Chapter Text
Flambae was fucking seething. His glorious ‘team’ had finally gotten a dispatcher that wasn’t absolute shit. One Flambae was maybe even slowly starting to respect. And then Robertson jokingly called him ‘Sunglasses, Indoors, at the Office Guy’ and it all fell into place: he was the FUCKING Mecha Man! Flambae was going to burn him to ashes!
Except he couldn’t. Getting in too much trouble at SDN would mean he would be sentenced back to jail. He wouldn’t go back into a dirty prison cell, though. He’d rather become a villain again, he still had connections. But… being a superhero was so much more stylish. People had to thank him now, respect him.
Fuck. In hindsight it was so damn obvious. How hadn’t he seen it before?
He’d met Mecha Man in person two times before Robertson started dispatching. The first time he’d been wearing the damn suit and beaten him to a pulp in mere seconds. It had been the most humiliating day in Flambae’s life. He’d lain on the pavement, hardly conscious, as the police put him into handcuffs. Meanwhile the bystanders had cheered for the basic weakling in his overpriced fighting robot. He hadn’t even built it himself, there had already been two dudes before him after all. Calling Mecha Man a superhero was ridiculous. You could put anyone in a Mecha Suit like that and they would win.
Actually, they should give a suit like that to Flambae. He’d do just as well. No, better. And if Shroud or whoever else came along and defeated the Mecha Man a forth time, Flambae would just jump out of the suit and destroy them with his own amazing powers. His powers that he trained and perfected all by himself despite everyone who’d stood in his way.
The second time he’d met Mecha Man had been embarrassing as well. Even half a year later that bitch Coop kept bringing up the incident in the dumb bar. Argh!
He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed who Robertson was before. But the way he’d riled him up at the bar had been so different from the voice through his com at work. And the way he’d held himself in the conference room during their first meeting had had nothing in common with the ugly hump at the bar.
But now… the stupid remarks he made, the things he knew about superhero work, the way he trained at SDN’s gym as if… he’d been in a months long coma before. Well, shit. It all added up. Did the others know? Was he the only one who hadn’t been aware? Was this all one big joke!?
Flambae stomped into the break room, his fire tickling impatiently under his skin. Punch Up was the only one present. Flambae got right up in the little man’s face, “Did you know about Robertson!?”
“Easy now, lad. You don’t want to set the fire sprinklers off again, do ya?” He held up his hands in a pacifying way that didn’t pacify Flambae at all. “What exactly should I know ‘bout him?”
Flambae glared at his face, there was no hidden taunt there. No sneering, nothing.
“Ugh, fuck off!” He shoved Punch Up with hot but not burning hands and knew damn well that he could only do that because the damn ‘Smallest Strongman’ let him.
Flambae left and ignored whatever funny, Irish thing Punch Up called after him. Whatever. Seemed like at least not everyone was having one big laugh about how Flambae was the only one who didn’t know about Mecha Man. Thinking about it, the others would never have lasted half a year without making fun about it.
He left the building through a side entrance to get some fresh air. Halfway across the parking lot his com went back online. “Flambae, where are you going?”
Flambae wanted to drown the world in fire — that guy, that voice! Half a year now he ran around with Mecha Bitch in his ear and didn’t even realize! “Heading to your car to take a big shit on it and then set it on fire!”
“Uh-uh, you do that, but after you went to medical. I told you the villain was known for poisonous gases. Who knows what you breathed in in that dingy lab.”
Flambae was so close to scream at him about how Mecha Man surely never had to fear being poisoned in his neat little suit, but managed to hold back. Doing this over the com that was recorded was a dumb idea. “I breath fire, Bob Bob. I can deal with some smelly air.”
Robert’s voice went serious. “You’re going to get your medical checkup, right now. That’s an order, not an invitation to debate. If you don’t value your health that’s one thing, but I sent you to that lab and—”
Flambae took the com out of his ear, not wanting to hear it. He took a few barely calming breathes, then turned around and went to get the stupid checkup.
As he’d expected, he was absolutely fine and got cleared for duty again right away.
Robertson even sent him out on two more missions til the end of their shift. Flambae felt so much better after, all fired up after every success.
He had to admit if Robertson wouldn’t be Mecha Man — well hadn’t been, past tense, really — he would have been an okay guy. He didn’t make a dumb remark about how well Flambae followed the order to go to medical like other douches would’ve. In fact he didn’t even mention it again. He also must’ve noticed and acknowledged Flambae’s bad mood because Robertson didn’t talk more to him than he had to for the rest of the afternoon.
After work, Flambae went to SDN’s gym. He could think best while working out. His rage at Mecha Man — the former Mecha Man — was still burning bright. He had to get back at him. But he couldn’t just beat him up. Robertson could easily get him thrown out of superhero business.
No self-made trouble at work, that’s what Flambae promised himself.
Of course, he could get someone else to beat Robertson up, but that wouldn’t be satisfying at all. This was personal. Mecha Man had gotten him thrown into jail and had humiliated him twice. And now Robertson has probably been secretly laughing at Flambae for not recognizing him the whole time.
He had to get back at him big-time.
When Robertson entered the gym at his usual time, they nodded at and then ignored each other as they always did. Flambae had to play along for now, Robertson couldn’t know that Flambae knew.
Switching from weights to cardio, Flambae secretly observed Robertson while running on the treadmill. He’d put on some muscle in the last months and his exercises looked much better executed than in the beginning. He clearly knew how to train professionally.
Flambae entertained some violent fantasies about burning his limbs off until his mind went in another direction... He was pretty sure that Robertson swung both ways. Flambae recognized other bi guys. Maybe he could…
He could totally get in his pants, make the wimp beg for his cock, beg him to make him cum. And right then Flambae would drop the bomb: The Mecha Bitch begging for the Flambae’s mercy? Oh how the mighty have fallen! Or he could fuck him from behind and press him down until he couldn’t move: Notice how I don’t need a metal suit to completely destroy you, Mecha Slut? Or he could… Flambae focused back on the present, before his libido could get too excited. He could plan how to destroy that hole and deliver that revelation later. First, he had to check something.
Flambae finished his run, then crossed the gym to the punching bag Robertson was training with. He glanced at Flambae but didn’t stop.
“Isn’t that getting boring, Bob Bob? We should spar.” Looking at Robertson was weird now. He’d gotten to know him as his dispatcher for months now, but the new, old hate came easily. Flambae’s plan was great, though, he could reign his rage in for it.
Robertson paused and caught the punching back that swung back at him. “So you can burn me like toast? No, thanks.”
“No superpowers,” Flambae looked him up and down, “obviously.”
When Robertson narrowed his eyes, he added. “No broken bones, either. Just a harmless spar.” He waited a moment, then raised his hands and turned to leave. “Alright, no worries. I understand that you’re scared, office boy.”
“You really think I’d get baited by that?” Flambae didn’t look back and took a few steps. Robertson sighed. “Because you’d be right. Fine. Fine, let’s spar.”
Flambae smirked as they went to the small sparring field. The gym was mostly used during lunch break, so the two of them were all alone here at this time.
They faced each other. Robertson looked tense. Flambae got into a fighting stance and couldn’t stop smirking. Of course, he couldn’t indulge to really hurt him here, but at least one mean punch could be justified. “Ready whenever you are, Bob Bob.”
Robertson kicked for his legs before Flambae had even finished the stupid nickname. He was faster than he’d expected. And as it turned out much more tenacious than expected. Flambae thought he would just play pretend for a few moments, but he actually had to concentrate to spar with him. It seemed like Robertson was used to fighting taller opponents.
He wasn’t nearly as fit as Flambae, though. After a few missed opportunities, Flambae finally had a good grip on his upper arm and a foot in the back of his knee to shove him to the mat.
“You’re slippery. But not as fast as you’d like.” Flambae let go of him and got up.
“Not yet.” Robertson got up as well and wiped the sweat of his forehead. “Again?”
They spared two more rounds that Flambae obviously won. During the last he made sure to pin Robertson to the mat on his back.
Robertson glared first at his perfect chest that Flambae had practically shoved in his face, then at his eyes. And there it was — slightly dilated pupils and badly hidden fluster — exactly what Flambae had been checking for. Robertson kept glaring, “Are you going to get off of me anytime soon?” He wriggled his arms that Flambae had grabbed by the wrists. “You won.”
Flambae let go of him with a grin as if that was what he’d been waiting for. He stood up and held his hand out for Robertson.
Robertson glared at it with apparent distrust, but then actually took it to be pulled up.
Flambae let go of him and pretended to swipe dirt off his suit as he headed towards the locker room. “That was funny, let’s do it again sometime, loser.”
He didn’t listen to Robertson’s reply, but they spared again the next evening and every few evenings after that.
Two weeks later Robertson was getting marginally better, but Flambae still grabbed him before his fist could connect. He slammed him to the mat with a high arch and a knee on his sternum.
Robertson made a sound as if all the air had left his body and tapped the mat twice to signal his surrender. Flambae took the knee off of him, but kept crouching next to him. “Are you dying?”
“Nope.” The sound was pathetically weak, but after a deep breath he sounded normal again. “Not to make this weird, but what exactly are you getting out of our spars? You’re not even breaking a sweat, are you?”
Flambae raised his eyebrows. “How observant of you, is that why you keep losing? Because you check me out all the time?”
Robertson spluttered, “No— I mean, we’re sparring I have to look— well, it’s obvious that you’re not—“
Flambae chuckled and stood up to look down on him. Robertson was making this way too easy for him. “Maybe I just like pinning you to the mat. To answer your first question.”
Robertson didn’t look at him. He stared at the ceiling with a red face but a blank expression. “Ah.”
“One more time, office boy, get up.”
Robertson rubbed his sternum with one hand and tapped the mat with the other. “I’m good for today, thanks.”
He sat up and Flambae crouched closely to pull down the collar of his shirt. “I didn’t break anything, did I?”
For a second Flambae saw a bunch of scars, then his hand was slapped away. When Robertson stood up hastily he stood up as well.
Robertson’s expression looked dead serious. “You’re flirting with me. Why are you flirting with me?”
Flambae was surprised and annoyed by the sudden mood swing. But he caught himself, put his hands on his hips and smiled smugly. “Oh, why indeed?”
“Stop that.” The sternness in Robertson’s voice was usually reserved for the conference room, not the gym. He was mostly silly here. “Your ego is big enough as it is, so don’t take to heart what I’m about to say: Superficially talking, you’re a good looking superhero who’s gaining popularity and presumably has money. You could have anyone. Why are you flirting with me? I can’t imagine I’m exactly your… type. What do you really want?”
Flambae could feel his skin heat up with the desire to ignite, but he could control himself. The way Robertson had said ‘type’ had definitely meant some kind of insult. But mostly Flambae was getting mad because he felt caught out. Robertson was ruining his plan… by pretending to know how much out of Flambae’s league he was? This was stupid. “Wow. Who hurt you?”
Robertson kept a surprisingly straight face. “What do you want? Spit it out.”
Oh well, Flambae had met enough chicks and dicks that liked to play hard to get. This wasn’t lost yet. “Well, you already admitted that I’m good-looking.” – Robertson gave him an unimpressed look. – “How about dinner? Tonight? I know a great place not too far from here.”
Robertson rolled his eyes and turned to head to the locker room.
Flambae followed him. “Oh, come on. Why not?”
“I have a dog to get home to.” He picked up his pace. Flambae did as well.
“Okay, tomorrow then.” A Saturday. “I’ll text you the time and place.”
“I don’t do dinner with co-workers.”
“No? What about Blond Blazer and Invisibi—gal?”
Robertson whirled around and Flambae stopped in front of him. Oh, he’d actually pissed him off now.
“I neither dated nor slept with Blond Blazer or Invisigal. No matter how much people bring it up again, it didn’t happen.”
Flambae grinned. “But the rumors show that nothing would’ve changed at work if it had happened. No one really cares.” It sounded like Robertson really hadn’t fucked one of the ladies. Huh. “You know, you haven’t outright said no to dinner yet.”
“Fuck off.” Robertson turned around and went inside the locker room.
Flambae smiled triumphantly. That still hadn’t been a real ‘no’. His plan to fuck and humiliate Mecha Man was still feasible. The fact that Robertson was this wary — that Flambae would have to gain his trust first to then break it — made it even better.
Like the gentleman Flambae was, he waited outside the locker room, leaning against the wall next to the door.
A few minutes later, Robertson emerged and gave Flambae a suspicious look as he passed him.
Flambae winked at him, feeling victorious. “See you tomorrow.”