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@thefireandtheblame
πππΌππ½πΌπ ৑ && π ππ΅πΈπ π π ππ΅πΈπ ππππ πΌπΌπΌ
β β β β β β β‘ written by ren β‘ established 12.22.25 25+ β‘ he/him β‘ PT
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you know the drill : rules
Okay, but like seriously... how many people are actually into this? Us?
does number 24 mean nothing to you, robbo, am i just a joke to you
Your name is literally Flambae.
THAT'S BESIDES THE POINT!!
our interest check can be found right here
happy #nationaltwinkieday
Been quiet on here because of a family emergency. That's all I care to say on the matter.
(If you're looking for me because we've written together in the past, feel free to message me or like this post and I'll reach out! I've just been trying to balance things.)
ORANGE EYES LIGHT UP at the whiskey dick comment, grin widening wolfishly, like Robert's just lobbed him a live grenade and Flambae's delighted to catch it bare handed. of course he says some shit like that. of course he makes self deprecation sound like β¦ foreplay, or something. Flambae should really start questioning why his brain goes there.
"really..." he drawls mockingly and entirely too pleased, accent thickening around the syllables; "you been tryin'?" his gaze drags, unhurried, from Bobert's face down his whole ... loser getup and back up again. he didn't even bother to fucking change from his work clothes for his own housewarming, while Flambae spent an hour in the mirror engineering the exact fuckin' ratio of chest, hair and nipples. now he feels stupid.
he hears the snort, and freezes for a moment; then his own mouth quirks, traitorous, even though whatever sarcasm Robert was going for just sails clean over his head. he's not a smart man, not like this - in the overthinking, five-steps-ahead way; half the time he's just reacting and praying it lands.
"did you just fuckin' laugh at your own joke?" he steps forward, crowding the doorway like he owns it now, his heat bleeding subtly into the air between them. "christ, Bobert, that's tragic." it comes out dismissive, but there's something under it, more β¦ braced.
because there it is. the thing sitting between them heavier than the mech sized tension. mecha man. the confession still rattles around in his head like a loose fucking screw. it is you, you little shit. that burning building, the moment he went past fire and into something feral and white-hot and empty, the plasma slicing through flesh and bone and desperation; that pain stopped him from crossing a line he couldn't uncross. the way he'd snapped after the team bonding bar fight, trying to fuckin' incinerate him on reflex, the shame and anger and maddening isolation of that outburst still crawling under his skin like fire with nowhere to go. he fucking hated him for that, still kind of does.
but ... Robert stands there now, all soft eyes and offering beer like he isn't the goddamn reason he's standing in a doorway at a housewarming instead of rotting in a cell or in the ground; like he didn't barely survive a torching attempt. it makes something twist ugly in his gut. gratitude and resentment don't mix well, they just sit there and fizz. and he doesn't have the fuckin' wiring to sort that out right now, so his brain is just telling him to make another dick joke instead.
his attention drifts to the counter, then back. his jaw works like he's chewing on something he won't say. this is not the time, nor the place. "yeah. gimme a beer." he finally relents, moving to brush past him, close enough to bump shoulders on purpose. it's obvious the vibe's shifted; the noise of the party's gone weirdly muted, like something happened and everyone collectively decided to pretend they didn't see it - and to give them two idiots a wide berth, just in case there's another explosion.
he grabs a bottle and pops it open with a flick of heat at the cap, metal pinging somewhere onto the counter. "--and don't get it twisted." he adds in an attempt to sound casual, not looking at him, eyes on the amber liquid instead, watching the way it sloshes as if it might spell something out for him. "I'm only here because some other plans fell through." another paper-thin lie. the only plans that fell through tonight were the ones where he didn't show up; and he's not smart enough to know what the fuck what they're supposed to do now.
"--anyway, the fuck happened in here? do I even wanna know, or is it just you being shit at throwin' parties?"
Yeah, he'd like that one, wouldn't he? Robert's doing his job for him, just like he's been wanting to since day one: Get back out in the field, be a fucking hero, make something of yourselfβ
The exhaustion in his bones shows through his skin, in the way that his shoulders round inwards, like his lungs are ready to give and collapse. Absent-mindedly, he lifts the side of his amber bottle to his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut until the pain becomes relief.
He's gonna need a second pair of eyes to tell him how sad it is to be icing his chin with beer.
"Gotta find the silver lining to all this," he breathes out, devoid of any life. Of any fight left in him.
Courtney took all that with her, storming off with anger in her veins, the same kind that had made Robert run. (Just because he's not as fast as Chase doesn't mean he can't run farther, too far to be found.) No doubt that's what she's up to now.
He turns towards the fridgeβRobert catches himself on the kitchen counter, pausing at the ledge. Right. He should worry less about Courtney and worry more about himself, in case Flambae decides to beat him to a pulp.
With a grunt, Robert forces himself up, rummages through the fridge, and wordlessly pops open the cap on the edge of the counter that's clean enough to eat off ofβbecause that's how little Robert makes use of it. All signs of life are absent: No food, no stains, no dust.
He holds the beer out to his volatile unwanted guest and waffles for a second, wondering if there's any point to keeping secrets within the team. Robert scrubs at his face and lets his hand catch through his hair. Sighing, he breathes out, "Chase said some fucked up shit to Vis. She stormed out. Youβyou really didn't miss much..." And then he drinks. And drinks. And drinks. Until he needs to breathe.
Robert lets out a sigh that brings him no reprieve.
"I guess from your perspective, your timing couldn't have been any better. You've got me aaaaaall to yourself," - Robert smiles at him, through half-lidded eyes, transforming his self-deprecation into a lack of self-preservation - "No witnesses."
"At least in running there is movement. Whether it is away from something, or towards it."
"You, on the other hand, stagnate. You linger. You wait for the world to move you, so that you do not have to go through the hardship of moving. Pacifism will kill you."
"Patience may be a virtue, but sloth is a sin."
The more Crane talks, the more Robert disengages: His anger simmers into detached dissonance, the fire in his eyes darkening to cold embers. He clicks his tongue before letting out a dry laugh, unimpressed. What the man thinks is poetry - the proper way of the world - is nothing more than self-serving ego.
What a wicked worldview.
"And here I thought you had something worthwhile to share. Turns out, you just like the sound of your own voice. I think that puts you at even lower than 'two-bit', Crane."
Robert is used to Chad's hostility. Robert can't blame him for his ire. After all Robert literally cut off a few of his fingers. His former fight with Flambae certainly wasn't his best moment. He let his anger and frustration get the better of him. He shouldn't have cut off his fucking fingers. It deserves an apology.
"I can tell you're pissed at me." He remarks, headset notably both turned off and set aside so this conversation can remain private. "And your anger made me realize I never apologized for cutting your fingers off. I shouldn't have done it. There was no excuse for cutting your fingers off. I'm sorry." His gaze drifts to his own hands, scarred but in tact. "You can hit me if it would make you feel better but you might want to do it by the water cooler because that's where the camera's blindspot is."
What?
Why is Robert bringing upβ?
Chad starts to sputter, his disbelief spilling out in short rapid bursts, as quick as his breaths come. Whatever words he's grasping for, he can't hold onto: They spill out of his hands sooner than his brain can make sense of anything, and all he's managed to do is spit everywhere like a straight guy. Not cute.
"Can you chill for like, two fucking seconds? If I wanted to hit you, I'd have done it already, you freak." He means 'glutton for punishment', but that's too many words for his racing thoughts right now.
"Youβyou actuallyβI-I'm still pissed at you!" Flambae jabs a finger at his chest. "This doesn't change anything!"
It changes everything.
Thera's phone is burning a figurative hole in her pocket by now, the number for SDN's night dispatch dancing in her imagination. The latch pops and she shoots a look sidelong, watching the bouncer turn to go back inside - promising, perhaps, but part of her is still getting ready for a black-and-white with LAPD on the side.
She's aware of Flambae charging toward her, and it's possibly the happiest she's ever seen him look. Which makes it a bit of a shame, really, when she rummages in the glovebox, finds his key fob and throws it at him like the first pitch at the World Series.
"You're the dickhead who locked these in the car, you don't 'deserve' to know anything!" She takes a breath, twenty minutes of tension let go in that one explosive burst. Then another, inhaled through her nose, and, "Yes." Yes. She has more tangled up in her past than he could likely imagine, and there's a reason she doesn't mention it. "Plus I was old when cars were invented, I've had a lot of practice along the way."
Everything goes up in smoke, metaphorically anyway. Flambae purses his lips, looking thoroughly admonished even though, as far as he can tell, he didn't do anything wrong. Like, shit happens. Somethings your keys mysteriously wind up in the glovebox and no one's at fault for that, you know?
He looks around, waiting for her frustration to dissipate, then clicks his tongue. "I forget you're like old-old. Don't act it." Flambae's smart enough not to tack on 'don't look it', too.
"Do I gotta smooth things over with a late-night snack...?" he offers, already pulling out his phone to navigate to Yelp.
@starsuaved claims:
" I didn't do anything! he was like that when I got here. "
Robert stares at Flambae, in a puddle of water, feeling a really, really weird sense of dΓ©jΓ vuβnope. Can't be dΓ©jΓ vu if this has happened before.
Holding in a sigh, he tosses a look at Starstruck from behind the rim of his coffee mug and slurps. Sounding none too thrilled, Robert voluntells the newbie to get a move on, "Great. I could definitely use your help carrying him to the infirmary. Let's go."
the laugh that escapes her is naught else but an exhalation, one that borders on being a sigh, and she reaches over to pinch one of the leaves of the plant between her fingers. not pullingβΈΊ simply gliding her thumb over the waxy surface and deliberately avoiding his eyes. a distraction. or at the very least, a paltry excuse for one.
" message sent. " she says, unfaltering and firm. a crease forms between her brow, a tell that she's thinking TOO HARD about something that goes unsaid.
" . . . the team went through a lot of changes while i was gone, " her frown deepens, " better, in some aspects. worse in others. and you've got the suit back, don't you? " she drops her hand to the desk and needles, " how long do you plan on babysitting the z-team, robert? "
She clearly disapproves of Waterboy, whichβunderstandable. But the kid deserves a chance, and he's not going to let Coop of all people take that away from him when the guy's not even in the room.
Just as he's about to jump to Waterboy's defense, Coop shifts tactics and Robert nearly trips over the conversation, metaphorically or otherwise. He parts his lips, hesitates, then glances away.
"I don't see my job as a babysitting. Not anymore at least."
He hasn't for months. The people he works with... they're his friends.
"Why, am I being overbearing with the plant?"
Sorry for the wait on replies ; v; the fanfic bug got me fierce and I've been working on Dispatch fics...! I don't know if I'll be able to sit down and write this weekend either - curse you, Valentine's Day... - but I am open to plotting with new/recent followers!
A GUFFAW CRACKS OUT OF HIM, the automatic kind that usually does the job of keeping things light and safely unserious. yeah, that's funny, that's dry and bleak. that's very Robert - fuckin' evasive, just clever enough to feel like he's still in control. and then it thins out, catches a little on the way back in. because beneath the joke there's something he recognises before he wants to, the flat self-deprecation used as a shield to pre-empt concern. he's been there. that shit isn't sexy. it's not banter and easy fuck-me energy. it's the kind of joke you make when you don't want anyone to ask if you're actually okay. it's a shutdown.
fuck. that sits with him longer than he likes. he shifts on the bench, the post gym buzz settling into something quieter, but more alert. for someone so committed to being an unimpressive fuckin' loser, Robert's got timing. for a second he considers dropping it, letting him have his neat little dismissal, his controlled exit, stay stupid and surface-level; that's his comfort zone, it's where he wins. but he can feel that unease bubbling under his skin, and his thumbs move before the sensible part of his brain can step in, which is fine, because that part would've lost the fuckin' argument anyway.
π ππππ ππππ πππ πππ’ 'πππ’' ππ 'π π’π' ππ 'ππππ πππππ'
there is a pause as he drags his tongue along the gap between his teeth, a motion born of too many fights and flirtations blurring into the same reflex.
π ππ ππ ππ, πππ πππ? ππ πππππ ππ’ ππππ πππ ππ ππ ππ πππππ π πππππ πππ πππ π₯΅
he leans back on the bench, one arm stretched overhead and posture deliberately relaxed, like he's not hooked tight to the glow of the screen, counting seconds between replies, like his pulse didn't tick up a notch when Robert didn't immediately dismiss him.
πππππ‘ πππ πππππ ππππ π π ππππ ππ πππππππ’ ππππππ ππππ ππ π π ππππ ππππ πππ?
he sends it before he can rethink it, before instinct tells him to cover it with another joke or a threat or something equally dickish. he drops the phone onto his thick thigh and keeps it close. because if Robert's playing along, even reluctantly β¦ Flambae has no intention of letting him off easy.
Flambae's needling feels a little weaker than usual, like he's fanning smoke instead of glowing ablaze. It's odd, to be compared to "most ppl" when, between them, they all know he's hardly average. (Robert has trouble backing down, when someone normal - someone well-adjusted - can cut their losses and walk away.)
Three little dots bubble up onto his screen. How much more can Flambae have to say?
Robert stands corrected. His eyes narrow.
The sensible thing to do is to delete the app. The stubborn side, where his ego lives, smothers all sense of self-preservation: Robert decides to dangle a digital carrot and see how long it fools Flambae.
I could be convinced.
While Flambae decides what to read into that, Robert stares at the shameless ego-stroking a few messages up.
Against all rhyme and reason, I must be doing something right for you to slide into my DMs.
A smirk plays upon his lips. This might as well be checkmate. Getting in a few quips at Flambae's expense is always a good time.
You and I have very different definitions of hanging out, though.
.
.
πππΌππ½πΌπ ৑ && π ππ΅πΈπ π π ππ΅πΈπ ππππ πΌπΌπΌ
β β β β β β β‘ written by ren β‘ established 12.22.25 25+ β‘ he/him β‘ PT
independent multimuse β‘ private & selective β‘ multiship friendly canon divergent β‘ dispatch & multifandom β‘ headcanons galore β‘ ocs & xovers adored β‘ au friendly
you know the drill : rules
@gazelessmenagerie
[TXT] : Blazer's offering more mentorship opportunities. Do you want me to sign you up for the next timeslot?
[TXT]: What time? I might be able to squeeze one in if there isn't another brawl at the science fair.
[TXT] : 2pm, so you've "ample time to digest after lunch". Her words, not mine.
@gazelessmenagerie
[TXT] : Blazer's offering more mentorship opportunities. Do you want me to sign you up for the next timeslot?
@fa1lmech said:
βTalk to me.β
Chad doesn't want to talk to Robert. Talking to Robert makes him feel small. Stupid, even.
Fucker thinks it's funny that he took his fingers. Yeah, well, the only people who get to laugh at him are Kawti and Alice, and even Alice can only get away with so much. Kawti gets a pass because she's literally nine.
Robert Robertson? The twink entering his midlife crisis can fuck the fuck off.
Setting his jaw, he crosses his arms and drums his fingers along his tricep.
"What do you wanna talk about, Robbo?"
