Chapter Text
Invisigal arrived grumpy and late to work that morning. Having woken blissfully with a gasp and fluttering stomach, now everything served to piss her off.
Normally, she might punch the nearest stranger or shoplift a high end piece of merchandise. But she was working on her rehabilitation. So, she channeled that aggression through creative means as her SDN-mandated therapy instructed she should.
“Why she staring at you?” Invisigal could hear Chase’s grumble even above the whir of the printer she was stationed beside. He raised his voice in her direction, “Don’t you got some work to do?”
“Don’t you got some dementia to onset?” she bit back. Working was the operative word regarding her rehabilitation. It was a process.
A breathy chuckle sounded behind her. “That was a good one.”
Reclined against the wall, Flambae twirled his finger in a coffee cup, a steaming vortex licking the air as he concentrated heat into a single digit.
“I’m known to get a good lick in every now and again,” she replied smugly, pressing a button for fifty more copies.
“You and me both, bitch.” He lifted himself off the wall and loomed behind her, flicking a look between her and where she had been glaring. “So. Why were you looking at him like that?” Flambae chortled. “What the fuck, do you have a crush on Robert or something?”
“Had a dream last night Robert and I fucked,” Visi admitted. “You ever get those? The kind that’s really fucking good, probably too good, but you can’t stop getting flashes of it. Keep thinking about it and thinking about it until it either passes or you get it over with, see if it’s even true or not.” Her dark eyes cut to her flaming teammate’s profile.
His chiseled face screwed in horror, throat working as if liable to yak.
“Over someone like him? No, never. That’s fucking disgusting. I have standards.” Flambae controlled his gagging with a steadying hand on his broad chest. He leveled a dispassionate and judgmental look down at her. “I know pathetic, twiggy, depressed losers are catnip to you bisexuals, but Jesus, have some fucking taste.”
Visi blew a raspberry and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “God fucking help me, I think I may actually wanna taste.”
Flambae pulled the same face behind her back then turned his pinched eyes to scrutinize their Dispatcher. The hotheaded hero gave him a quick appraisal from head to toe.
There was little remarkable about him. Robert Robertson was truly just some guy - and not a particularly interesting one. He was of average height, of below average build, with boring brown hair that was always unkempt - not even in a stylish way - and Flambae had never seen an ass so flat. His niece’s stick figures had more depth and dimension to them. He was basically back and leg with no break in between. Flambae preferred a man with enough ass to fuck against without bruising his thighs, or enough to grab in his hands and pull a man deeper when being fucked.
“I really don’t, why - what do you even see in him?”
“Me? Nothing.” Visi shrugged, consideration muddled in the glare she leveled at their Dispatcher’s back. “Dream me? It’s like he said yesterday: potential,” she purred the last word. Visi shamelessly elucidated a few elements of her dream to paint a clearer picture.
The ghost of his fingers that felt so real in the dream, filling, curling within her deliciously. Those same fingers caressing her face before popping his thumb into her mouth that still tasted like her.
Flambae’s eyes effortlessly darted to those hands now.
Robert spoke with or idly moved them often so they were easy to track. Now, deep in conversation with Chase those fingers moved with a pianist’s articulation and grace, conducting a silent - probably annoying - symphony. Robert flexed his fingers and Flambae noted they were a unique combination of delicate, yet powerful. The kind of hands that could caress just as well as choke.
A treacherous image flashed in the flaming hero’s mind; down on his knees, a hand gliding along his cheek, forceful yet tender, working up through his unbound hair, then gripping a firm fistful at the nape of his neck, jerking his head up to stare into a face his mind refused to illuminate. It didn’t have to. The hands in his vision were the same he looked at now.
Flambae shook his head to clear the image, scowling as Visi continued reminiscing.
Deliberate, pillow-soft and full lips with a tongue that knew exactly what it was doing.
After the Bone Zone lied about Flambae having chapped lips, the former villain often found his eyes fixated on other people’s mouths. He realized he never had with Robert, though. The general vibe he got from the man was he was not worth a passing glance. He had a vague sense the Dispatcher was scruffy, probably crusty, and if his gaze lingered too long it would only serve to depress him that someone could look so shitty.
But he looked now, watched those lips move as he spoke, watched them spread into an easy smile and turn higher at the corners as a soft chuckle that only escaped from his nose. A flash of pink slid between his lips, wetting them - possibly chapped, Flambae mentally noted with vindication - and paid more attention than he intended at the press of teeth against the bottom lip, Robert intently listening and nodding along to whatever Chase was yammering about.
Another lascivious reel played in his mind’s theatre; Robert’s head thrown back, lolling against his chair’s back as Flambae gave him a reason to bite his lip beneath the desk. Those same hands from before gripping the armrest’s cushion desperately. Another thought chased it imagining what Robert's tongue would feel like against his hot, ready skin.
Riding him, cock thick and spreading–
“Alright, alright, already,” Flambae intoned, a sound between a sigh and groan rumbling past his lips as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “God fucking help me, I think I’m starting to see it.”
“Tsk, hey, asshole. I called dibs.”
“In your dreams,” Flambae scoffed.
“Yeah.” Visi gestured with her hand. “Exactly.”
Flambae’s angular brow rose, lips quirked, as he appraised his teammate. Her comment sparked his competitive side and now out of spite he wanted to toy with Invisigal’s quarry, steal her plaything for himself and revel with petty delight over how easy it would be. Nobody refused him, not when he actually gave a fuck to try. A thought occurred to him then.
“How about a little bet?”
“Bet?” she repeated, annoyed but curious.
Villains are so easy, he thought with a private chuckle. Degenerate gamblers all of us. So predictable, such easy money. I should loop Alice in.
“Yes, a fucking bet. I thought English was my second language. Same pool as the other one. Plus, whoever wins throws in a free pack of condoms. Extra-small, no fucking doubt.”
“I’m listening.”
“I wager I can have Bobert wrapped around my finger before you can,” the hothead jeered, swirling the middle finger of his right hand between their faces suggestively.
“Tch, which finger? Couldn’t wrap shit around these two, Stubby.”
Flambae reared back, face contorted. Sucking his teeth, he brought his face dangerously close to Invisigal’s and hissed, “Go fuck yourself, Invisibitch.” Steam fumed from his flared nostrils.
“Nah,” Invisigal waved her hand in between their noses, fanning away the curling tendrils of smoke. “You’ll be the one doing that once I take Robbie home with me.”
“Bitch. Please. You don’t have that many daddy issues and come out of it straight.” Flambae pulled back and sat in his hip, examining his nailbeds. “Believe me.”
Visi remained unthreatened and nonplussed. “I’m hot, dirty sex wrapped in a barely covered bow. No way he’s passing this up.”
“Dirty like a venereal disease, maybe.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, thanks.” Flambae’s lips twisted wryly. Hungry, predatory tiger-orange eyes glowing with challenge. “Bobbo will be doing that, just watch.”
“Never know. I might.” Visi smirked, a mischievous glint sparkling in her eye. She considered Robert from a distance again, a pout tucking into her cheek. “You know, banter aside, he hasn’t really picked up what I’ve put down so far. You may have a leg up.”
“Oh, I’ll definitely have a leg up - and he’s going to need both hands to pick up what I put down.”
Visi’s eyes trailed down the salacious and gaping V of Flambae’s suit, down to where it glaringly emphasized his groin. She considered what was on display and admitted, “Unless you’re stuffing your package like a Christmas present, I actually believe you.”
Flambae grinned smugly and Visi saw a, literal, opening and attacked it.
“Oo, you know what, though?” Feigning compassion, she taunted, “I can flash him all my pearly whites and not whistle when I say ‘suck my cock, slut.’”
Flambae’s upper lip twitched, snarling wordlessly, embers sizzling and igniting along his fists and forearms. The sparks crackled and snapped, the sound of slitting logs descending into embers with an equally reminiscent smell.
Villains are so easy, she thought, tipping her nose at him and staring headlong into his simmering, wrathful eyes. His ego is kerosene and I’ve always got a lighter on me.
“Hey! Johnny and Sue Storm over there.” The shouting caught the two Z-Teamers’ attention, eyes snapping to the sound. Their Dispatcher graced them with an irritated and questioning shake of his head. “What the fuck are you doing? Can you not, by the paper? It’s fucking flammable. Go cool off somewhere else and get ready for your shift.”
Abashed and chastised, the two rolled their shoulders free from the weight of the scolding and settled into a familiar pattern of brattish behavior. Visi flicked their team lead off and stormed away, a stack of papers held to her chest as the printer kept working. Flambae kissed his lips twice in Robert’s direction and blew it towards the Dispatcher with a flex of his hand, a cruel chuckle floating in the air behind him as he stalked off.
Robert’s face scrunched, perplexed.
Chase eyed the exchange from just above the cubicle partition. “What fuckin’ pheromones you got that’s makin’ everyone around here go batshit over your sorry, scrawny ass?”
Sighing heavily and rubbing his palms over his face, Robert plopped into his chair and mumbled an exhausted, “I don’t even know, man.”
After a few aimless spins, Robert reached for his phone and saw a text from Royd. The isolated workshop sounded very appealing right at that moment, no one ever popped in down there. Just Robert and Royd, two mechanically-inclined individuals working quietly on a mech suit together. Standing, he nodded to his old friend and made his way over.
Robert’s workday had yet to officially start and he was already taxed, his will waning after an unreasonably full agenda of wet dreams, wetter diarrhea, more areolas than he had seen in some time, surprise kisses from a too-hairy and too-strong mouth, glass projectiles, disappointing mechanical mishaps, social tasks and people managing.
The toilet behind the Dispatcher flushed partly once and once again with a full gurgle after a more solid crank of the handle. Stepping out from behind the stall door sheepishly, Waterboy approached the sinks and - with a look of a rain-soaked deer in headlights - stammered, “Boy, that doesn’t, you don’t - that looks really rough, R-Robert.”
“Yeaaah. It’s not great.” He cringed, picking the last piece of glass from his chest and dropping it into the basin with a clink. The lines around Robert’s eyes squinched as he watched the nervous janitor dispense soap onto his palms and then burble water from his mouth onto his hands. “Hey, you sure that’s…sanitary?”
Making unintelligible, frazzled noises - cheeks flushing red - Waterboy smiled wanly, discomfited, and turned the faucet handles on instead with his forearm. The first fifteen seconds he spent lathering his hands and darting guilty eyes between the soap and the Dispatcher. Finished, he flicked his hands of the excess water - more seeming to splash off with every motion - grabbed his gloves and bobbed his head in farewell, sneakers squeaking as he plodded away.
Robert dabbed a damp cloth against his chest, pink trails of watery blood trickling from many of his cuts. Reaching into the first aid kit, he ripped open an alcohol pad and pressed it with a soft hiss to every wound. He waffled between using a dozen bandaids or the roll of gauze and settled on neither, slipping his shirt back on and buttoning it up.
Sliding up to and past the exit door, he rammed directly chest and nose first into a wall that grunted in response. A sharper hiss left his cringing mouth as the force tore his injuries open worse, patches on his shirt splotching a ruddy red through already.
“What, are you on your period, Roberta? That’s fucking gross.” Flambae wiped his hand across his chest, clearing it of the small smears of blood that peppered it. “Going to submit hazard pay for that shit.”
“I really can’t with this morning,” Robert muttered under his breath. He stared up with mute unemotionality at the reformed villain blocking his path.
The man’s brow lifted. “Whoa, what, are you actually not ok?” Flambae cocked his head to the side and looked down at his Dispatcher.
Robert leveled a cautious stare back at him, shifting his face away while he analyzed the tone. “Are you…actually concerned?”
Scoffing, Flambae derisively remarked, “Tuh. Well. Not anymore, I’m not.”
“Well, regardless, I’m fine, thank you. If you could move, please.”
The flaming hero made no move other than to plant his feet more squarely, arms crossing over his expansive chest, and sneering. “Make me.”
A muscle by his jaw twitched as Robert shook his head, annoyed. “So help me, Flambae, I will send you on the worst missions today.”
Relaxing, Flambae leaned and moved one of his legs closer into the other to give more space in the corridor. “Jesus, I was just fucking with you, Bob Bob. Not like you could actually do it, anyway.”
“Looks like I just did,” Robert countered.
Hmphing petulantly, Flambae added, “Alright, take it easy, geez. Maybe you actually are on your fucking period. Need me to get you a tampon?”
“Sure,” Robert replied, walking past. “But I’ll tell you where you can stick it. Hint: it won’t be in me.”
“I know what I’d rather want go up there, Robert.”
The soles of the Dispatcher’s shoes made a shrill screech as he stopped, whipping his head around, wide-eyed. It wasn’t the words so much as the tone that made Robert incredulous. There was a genuine heat and insinuation threaded in the statement, not his usual cold mockery. Even from a distance, he felt a surprising, fiery desire burning from the man.
The smile slashed across Flambae’s lips was both cruel and flirtatious, his eyes dangerously dark and sinful. The hot head dipped his gaze down below Robert’s belt buckle, back up again, then exhaling a short laugh turned on his heel and left.
Robert shuddered in the suddenly cold hallway and after a beat continued about his day, trying to put all of the morning’s intensity behind him.
Robert had hoped, with every fiber of his being, that his lunch break would go uninterrupted and peacefully. He should have known better, he should have really known better.
It started pleasantly enough. Biting into a chocolate bar he got from the vending machine to his right as he sat, for the most part, alone in the break room. A moment later, Waterboy scooted his trash cart in and set about tidying up, acknowledging Robert with a boyish nod.
From the moment he met Waterboy, he was charmed by his good nature, shy demeanor, and can-do attitude. He was wholesome and genuine; bumbling, but sincere. The Barney Fife to Robert’s Andy Taylor. Robert found it hard not to smile in response to every bright-eyed, watery grin he received. Even despite his occasionally odd mannerisms and, admittedly, poor taste in food - though Robert could hardly pass judgment - he didn’t mind sharing the same space with the guy. He was unobtrusive and positive, yammering away about melons and mumbling his apologies for using the restroom as intended, unlike others.
The same could not have been said for the man that entered next.
The energy shifted as soon as Flambae walked in. Cocky and striding, his arms tense with balled fists despite his placid face. Showboating his - reluctant though Robert would be to admit - impressive muscles. At his approach, the Dispatcher preemptively stiffened and did his best to ignore the man who in this moment seemed just as content to neglect his presence, too. Wrenching the refrigerator door open, he rifled through the lunches.
Peace lasted a blissful eight seconds.
“Oh, god dammit - you threw my fucking noodles away!” the hot head growled. “My initials were literally on the box and everything. Fuck!” The temperature in the breakroom ticked up.
Robert wanted to return to his snack, but his instincts kicked in as he monitored the unfolding situation, eyes moving quickly between the two and watching for body language. He was correct in his prediction as Flambae slapped the proffered takeout container Waterboy retrieved out of his hands, its contents spilling all over the lanky janitor’s head, chest, and shoulders.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” Robert called out, alert and defensive. He barely heard the exchange between the other two and stood roughly from his chair as the dirty, deflated Waterboy miserably trod away to clean himself up. Sidling up behind the reformed villain, who returned to searching in the fridge for some semblance of a meal, Robert questioned, “How would you like to have to walk around work for the rest of the day with shit all over you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think about that ‘cause it won’t happen,” Flambae snapped back. “‘Cause I’m not a fucking idiot food thrower-awayer!”
Grimacing, Robert responded, “It was an accident. You don’t have to be a bully about it. You want this in your report?”
“Finally grow a pair of balls, Robbo? You know, you’re kind of hot when you get all fucking manager on me.” Flambae tipped his chin with a quirk of his thick brow and sized the Dispatcher up. “What’re you gonna snitch on me?” He stepped forward and was pleasantly surprised to see the smaller man hold his ground, barely a breath between their chests. He puffed his to make contact and suggestively asked, “Want to add something else to that report while we’re at it?”
The corner of Robert’s lips turned down further, refusing to play along, and he stared down at the hot head unflinchingly. He didn’t need words to pass further reprimands on the Z-Teamer, just the sharp look in his flat eyes, darkened from honey brown to umber with restrained anger and disappointment.
Aggravation reignited, nose twitching, Flambae muttered, “Tch, this motherfucker.” He walked away before it became a larger incident, one he really didn’t want on his record. With anger bubbling hotly in his own stomach, against his better judgement, Flambae turned and retorted, “You’re just being a soft bitch about it. Bully. How am I being a bully?”
Flambae stopped between the door frame, breathing harshly. He played the scene back in his head, looking at it from a different perspective. Hating that Robert could be right, he doubled down and whirled around, but before he could continue a cardboard box exploded across his forehead. The fragrant blend of soy sauce and sesame oil infiltrated his nostrils as he hacked and spluttered around a mouthful of cold noodles and scallions.
Vainly attempting to cover his laugh, Robert commented, “Oh, wow, I wasn’t expecting it to go straight. That was extra. Sorry.” He didn’t sound particularly sorry and he really wasn’t.
The room filled with the same scent of a hibachi grill as smoke sizzled and fire licked up the flaming super’s body, fists shaking with unsuppressed rage.
“Straight? Please,” he rumbled mutinously. Dropping into a fighting stance, his fists alight with molten flames, he shouted, “You’re going to choke on this fucking–”
Heels clipped crisply behind him as Blonde Blazer’s voice floated in. “Hey, Robert, could you–” She stopped as the reformed villain extinguished his flames, deflating his body and anger. She eyed the man up and down with her piercing cerulean eyes and asked, “Did you eat my lunch? Why would you do that?”
Smugly seizing the opportunity presented to him, Robert pinned that very thing on Flambae.
“Really?” Blazer asked, annoyed and confused.
Rage mounting again, Flambae’s head shook as he bit out a curt, “Yes.”
“Well, if you were gonna eat it, I wish more of it got into your mouth.” With a shake of her head, she demanded, “Go get cleaned up, then clean this up, then pick me up a BLT from Johnny’s and we’ll call it even.”
Robotically, his eyes never leaving Robert’s, he stalked backwards and repeated a more acquiescing, “Yes,” to his blonde superior.
Away from their sight, he wiped his hands across his hair, shoulders, and contorted face, muttering a hateful slew of curses in Dari. In English, he coarsely spit, “Fuck this, fuck me, fuck that fucking–”
“Things not going so hot?” the air spoke with sly condescension. Materializing into sight, Invisigal reclined against the wall, face smug.
Flambae snarled, a noodle that clung to his bicep rolling off and onto the ground with a slick splat.
“No, things are going fucking great. Blonde Boobzer walked in on Robert and I making a mess and now I have to go and get her a fucking BLT because of it.”
“Yeah, uh huh, well I think my odds of winning this b-e-t have just gone up,” she remarked coyly.
In his rage and internal promises to now destroy his twink Dispatcher, Flambae had almost forgotten there was money and bragging rights on the line. His anger dissipated as quickly as it was stoked and renewed determination flared in his veins.
“I don’t think so, invisible bitch. Game’s not over yet - and this won’t be the only time I get sloppy with that fucker.”
Rolling off the wall, Invisigal shrugged and, unconvinced, simply stated, “We’ll see.” Walking away, she called back after him and warned, “Told him about my dream. Didn’t seem turned off by it. All I’m gonna say about that.”
Flambae’s face dropped at that news. That was a bold move. He would have to be bolder. Cupping his right hand around the corner of his mouth, tsking and switching to his left, he shouted back, “Yeah, well, bet he wasn’t fucking turned on by it either, bitch!”
One of the other Dispatchers on the floor shushed him as they walked by.
Affronted and flipping his hand up, Flambae retorted, “Shush yourself. Bitch. Alright. Gotta go take a fucking shower and get this shit off me.”
Closing out the final completed mission, Robert breathed a sigh of relief, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his strained eyes. He reclined back and massaged his neck. He could hardly believe there were days when he was more sore sitting and dispatching, then back when he was in active combat in the Mecha Man suit.
Chase, who also remained behind to finish up the last of his paperwork, popped his head up and conversed with Robert about the new addition to the Z-Team. Robert defended the choice and Chase acquiesced grumpily. Chase moved from out behind his desk.
Resting his arm on their shared dividing partition, the curmudgeonly old man said, “Hey, kid. Love ya.”
Robert remembered a much younger voice, less gravely and wisened, saying that to him with a ruffle of his tawny hair. The same man, a different life. It felt good to hear the affirmation after such an exhausting day.
“Mm. Love you, too, Unc.”
“Don’t fuck this up.” Chase departed and left Robert to attend to his closing routine.
Gathering the scattered pens, note pads, and paper clips from across his desk, he opened his side drawer to deposit them in and saw a picture shift from beneath a folder. Picking it up in his fingers delicately, he looked on at two faces with matching grins and excitedly sparkling eyes. A pair of those same eyes, now older, shifted uneasily as he mapped his father’s features on the photograph.
Fifteen years. It had been fifteen years since the death of his father. He hated to admit it had been longer than that since he had last actually seen him. Longer still since they had both smiled, certainly the way they were in the photo.
Four months. It had been four months since his father’s killer had escaped prison and he began his short hunt. With the coma and now Dispatching, it had been put on the backburner. If he was honest, he had cut the heat to that stove and the pot was as cold as his last leads.
Guilt lanced through his stomach, piercing higher. It was replaced by the numbing feeling of loss. Loss at the father he had, loss at the father he might have had were he still here. Realistically, he would probably be the same complicated man that caused even more complicated feelings in him. But now he could never know.
A new feeling entered as he stared at the photograph. His father was only a few years older than he was now there. By this time, his dad had a purpose, a legacy, a team, a family. Robert could pride himself on all the same except the last. He had no one.
Ruefully, he tucked the picture back into his drawer and pushed away from his desk, aimlessly circling in his office chair.
A few short pants, the pitter patter of little legs, and the bounce of a rubber ball sounded before a gentle whine.
It reminded him he didn’t exactly have no one.
Picking the ball up, Robert stood and was sharply reminded that for as much love as he poured into his dog, it was not quite the same as having a family. He watched wistfully as an associate walked away, embraced by her loved ones. He didn’t begrudge Beef for not filling this yawning void that threatened to swallow him. His arms were too little to hold him like that. He didn't think anybody's arms would be big enough anyway.
Contenting himself with what he was allotted in this life, he went for a walk with his buddy. The dark of the office and night outside felt oppressive and claustrophobic, despite its open emptiness. Returning, he managed to find someone else that seemed to be faring worse than he was.
Exchanging sad platitudes and comforting words with a miserable Phenomaman, he realized that was a man truly alone in this world. No others of his kind, lost in an oasis of misunderstandings with only single-minded focus to keep him tethered to this foreign land and gradually unraveling by the day, and now his only connection to love severed.
Robert hated that he felt just a little better knowing that things could be worse. Los Angeles was not his original home, but the planet at large was and he knew how to function in it. But even with the man’s desperate sadness, he could only have felt that after having such an intense bond with another person. Robert couldn’t remember the last time he had that, if he ever had something so intimate to begin with.
Sighing, he went back to his desk and plopped unceremoniously down into his seat when a voice interrupted his solitude.
“What are you doing here so late, Robbo?”
He hadn’t even heard the man approaching. He suspected he was more out of it than he realized. Robert groaned and gathered his depleted strength, accessing the reserve he usually only ever needed for unforgiving combat. What was one more draining social encounter to add to his day’s lengthy tally.
“I was working. Ever heard of it?”
“Pfft. More than you, bitch. I actually get my ass up to do it, too.”
Ignoring that, Robert asked, “What are you doing here so late? If you’re here to beat me up over what happened at lunch, just know that: one, it was deserved, and two, there are cameras.”
“Nah. I considered what my payback would be, but I’m over it. Mostly.” Flambae looked at his nail beds, resting his arms and part of his broad chest over the cubicle’s partition. “I’m waiting for the clubs to open. Prism said she was going to come with, but bailed.” The hothead muttered a string of expletives and none-too charming insinuations against his friend.
Robert found participation in conversations easiest when he could rely on dry wit and teasing. Slipping comfortably into that mentality, he joked, “That a weak, open invitation for your favorite Dispatcher I hear?”
“No,” Flambae scoffed, sniffing and staring off to his right. Amber eyes darted quickly to the Dispatcher’s and away again. A barely audible mutter escaped his lips.
“What was that?” Robert asked, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. He had in fact caught what the flaming hero had said, but wanted to make him admit it, this back and forth reviving some of his spent battery.
Snarling, Flambae bit out from behind gnashed teeth, “I said, why, would you come?”
Reclining in his seat, propping his ankle on his left knee and cocking his head to the side, Robert teased, “That a line? I’ve got HR on speed dial, Flambae, just one click away. Your case file is already pretty thick, not sure it’s worth the risk.”
Wanting to inform Robert it wasn’t the only thing that was thick and deciding better of it, Flambae exhaled sharply and staring up at the ceiling, flared, “Fuck you, never fucking mind. Last time I try to be nice.”
“Was that you being nice? I’m sorry, I missed it over your bratty little attitude. And here I was ready to not let you go all by yourself.”
Flambae blinked and stood a little taller. “Wait, what, really? You?”
Robert surprised himself with his answer, but found himself increasingly intrigued. Not usually one for that scene, he figured deafening music and drinks would be an easy way to let go of the current thoughts that plagued him.
“I don’t see anyone else here,” Robert responded, standing and grabbing his jacket from around his seat. “And I don’t have anything better to do. Yet.”
Flambae blew an aggravated breath from his lips. “Oh, gee, thank you, Mr. Fucking Charity over here. You’d be lucky to go clubbing with someone as fucking hot as me, bitch. Never going to happen again, I can promise you that.”
“Still might not happen now if you keep it up,” Robert intoned, but a glimmer in his eye undercut the warning.
Flambae bit his cheek and narrowed his eyes. “It’s a gay club. Reload. In WeHo,” he announced, not sure if he meant it as a deterrent or challenge he wanted Robert to rise to. For the sake of the bet - and only the bet - he hoped for the latter.
“Noted.” Robert nodded, shrugging into his bomber jacket.
“But I refuse to be seen if you show up like that.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll wear my nicest assless chaps.”
Flambae sniggered. “Anything on you would already be assless with your twiggy, bitch body.”
Chuckling himself, Robert teased, “You been staring at my ass, Flambae?”
“No,” the other man cut too quickly. It didn’t go unnoticed by Robert and Flambae ground his teeth. Even wanting to win his bet, he couldn’t help his combative nature. “Not much to look at even if I was.”
Beef padded over to stand beside the flaming hero's leg. He peered up curiously at the man and obtrusively nudged his calf. Flambae knelt, made a snide remark about a walking potato, and gave the pup three rough scritches between the ears. Beef may as well have been lounging on a chaise and adored for the way he rapturously melted into the touch, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
Robert found a small smile tug on his lips and asked, “Are you going dressed like that?” He gestured to his super outfit.
Smirking, Flambae simply responded, “You’ll just have to come out and see.”
“Why do I have the distinct feeling it will be equally flaming and just as revealing?”
“More,” Flambae promised barely above a breath. He straightened and said, “I’ll meet you there later. Club opens at 10. Don’t show up at 10. That’s loser shit.”
Robert watched Flambae stalk off with a curt wave of his hand. Patting his leg to summon Beef, his cell phone buzzing in his pocket, he made to exit when he heard a sudden alert trigger on his computer screen. Beeping and flashing, a box warned “HERO OUT OF COVERAGE AREA” with Invisigal’s icon next to it.
Sighing, he shifted his mouse over to the locate button, flicked his eyes to the computer’s clock and noted it was almost after hours. While she was technically still on the click, most everyone else in the building and all the other teams were off already. With a shrug, he let it go and silently wished her a good night.
Robert waited outside of the club at 10:33. Out of spite, he had wanted to show up at 10:00 on the dot, but decided a half hour would be past loser hours. He had texted Flambae at 10:30 when he arrived and informed him that he would be waiting by the door, figuring they would walk in together - or if he planned to show up at a more fashionably late time, he would go in and grab a drink first.
As the minutes ticked by, Robert was beginning to regret not going out to dinner with Blazer. By the time he saw her message, he was already home and getting ready and even though she offered a late meal, he presumed it would have been too late by then and apologized, asking for a rain check.
Blowing out a breath, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his dark blue jeans and entered.
The music was loud outside of the doors, promising to be deafening with every swing as more and more patrons - less and less clothed - entered. Inside the vibrations were forceful enough they palpitated his entire body. The club was all but pitch black except for the glow sticks around some clubbers’ necks and lasers that swiveled wildly from the ceiling and music booth.
Making his way over to the bar, he slotted himself up to the first available space he could find.
“What can I get you, babes?” The bartender asked his question to Robert but his attention was divided, winking at another customer and imitating jerking off with the steel cocktail shaker by his crotch.
It was without the accent, but the pet name reminded him instantly of a Z-Teamer he was not there to meet that night.
“Whatever will make me feel more comfortable being here,” Robert shouted above the din.
Looking him over, the bartender cooed sympathetically, “Baby’s first time out?”
Robert tipped his head in awkward agreement. “Meeting someone here.”
“Good for you, honey.” He set about getting the drink ready. When finished, he handed Robert a pint glass full of ice cubes and a dark green liquid with enough mixed spirits for three people poured in. “LA water, babes, go have fun. Wait! This is for good luck, hope you pop your cherry tonight.” Winking, the bartender slipped the corresponding fruit into the drink. “This one’s on me, but tip me on the next one nicer than I hope that guy will tip me later.” He pointed to a figure dancing with his back facing them.
Robert followed the line of sight and couldn’t help also admire the man. The sea of partiers were pressed tightly together, but a line opened down the center and the man was given room in the middle of the floor that let Robert see unhindered. He watched as powerful legs held a squatted position, head and a tumble of black hair whipping back and forth to the beat, arms trailing all along a body Robert could tell even from a distance was all solid brawn. It swiveled and cut, gyrating in a dizzying display of practiced artistry. The guy knew how to work his body, that was for sure.
Taking a cautious first sip of his drink, Robert appreciated the interplay of the vodka, rum, gin, and tequila with the fruity liqueurs. He sipped four strawfulls and reached into his pocket to check his phone. No new messages which he frankly found rude at this point. Annoyed, he rolled his eyes and found them fixated on the dancer again.
The song changed and the crowd cheered, jumping up and down, singing along. One for preparedness, the DJ remixed a song Robert had listened to on the way to familiarize himself with popular gay artists. This one was by Troye Sivan, if he remembered correctly, but Robert did not want to attempt to pronounce aloud before hearing someone else say it first lest he be ridiculed. He knew exactly who would do that, too.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud and made the decision that he wasn’t going to just stand around.
Finishing his drink, he slipped it back onto the bartop and made his way onto the floor with one target in mind. He knew it would get Flambae’s goat for him to eventually walk in and see Robert getting broken in by some other, random guy. Especially one who could go toe to toe in a body building competition with him. If his plan worked, the hot head’s ego would likely take a well-deserved hit and it served him right.
Robert moved past the crush of bodies lurching against one another as he made his way onto the dance floor. A few hands trailed along his body, but he had eyes for only one figure that stood out from the rest.
The song continued to play, the energy in the club intoxicating, and confidence flowing through him as he was familiar enough with the beat to make a pass. Feeling brazen, he sidled up behind the man and asked loudly, “Hey, handsome, wanna dance?”
The handsome in question turned around and just as slowly, finally facing Robert, a wicked and gaptoothed grin slashed across his stubbled face. “‘Hey, handsome, wanna dance?’” the accented voice mocked. “Are you fucking for real right now, Robbo?”
He should have expected it. He really should have expected it. But he didn’t. Robert’s mouth popped open slightly and then closed it and his eyes as he cursed his fortune.
He did expect the outfit that was presented to him. It was exactly as Robert assumed which should have been his first clue. To his credit, from the back, it was all a monochrome of black that blended into the dark of the club.
Flambae wore tight jeans as if poured onto him low on his hips and what looked like a chic version of a flaming bowling shirt, but made from silk and cropped to accentuate his tapered waist and triangular frame. None of the buttons were clasped and his chest exposed a black mesh undershirt. Two silver, Cuban link chain necklaces dangled at his collarbone and twin flashes of silver peeked out when the shirt moved and exposed his nipples. On his wrists were what seemed to be black leather cuffs with vibrant red, orange, and yellow flame decals professionally painted and licking up the front.
“How long have you been here?” Robert asked, noticing a trickle of sweat roll down the flaming hero’s neck.
“Since 10.” Robert pulled a face and Flambae laughed. “I can do whatever I want and not be a loser. Like coming to the club at 10, or with you. You, though, need all the fucking help you can get.”
Choosing to let it go, Robert took in the sight of the man’s unleashed hair, the secondary reason he hadn’t immediately recognized him. The first being the super was out of costume, despite knowing he wouldn’t be in it. “Nice to see you out of that stupid ponytail,” he commented with more appreciation than he expected his voice to have about it.
“And it looks even nicer without fucking noodles in it, too, asshole.” Scowling and running a hand through the inky waves as if feeling for the ghost of slimy spaghetti, the hot head groused, “Also, it’s not stupid, it’s practical.” He watched Robert eyeing his fingers as they parted through his ebony locks and smirked. “And I don’t need to be practical here. I just need to be the sexiest thing that anyone has ever seen and I’ve got that on fucking lock. Clearly.” Flambae eyed him up and down, his appraisal returning with disappointed discernment up to meet Robert’s stare.
That was also expected.
Shaking his head and resuming his dancing, body rocking from side to side in a fluid and captivating slither, Flambae mocked, “I thought I was promised assless chaps, not this Fruit of the Loom ad bullshit.”
Robert ignored a further scoff of judgement as he began to pump his arms and bounced his body in his own form of dancing and responded, “Sorry to disappoint, Tom of Finland, I don’t actually have any.” Robert strained to raise his voice over the thrumming beat. “You’ll just have to content yourself with the finest white shirt I have from my twelve pack bundle.”
Flambae groaned pityingly. “That’s fucking pathetic, this came in one of those little plastic baggies? That is a fucking crime, Robert. You should be in the Phoenix Program with us over this. Next date, I’m taking you clothes shopping.”
“Date?” Robert stopped his dancing, frowning with a brow raised.
All around them, scores of patrons chanted the uninterrupted chorus of the song.
Flambae sneered and draped his muscular arms past Robert’s slim shoulders, pressing the man closer to his body. His thick thighs rubbed against Robert’s jeans, resting his forehead against the other’s and breathed out, “The fuck do you think this is now, bitch, team building?”
“Unsanctioned, but kinda,” Robert admitted.
“I don’t see the rest of those fuckers here. This is a date. Treat me nice and you may like where it goes.” He grazed his stubbled cheek against Robert’s and whispered low, “I look pretty fucking good bent over.”
A flashback of fire, laser, and pain flared in his mind. Robert knew exactly what Flambae looked like bent over: chest pressed against a police car’s hood, mutilated hand bleeding down his spine as an officer twisted it behind his back, another hand pressing his head down roughly and shouts of alarm as he cauterized his own wound and all around saw it as a threat.
Guilt dropped a leaden ball into Robert’s stomach with a concern for subordinate propriety as an acidic chaser.
The echo of the song’s last line transitioned to a new one. Flambae missed the drawn, sour look and turned the Dispatcher around in his arms, rolling his front against the other’s back. The flaming hero was a wall of rippling muscle, one in particular that surprised Robert as it pushed insistently against his lower back. It surprised Robert more that he didn’t pull away and after a moment ground himself deeper into the touch, following the motion and pace of Flambae behind him.
Concern trickled away like the hours as he lost himself in the pounding baseline, the undulating swivel and heat of the man whose arms engulfed him, and every shot he poured down his mouth to smother the last remnants of his worry.
He let the night be what it was, harmless while it could still be.