Work Text:
At 6:03 a.m., Robert Robertson III entered the SDN exercise room, and found it in an agreeable state of occupancy — that is, empty. Clearly, no other employee was as much of a psycho as him, as to be waking before the roosters and putting themself through a workout that would make even David Goggins cock an eyebrow, but Robert hardly took pride in that. He was here to get stronger. That was all.
The gym was harshly lit by rows upon rows of linear fluorescent lamps, which contrarily served to enhance the room’s gloominess, as did the chilly air coursing through it. And yet, this exact quality was what drew Robert to it in the first place. He had gotten used to the volume of activity in the office, which included the constant din of overlapping voices, belonging to dispatchers and supes alike, and the need to be on, a hundred percent of the time, to avoid a fiasco that would spell disaster for the Z-Team. It was a nice change of pace from wallowing in his shitty, mostly empty apartment, but it was in spaces like this one where Robert felt the most at ease. He had been doing the hero thing alone for fifteen years, after all. It was only natural that he had grown used to his own company.
Robert went through a few static stretches, not spending more than a few seconds in each position. He was keen to get to the part where he could move iron, when his muscles started to burn and his lungs fought to cycle oxygen through his bloodstream. Taking a sip from his water bottle, Robert scanned the gym, trying to decide what exercise he would do first.
His gaze gravitated toward the bench press, but, remembering the mishap from a few weeks ago, when fucking Flambae had to rescue him from death via barbell-induced asphyxiation, Robert shivered and directed his eyes away from it. He had fantasized about many ways by which he would eventually kick the bucket, ranging from going in a blaze of glory in the Mecha-Man suit like he almost did a few months back, to getting flattened by Golem in one of his sour moods, but that hadn't figured into his considerations. He supposed choking under the weight of his own hubris in the shape of a barbell wasn't too thematically disparate from those other possibilities, but context mattered.
Eventually, his wandering eye landed on the dumbbell rack. Smaller weights were definitely a safer bet. With his mind made up, Robert sauntered through the rows of workout machines, headed to the rack, which held weights ranging from five pounds to five hundred. (It was a damn long rack, with damn big dumbbells.) Behind the rack was a wall with a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Robert studiously avoided making eye contact with himself. He already knew how he looked: like shit. There was no need for a reminder.
He selected a pair of twenty-pound weights and took a few steps back, placing them on the floor by his feet and slinging his backpack off of his shoulders. When he bent down to pick the weights back up, his stomach grumbled, the low sound rising in pitch at its ending, as if his body was asking him a question…
When’s breakfast?
~*~
He should have stopped twenty minutes ago. His stomach hadn't ceased its complaining, and he had lifted weights until his arms felt like lead, but his legs still worked, and he intended to complete the mile-long run he saved for the end of every workout, even if he passed out the second he stepped off the treadmill.
With that being said, the corners of Robert’s vision were getting fuzzy and his running posture, which started as stiff and proud, had slackened to the point that he imagined he looked like the walking (or in this case, jogging) dead. Regardless, he kept pushing. The mile was almost up. He was waiting for the telltale beeping sound that signified the completion of the run.
That was another reason why he liked working out in an empty gym: nobody could see him suffer in a hell of his own creation. He could only imagine the concerned words and looks he would receive from someone if they caught him in this act of masochism. Shit, if Blonde Blazer walked in on him right now, maybe she would re-think her words from their first meeting. We can work with this.
Robert shook his head to rid himself of the thought.
The treadmill beeped and came to a halt. He nearly ran into the console, but caught himself on the arm supports. For a moment he stood hunched over and heaving with breaths, feeling a rush of endorphins. His pleasure was brief, however, because his stomach re-asserted itself with another rumble, this one portending something worse than mere hunger pangs. He turned and shambled off of the machine, hurtling toward the nearest trash can, which sat unassumingly in the corner of the room. Bile rose in his throat and he clamped his mouth shut, unsure whether he would make it in time or spew puke across the floor like a) the world’s most disgusting sprinkler or b) a version of Waterboy with even nastier powers.
Somewhere off in the distance he heard a faint whooshing sound, but thought nothing of it, assuming it was the air conditioning system in the gym turning up in intensity.
By the grace of whichever god is real, Robert reached the trash can, and promptly leaned over to expel the contents of his stomach into it. He vomited quickly and quietly, spitting out the last few drops. Breathing hard, standing over the receptacle, with sore arms trembling as he fought to support his own weight on the lip of the trash can, he appraised his deposit: a rather anti-climactic mixture of nothing but water and bile. Not even the microwave ramen he ate last night made an appearance.
“Whoa there, Rob.”
Robert whirled around to admonish the interloper, hardly taking the time to register whose voice called out to him from the void. He was met with the sight of none other than the crimson-skinned half-demon of NBA-small-forward stature, Malevola. On the wall about a dozen feet behind her, one of her portals was closing up, leaving a bit of dark interdimensional residue in its wake. She wore her typical white bodysuit, Daisy Dukes, and heels, but atop her normal ensemble, on her face she donned an expression of unmistakable worry, and her hands were raised up in front of her chest, one cradling the other as if she did not know what to do with them. Decidedly atypical, this display of uncertainty in the otherwise easygoing, self-assured Demon from Down Under.
Robert forced himself to stand up straight, still relying on the trash can to keep him upright, and cursed under his breath. Make that two members of the Z-Team having caught him making a fool of himself in the gym, now.
“Malevola. What are you doing here?”
“Came here to get a workout in. Probably the same as you, mate, before… whatever that was.” Her eyebrows knit together and she took a few steps toward him. “Push yourself too hard, didja?”
Robert leaned against the wall behind him, closing his eyes briefly. “Maybe.”
Malevola got even closer. Robert’s eyes lifted as she approached, his wariness increasing with each stride she took in his direction until she stood mere inches away, towering over him and casting her features in shadow behind the pale light of the overhead lamps. He had to crane his neck to maintain eye contact.
She cast a glance off to the side and downward, into the abyss of the trash can. “Not much volume to that vom, there,” she observed, astutely.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was gonna eat after I finished.” The ever-present edge in Robert’s tone sharpened on these words.
“Uh-huh,” Malevola uttered disbelievingly. “Eat what? Some Twinkies?”
Of course she and Sonar are in league with each other, Robert thought. He certainly hadn't counted on getting judged by a literal demon from hell before eight o’clock this morning. “Thank you for your concern regarding my eating habits,” he said, not bothering to curb his sarcasm.
“You know you won’t gain any muscle if you don’t fuel your body correctly, right?”
He hated the way she so casually talked down to him, literally and figuratively, all while her voice never deviated from the soft, even cadence in which she always spoke. He knew that in terms of height difference, he may as well have been a fifth grader to her, but that did not mean he would abide her treating him like one.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Robert asked, incredulous.
“No,” she sighed, frowning as if he was the one that was out of line here.
“Then keep your unprofessional comments to yourself.”
He swore he saw little flames spark in Malevola’s amber eyes. “You know what’s unprofessional, Robert?” The sudden heat behind her words surprised him. Her tone had hardened in a way he hadn't heard before (and he noted her use of his proper name). “Running yourself ragged — literally — and leaving the Z-Team in the lurch.”
If he was in a better frame of mind, her words might have come across as concern for a friend, in her emotionally detached way of speaking. But by this point, he was too confused, pissed off, and starved to dig deeper than the surface of her patronizing words.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Robert barked. “I’ll be fine in time for your first shift. Go work out like you said you came here to, which I’m pretty sure you don’t even need to do considering you’re a demon.”
She showed no fear or even surprise in response to him raising his voice. She simply raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Leave it to a six-foot-six tall demon to make him feel his human fragility. Frustrated, Robert shouldered past Malevola, finally free from her scrutiny. Immediately he knew that he only escaped because she let him, and this realization only pissed him off more.
“There are fat demons, Bobertson,” she called after him, a musical lilt to her voice, as he stormed toward the locker room.
“What-the-fuck-ever. Goodbye.”
~*~
When Robert approached his desk after showering, changing into his SDN uniform, and swigging some water to rid his mouth of the acrid taste of vomit, he was surprised to see a brown paper bag sitting on top of his keyboard. It could have been a bomb, but based on the fact that Chase was sitting at his own desk, already donning his headset and gruffly doling out marching orders to his own squad of heroes (surely having seen the package on his way in), Robert surmised that whatever the bag contained posed no physical threat to him or anyone else. As long as Invisigal wasn't the one who delivered it.
Pulling out his chair and falling into it, he scooted up to his desk and tilted the paper bag toward himself. His nose was met with the delightful smell of toasted dough. He shoved his hand into the bag and pulled out two things — a napkin, and an everything bagel wrapped in parchment paper. The bagel, he discovered after he unwrapped it, was spread with a healthy dollop of cream cheese and several slices of lox. His mouth watered. Then his gaze flitted over to the napkin. He saw the telltale bleed of Sharpie ink through the other side, and promptly flipped the napkin to discern whatever was scribbled on it:
Don’t puke this up babes, it cost me 15 bucks
You owe me a drink, or maybe two
— Mal ♡
Robert’s instinct was to reach for the trash can under his desk and toss the bagel into it. But then he got another whiff of its toasty aroma, and he could resist its magnetic pull no longer. With animalistic fervor that even Malevola would give him credit for, he inhaled the bagel inside of two minutes. It tasted every bit as good as it smelled.
In the wake of his feast, he sat at his desk, basking in a belly full of delicious food and feeling rather guilty for the way he spoke to Malevola earlier. Normally, Robert held himself to a very high standard of conduct, and his behavior in the gym was nothing short of shameful. No doubt his empty stomach was at least partially, if not mostly, to blame. Of course, not only did food fuel one's body, as Malevola so smartly pointed out, but also one's brain, and god knows his had been running on fumes. He would have to apologize to her before end of day.
Having arrived at this conclusion, he slipped his headset on over his head and was greeted with the sound of the Z-Team already bickering over nothing of any consequence whatsoever. Just another day at the office.
“Good morning, Phoenixes,” Robert announced. His interruption brought the cacophony of voices to a screeching halt.
"Ooh, Roberto's in a good mood today," Prism cooed.
He ignored her. “Let’s get to work.”