored the expression, eyes narrowed, and for just a moment everything had been perfect. The two of you facing off like two silly, judgemental cats before laughing and hurrying along to get what you two actually came for.
Robert draped his arm over his eyes now, blocking out the water-stained ceiling and the harsh reality of his shithole apartment. His lower back ached from the flat surface, the cheap surface doing absolutely nothing to cushion his spine, but he couldn't find himself to care.
Not when there was a warmth that caressed at his chest, sprawling and splaying against his skin like a living thing at such a fond memory.
Something so simple.
Talking over fucking silly posters at Target felt like damnation to him now. A possession that brought him agony knowing that he was at fault. That he'd taken those moments—those perfect, simple, easy moments—and destroyed them through his own stupidity and fear.
You'd never bought the Godzilla poster. At least not to knowledge. He'd never bought anything to put on these bare walls. The apartment remained as empty as it had always been, because Robert Robertson was apparently committed to living like someone who didn't plan to stick around.
The floor was cold beneath him. Hard and unforgiving. Nothing like the warmth of having you sprawled next to him, the weight of you against his side, anchoring him to something real. That morning—fuck, was it really just this morning?—when you'd been there on his floor, when Beef had been curled up between you, when everything had felt impossibly fragile but also impossibly right.
I’m sorry.
Two words he’s written again and again within the span of 24 hours among the chaos of other things. Only 24 hours, he curses himself. Only today because he couldn’t let himself to get ‘distracted’ when he had his first proper week on the job to focus about. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Not with you now working at SDN. Not with you two now being coworkers. A newbie that his team apparently is actually genuinely excited to exist in the same proximity as. There had been no shit talk like his first day of work. No speculation or harsh words that were meant to drive you away—which would’ve been done still despite you not being at all part of that conversation to hear, for that’s just how they are.
At least, that’s how they usually are.
Maybe it was simply because you weren’t a dispatcher. You weren’t someone who was there to put a headset on and order them about. Rather your whole purpose was to treat them like people. Like beings worth of the second chances they were promised. Not little solders (which Robert has been easing up on) but rather those who are… actively in rehabilitation. Listen to what they have to say, make sure they’re happy—actually happy, not pretend happy—and ensure their work environment is healthy. While the team has grown to respect Robert, or at the very least tolerate him, you could have a different power than him with (not over) them. Different power than Blonde Blazer even. Because that power dynamic was a whole other mess too, wasn’t it? Blazer is a hero, sure. A well established one. One that has earned respect. But she’s also a hero with that persona engraved into her, someone who is a bit detached because media of heroism sort of makes you different. On top of being their literal parole officer?
SDN is a lot more complicated than he initially expected it to be.
He should’ve listened to you.
Should’ve talked to you about it.
Gave you a damn chance to overthink for once, to search up like you always did (despite that allegedly being his expertise) to ensure it was right for him. Not in the sense of him being incapable of doing it, but whether or not it was worth it in the end. Because while you had been stuck in a never ending loop of shitty jobs, you always tried to make sure he (or anyone else) ever had to deal with that too.
He blinks, craning his head back till his upside down vision lands on Beef. The dog snoozing contently, chin resting on a mini stuffed animal. he had been tuckered out by the time he came around to pick him up. You had been preparing to leave for the night, all the while with Beef in your arm like he was a baby demanding to be carried while they slept and will scream bloody murder if you set them down—even for a second. The transfer had been easy, whether it was because Beef would see you again tomorrow or thanks to the little stuffed animal you gifted the chonk (or maybe both), Robert wasn’t sure. He just knew Beef had a perfect little day with you. A perfect little day that Robert wished he had been part of.
The two of you had walked out of work together. Took the elevator together. Shared conversation, casual conversation, anything that you could speak about your day that wouldn’t violate HIPPA. It was nice. You had even walked him to his car.
Your voice softening then when you whispered a farewell to Beef too, “Sweet dreams, baby. See ya tomorrow.” Your hand having bestowed some final pets and chin scratches before pulling away. “Night, Robert.”
You’ve said that same line before, many times. Night, Goodnight, Sweet Dreams, Rest Well… All the variants, used interchangeably. So why had it hurt that time?
“Night—” his echo was delayed. Leaving him standing there stupidly, Beef in arms, backpack on shoulder, watching as you stalked off into the parking lot. A bit tired but never like you used to be. Even smiling as Waterboy hurried after you because I guess the two you carpool. Because you’re coworkers and friends. Because in this economy and environment, it’s just better to do. Even with your anxiety behind the wheel. Even with your anxiousness of what-if’s. But with Waterboy—who you called something else, something Robert didn’t quite catch but knew started maybe with an H—you seemed fine. The two of you laughing as you made your way to your Toyota.
Robert got jealous again. Of course he had. But that time he hadn’t bared his teeth.
Instead he… sulked, I suppose. Basked in the night, under the parking lot lights, in the near-empty space. Before finally, getting in his car and driving home.
And now he’s here. A sack of a sorry excuse sleeping on the floor.
And message that went ignored would disappear by morning.
Deleted.
You snooze you lose.
author's note: I was lowkey imagining giving Golem an ipad and sort of turning him into like one of those 'ipad kid' stereotypes but I just might save that for his Kaiju child. Who knows. Also finale of the game coming up. That's crazy. I was gonna sort of rant but I'll leave that for another chapter, lol. Following chapter will likely result in more of Robert being awkwardly there, cockblocked (unintentionally by a recently broken up alien) and whatever else comes to mind. I am also working on some requests that I'm getting in from tumblr so those might come around following this post. Can't leave my requesters hanging </3. Obv they'll be posted on here too so don't worry about switching around if you don't want to! :0 …I find it funny bc technically Rob gave Golem liquor during that one scene despite him being underage. YES, I know he's a construct, it's a villain bar, whatever… But obv the laws still apply to a construct. My friend also told me I should write a scene eventually where Robert has a wet dream of reader instead of the Invisigal scenario (given I'm not doing that route anyway) and lowkey………LOWKEY might…might…. Also sorry for the chapter being short. I def was not in my up game the past three chapters/
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