Chapter Text
"I'm sorry, you want to... what?"
It's not that Mandy Blonde Blazer [she was Blazer, right now] was particularly against the request. In any form whatsoever, mind you. It was just... an odd one.
Kind of. Well-
Maybe only because it was coming from..
"I want to take the day off," Robert repeats for her, his tired voice just barely audible over her phone speaker, "...sorry, I know it's short notice, I can-"
"No- no! It's fine. Seriously."
It's more than fine! Honestly, with everything that's happened... he definitely deserved a day. Hell, he deserved the whole fucking week off if he wanted to take it.
But Blazer knows he won't. Knows he thinks he doesn't deserve it.
"Are you... feeling okay?"
Not that it would really matter if he is, she supposes- idly doing a little spin in her office chair, when he wouldn't tell me if he isn't.
It would be kinda funny, how predictable his steady assurances were, if it wasn't so sad. If she didn't have literal documented proof- or seen first hand- how very not fine he was.
Though... still- he was taking a day off of his own volition... Blazer supposes she shouldn't question it so much.
"Not... really. If I'm being honest."
...Mandy plants her feet and sits up.
"Do you need me to come over?"
Fuck... fuck, how bad was it? Bad right? Really fucking bad? If Robert was just.. admitting it out loud like this. If he was requesting a day off like this? Without having to bully it out of him?
Or guilt him?
"Are you dying? Robert-"
"What? No, I'm not dying- why is that where your mind went?"
Oh.
Blazer leans back, slowly, carefully, lightly [in case she needed to spring up again], "Sorry- that was.. yeah, that was extreme, huh? You just never- you know-"
"Take care of myself?" he asks, dry as ever.
"I was gonna say 'willingly take a day off' but... yeah. Pretty much."
"Fair enough."
The phone crackles with his huff- just the barest bones of a laugh finding their way through the connection.
"Well. I'm not dying, so don't worry just yet. I'm not hurt, either, or sick. Um... I just..."
Silence.
A shaky exhale.
"...need a personal day. I think."
A.. personal day.
Okay.
That... yeah. Yeah, that made sense. She could work with that- she was still gonna file it under PTO of course, god knew he had an excess of it that he wouldn't miss, but... that made sense.
A personal day.
Alright.
"I didn't think you knew how to take those," Blonde Blazer tries to joke.
It falls flat between them, dead before it hit the ground.
". . .surprise," Robert tries to throw back anyway, but his voice is weak and tired, "I'll... be back in tomorrow. Tell the team I said hi?"
"Of course. Take as much time as you need. Okay?"
All that answers her is the click of an ending line.
Which.. is as much an answer as any, Blazer guesses. As much an answer she'll get.
Mandy tries to pretend it doesn't sting.
+=+=+
"Shit..."
Robert stares at his black ink of his phone, feeling the brick of a device start to grow heavier in his palm. Colder.
"Guess I forgot to charge it last night."
He still taps at the cracked screen like it might somehow turn on again. Like, by some miracle, it would revive itself and give him some direction for his day. For his life.
That might be a bit dramatic, now that he thinks about it. For a phone.
It's not like it's his dad.
Heh.
...hm.
That joke didn't make him feel as better as he thought it would.
Beef shuffles over, still licking his chops in hopes of catching any leftover crumbs from his breakfast, before wiggling his fluffy little butt to jump-
"Oof-" Robert grunts, when his tiny paws land on a still battered stomach, "You're heavy, bud."
Maybe Mandy had a point about that diet...
Regardless, the skinny man still rewards his pudgy boy with a good scratch behind his ear. His pudgy boy, that had almost...
He shakes his head, and his hood falls right back down to his shoulders.
Ugh.
Even with his curtains pulled shut, even with every lamp he's been forced into owning, it was still too bright. Too cold, even with the original Astral Pulse strung around his neck. [he kept it on a chain now, after.. everything. Something long and silver that hid comfortable under the collar of his clothes]
Vaguely, he can feel Beef lay his head down on his chest and let out a little whine- which.. helped, a bit- but... still.
Still.
He should've bought black outs when he had the energy for it.
Now he's left sitting here, in his old blue hoodie and the new leggings that Prism gave him [a surprisingly thoughtful gift, when she'd somehow found out about his chronic 'old man joints'. They were nice- the kind that wrapped around his feet, but left his heels and toes exposed. He liked them.].
In a room that's not quite dark enough.
On a couch that had to be forced onto him.
With only his dog for company.
He doesn't know when he drifts off, just that... when he does.. it doesn't seem to last near long enough.
+=+=+
Not even in a minute into their goddamn shift and these fuckers are already causing fucking problems.
If they weren't running their mouths, they weren't speaking at all! Fucking- fucks. Pick an extreme and stick to it, for god's sake. Giving him a headache, christ.
This is not the day.
"How does Robert deal with you shits?" Chase snaps, after the fifth potshot at his 'age', "You're lucky he has a heart of fucking gold, or I'd have you all out on your asses."
"Yeah," Invisibitch [fuck her corny name change, ain't nothing gal about her] scoffs, "You've said that like- 100 times by now?"
"Starting to lose your cred, old man," which one was that- Prism? Sounded like Prism.
"The only reason I was never your official dispatcher is because I would've fired all of you on the spot. Can't do that now though, unfortunately, 'cuz the kid had to go and get attached."
Several, several of them let out little coos and cheers at that- pleased as fucking punch. Because of course they were.
"Hey-" the bat- Sonar- pipes up, "Where is Bobert, anyway? Blonde Blazer wouldn't tell us."
Good. Was none of their business anyway.
And he tells them as much.
"Boo," fucking Flambae scoffs next, "He's our dispatcher, old guy, we have a right to know."
"Like fuck you do-!"
"No, no, Hell Boy's got a point. Is he sick or something? S'fine if he's sick, we can like- bring him soup or... that's a sick person food, right? Soup?" Invisigal asks, though clearly not him.
"Don't call me Hell Boy, bitch." gets lost under Malevola's:
"Does he even like soup? We could bring him noodles.. but like good noodles. Not that instant stuff he chokes down on break."
"Wouldn't mind seeing him choke down something else-"
"Don't talk about my fucking kid like that." Chase shuts down, immediately, "Ever. You hear me?"
He'd tolerate their age jokes, their blatant disregard of conduct and civilian safety and rules, but it would be a cold fucking day in hell before he let them make depraved fucking comments about-
"..your kid?" Prism pipes up, after silence had rolled through the line, "Whachu mean your kid?"
Fuck.
Did he say that?
He didn't say that. That was an inside thought. Title. Whatever.
Well.
"I mean my fucking kid," Chase barks into the mic, "Mine. Robert's the closest thing I got to a little brother, 'n he means the fucking world to me, alright? So I ain't just gonna sit here and let you talk about him like some fucking prized piece of meat. You got that?"
Might as well double down.
Nobody speaks for a long time.. and it really just serves to piss the former speedster off-
"Got that?"
"Got it."
"Right."
"Sorry."
Those are the main responses Chase can parse out, with all the overlap that comes from them speaking all at fucking once. But it's enough, for now.
It has to be enough, because they all still have a job to do.
But they just can't leave well enough alone.
"No but seriously-" that fucking bat again, "Why isn't Robert here?"
Oh, full name. Well, real... government name, at least. Were these fucks actually worried? Seriously?
Huh.
Malevola takes point, "Yeah, he came to work like- right after he woke up from being blown up. No jokes, Sonar. Visi."
"Whatever."
"Can I make a promise? Ow- the fuck was that for?"
"Shut up, batboner! Or we'll never get an answer!"
"Oh."
Maybe dispatching those two horndogs [one hornbat?] together was the wrong move..
"Not that it's any of your fucking business," he starts anyway, again, but just to throw them a bone- just to get them to settle down, "But Blazer told me he asked to take a personal day."
And as he should.
Losing a.. whatever Shroud was to him, before he became whatever he was now, before he became Shroud, and a father? Absent as he was.. Kid needs a day.
Needs a whole month, if he would just man up and take it. But whatever. Only so much care you can force on a guy like Robert before he bites ya.
The comms go deathly silent.
. . .
And then, all at once, they abandon their assigned missions.
"What-!?" Chase just about flies out of his [Robert's?] chair, "What the fuck are y'all doing!?"
They don't answer, the little shits. In fact, their fucking icons start disappearing next! One by one they flicker away, until Chase is left staring at a screem with too many damn exclamation marks and not enough damn heroes-!
Fuck.
Fuck.
"Huh..."
Blazer!
The muscled woman leans into the cubicle space, arms crossed tight under her chest, and blinks her big blue eyes as if astonished.
"They- actually lasted longer than I thought they would."
...fuck.
+=+=+
Robert's hands feel tacky.
Maybe it's just from the dog hair caked over his palms, maybe it's just sweat or normal grime, that his body normally makes. But it feels wrong and gross and he'd like it gone, actually.
Beef whines again, like he knows, and whuffs against his owner's chin- his little wet nose comforting only in its familiarity when it nudges up against his cheek.
The tongue that follows only makes it worse.
Only makes him feel dirty.
So, gently, he lowers his dog back down to the concrete floor- refusing to miss the warmth of him. He doesn't deserve it anyway.
The weight on his chest doesn't disappear, not when he stands and not when he starts off towards his kitchen sink. But now he can't pretend it was ever because of Beef.
He swears he can still hear that laugh- his fucking laugh- mocking him for not getting the job done. Why couldn't he get the job done?
Visi. Visi had needed help.
It still lingers on the edges of his mind, replacing every creak of a door- every squeaky hinge- it's just there. That death rattle, his blood on metal, on wires on..
Shroud didn't get the astral pulse. Robert knows this, knows the thing he plugged into his head was just a prototype.
He hadn't been wrong when he said they'd looked identical.
There's blood on his fists, knuckles, palms- and it's not new but it's not his either. It doesn't wash away under the faucet's cold stream.
It just spreads. So Robert scrubs harder.
Would he have done it? Would he have killed Shroud, if Invisigal hadn't.. he shot her. Shroud-
Elliot... shot his father, 16 years ago today, with his own gun. The shot Courtney, with the bullet meant to finish the family line. Finish him.
Blood drips into the sink.
Robert's not in his kitchen, not anymore. No, he's straddling what used to be something like an uncle to him, weird as he always was, with his hands wrapped around his fucking neck.
The blue of Elliot's eyes had always been disarming- on a good, normal day, they just seemed to stare into the depth of your soul- but now.. with his face beaten in, covered in dark red viscera... fuck, they almost seemed to glow.
Or- they did.
But now Robert was squeezing, and that light was fading, and blood was roaring in his ears, and it felt.. it felt...
Wrong.
It felt wrong. It felt awful. Nothing like the vindicative relief he'd been promised, none of the pain receding-
It just- it...
Robert couldn't let go.
He tried, fuck he tried so hard. And he couldn't let go. His grip just kept tightening, the blood vessels just kept breaking, the life in his eyes kept fading, and- and-
And then something yanks him off.
Brutally, harshly, someone grabs him around his shoulders- around his neck, and tugs him backwards.
Tugs him until his back hits a warm wall, until that warmth teeters on a blaze, until his legs [was he standing before?] give out from under him. His chest heaves against the restriction keeping him pinned.
Something scratchy, something vaguely human shaped- he thinks- brushes his chipped ear- the same time a pair of small hands grasps his own.
His own, that are still covered in blood- still squeezing.
They shouldn't do that, he thinks, deliriously, maybe, I'll get them dirty-
"You won't," a voice- a voice he recognizes- tells him, softly and firmly all at the same time, like a feather on the surface of the void, "You won't, but you need to let go. Can you do that, or do you need me to help?"
Can he?
Does he even deserve to? Does he deserve their help?
"Ay, you hear her, Robert?" the voice by his ear says next, as the restriction- the arms around his chest tightens, "Let. Go. We've got you. Please.."
And he recognizes this one too. This body he's been pulled against. This warmth- in all it's potential intensity.
Robert forces himself to blink, and blink, and blink again and again until the fire is gone- until the blood is gone- until...
Oh.
He's in his kitchen. On the floor of kitchen, actually, not a battlefield. He's sitting between.. Flambae's thighs, held against his warm chest. Coop is holding his hands.
His hands- hand, that is... strangling his own wrist.
oh.
For a second, all he can do is stare- stare at the way the former assassin is almost desperately trying to subtly worm her slender fingers under his own and create a barrier.
You need to let go.
Do you need me to help?
"Please.." Robert finally croaks.
Coupé abandons subtlety entirely.
She pries his hand off his wrist with a kind of strength that you wouldn't expect from someone of her build. But it doesn't hurt, and she's not rough in the way she handles him.
He's not burning, even though Flambae is the one holding him upright.
It's..
It's not restriction.
Flambae's hand, the one Robert had mutilated, shifts to rub slow circles over his no doubt pounding heart.
"Breathe, Bob-Bob... before your bitch-ass passes out on us."
He thinks that might be inevitable.
+=+=+
When Robert comes to, again, he's back on the couch.
Somehow.
It's all kind of blurry, at first, all kind of foggy when he tries to open his eyes. And bright, fuck, who turned his lights on-? He curls back into whatever was blocking it before, just to catch his breath a little, just to breathe at all.
He doesn't even know if he's even fully awake, to be honest. Doesn't know if all of... that was just some fucked up fever dream or.. or if it-
A hand squeezes his own- its thumb stroking up and down once before stilling again. He thinks the owner of that hand might be humming too.
So not.. a dream... then?
Is that worse?
The humming stops- or rather, it peters off into what Robert assumes is the conclusion, and so he thinks it's probably safe to speak up.
And not get blinded. More blinded, than he already is.
"Haven't.." oh, shit, is that his voice? Robert clears his throat with a closed mouth cough, "...heard you perform that one yet."
"Hm..? Hey boo," Prism sounds... subdued somehow, too quiet when she doesn't rise to the bait, "How you feeling?"
Too soft, for someone like him.
Robert chances another attempt at opening his eyes, but-
"Like my house is trying to flashbomb me."
-his lights are still on.
He thinks his response gets the pop star to laugh, though, so he counts it as a win. His pillow shifts oddly under his head.
"I get it, I'm light sensitive too." she tells him, and that's surprising- considering her power is.. you know, literally that.
But... he supposes it makes sense too, in the same twisted way it makes sense that Visi was an asthmatic. In the same twisted way Chase was aged twice what he should be.
In the same way her visor made sense now, in its near constant use.
Another hand, the one not twined around his but clearly of the same set, comes up to card through his hair. Or- attempt to. It's covered in some kinda latex-y glove that catches on the strands and tugs.
A whine slips out from his throat before he can shove it down.
"Oh- my bad."
Prism- because who else's could it be, at this point- pulls her fingers away. There's some rustling, then a gentle twitch of her fingers between his, and a distressing moment [weak, weak, weak] where he thinks she might pull away entirely- and leave him in this... floaty in between space.
Is she even real-?
"Damn, your eyelashes are all kinds of fucked up, Roberto."
But- no. Her knuckle brushes the bow of his cheek barely a second later, just barely grazing the patchy things and blessedly free of her gloves. before pushing back into his hair.
"How'd that even happen?" she asks, all quiet curiousity and gentle strokes, "There's actual chunks missing.."
It's only a bit hard to answer, like this, when her rare affection turns his mind to mush and clouds and drifty content warmth. But- she told him about her powers, didn't she?
Robert supposes it's only fair to return that.
Right?
"...explosion," he mutters, shifting when his weight pushes against the odd pain in his wrist, "First one, I think. Lost some to Flambae too."
He thinks something clatters a ways away- something glass on something plastic.
"...oh.." that subdued- unhappy tone is back in Prism's voice now, and- right. They're friends. Close friends.
"Not in the fight," he tries to clarify, tries to soothe, "..a little in the fight... lost more to the stress after though."
"Stress?"
"Mm.. was worried it wouldn't heal right... kept tabs on him for a little while afterwards until I was sure.."
God, that had sucked.
The guilt had crushed Robert's chest for months. He hadn't meant.. to do that. At all. To actually cut off Flambae's fingers. He just thought the man would spook and dodge and stop burning him for a second long enough to talk.
Prism doesn't say anything more to that, but she also doesn't stop stroking through his hair.
It's just.. quiet.
Somber.
Which- Robert supposes is fitting on a day like this. A day of grief.
If only it wasn't so painfully bright.
The hand in his hair leaves, tragically, but only to pull his hood back up over his head and block a good chunk of it out again. And- again- Robert finds himself grateful for a kindness he doesn't deserve.
It provides just enough of a barrier to let him chance opening his eyes again- only to really see black spandex and the end of a golden zipper.
...was he- lying in Prism's lap?
Her- thigh, he thinks- moves under his head again, in the same way he'd thought a pillow had earlier. But then it occurs to him that the only pillow he owns is Beef's bed.
So.
Hm.
Prism's hand squeezes his again.
"I see you're wearing the leggings I got you."
It's a paltry attempt to lighten the mood, Robert knows. Knows he's being bad company, by being so out of it.
Knows he's being selfish, and greedy, by accepting her affectionate touch so easily. So readily.
"Mhm.. they're nice."
"They better be, I spent good money on those! And you pair it with this ratty-ass hoodie? Mm."
It's just a tease, it's so clearly just a tease, but Robert can't stop the way his chest seizes at her disapproval. Maybe on any other day he could shrug it off, could make a joke just as biting and move on, but..
But today... of all days?
"...it was my dad's."
He's feeling just a little too soft in the middle.
And just a little too raw.
+=+=+
Alice feels like an asshole.
And it's not a particularly new feeling, this raging burn that swells under her collarbone. This guilt, that she's become so adept at ignoring and relabeling.
But it still sucks.
She really picked the worst day, too, didn't she? Even though she was just trying to lighten the mood and banter like they usually did.
Robert is a warm, barely there, weight over her thighs- a bony pressure in her palm that she abuses like a stress ball. He doesn't seem to mind the squeezes, the fussing, either way- when he nuzzles into her hip.
It feels almost like a privilege, a gift, to be the one to witness this.
Everyone, almost everyone, had gone back to SDN for their second shift. They couldn't all stay here and dote, as much as the need to itched at their heels, especially after abandoning their first one.
But they couldn't just.. leave him, either.
Not when they'd broken in, not to find him dying like they'd feared, but on the verge of breaking his own wrist.
So...
Two of them had stayed.
Alice and Chad had stayed, had fought tooth and nail to stay, and she had just...
Just...
"Oh," Alice says, lamely, for what feels like the thousandth time in the past handful of minutes, "I- didn't know. That."
...fucked it all up.
Like she's oh-so good at doing.
+=+=+
They all should've put it together sooner.
That's what Victor thinks, when he steps through one of Mal's pulsing red portals- back into that depressing square of concrete Robbo called his house, with a bag of groceries Flambae had sent him off to get after work.
Seriously, they should've.
Even though he's the only Harvard graduate here, it's been marked onto every standard calendar for the past 15 years now.
The death of Mecha Man.
The death of the second Mecha Man, the one with the moniker that Victor can never remember.
But the one that was Robert's father.
He can tell, after handing off the bags, that their dispatcher is awake- if only barely more lucid than he was when Z-Team first found him- so he meanders over carefully. Quietly.
And he asks, "You visit yet?"
Like an absolute asshole.
It's a long minute before Robert responds, with his head still nestled on Prism's lap and hidden away.
"Not yet.. was gonna go after the crowds cleared out."
Victor can feel his ears tug back.
...they all should've put it together sooner.
+=+=+
Robert's fridge is empty.
Chad doesn't really know what he expected, when he started rooting through cupboards and the pantry and the like, but it was at least something. Something sustainable, or at least something that proved Robert even...
That's a dangerous line of thought.
He shuts the door, with just a bit more force than what was really necessary.
Not like it mattered anyway, when the only thing in it was a bottle of water or two. Both half empty.
The pantry was hardly different. A box of cereal, some of those cheap- Twinkies he was so fond of- and a mostly full bag of dog food. And that was the newest thing in there.
Because of course it was.
That fucking bat better have gotten everything on that list. Clearly, the bitch was going to need it.
He's going to put some meat on those sad-ass skinny fucking bones, mark his fucking words. Even if it ends up being the last thing he accomplishes.
Chad can still feel the way Robert's spine pressed into his chest, when he'd wrenched him away from the sink and.. and... fuck, the way his ribs pressed into his arms.
No wonder he'd almost flattened himself under such a lame fucking weight.
"Why is your fridge so empty, Bob-Bob?" he throws out, for the sake of normalcy if nothing else- as he sets about, "It's like- depressing as hell."
And it's not like he's expecting an answer.
But maybe that would've been better than the one he- they got.
"Just seemed.. shitty? I guess?"
And it just gets worse.
"I was supposed to die in that suit." Robert continues, listlessly- like he couldn't give less of a shit about his own life, "And it'd all just... rot. And mold. And that'd suck for whoever got stuck cleaning it."
He doesn't need to explain why, when the Z-Team could fill in the horrifying blanks.
Because, before SDN, before them, Robert didn't think he'd have anyone who would miss him enough to clean out his house when it'd still be easy.
Didn't think anyone would notice, if he just... disappeared.
And yet.. he was still only thinking about making it easy. Making clean-up painless, for people he thought couldn't give care less about him.
It was the same goodness that made Chad furious.
"You have people now," he grinds out, staring at his own scratch of a reflection on the fridge, "You hear me over there? We'll notice. So fill your fucking fridge up."
Mecha Man might die with that suit.
But god damnit, Robert was going to keep living.
He had to.