Chapter Text
SDN’s break room was pretty standard. Painfully grey and relying heavily on the relatively cheap vending machine offerings for employee retention. Flambae however, preferred to cook for himself, as he found the familiar rhythm of the kitchen one of the only things that actually cleared his mind. That, and it was the only hobby that normies wouldn’t label him a pyromaniac for.
He had very little patience for much else, but he worked hard to find new recipes and perfect his favourites, and perhaps it was time he got a little recognition. And perhaps he thought a certain dispatcher should consider a diet beyond Twinkies, black coffee, and the occasional microwave burrito.
In his moderately sized kitchen, with 70’s disco blasting from his phone’s tinny speakers, Flambae carefully portioned rice and beef ghorma into glass tupperware, passive aggressively scrawling his name on the top of each one so that nothing would be mistakenly thrown out. He considered an additional sticky note with some creative threats, but decided against it. Since his promotion from janitor, Waterboy had proven himself, in Flambae’s opinion, not totally incompetent. Plus, it was just his luck to get stuck with Herm for most of the next shift, and Flambae was not about to get bested by water for the third time in his Phoenix Program career.
As he stood there staring into his fridge, the internal argument began again. Tolerating Robert was bad enough, but cooking extra for him? No, his inner voice reasoned, I just happen to be making 2 portions, and if one of them ends up being the nutrition that stops him from keeling over at his desk, so be it. Another voice suspiciously like Prism muttered something about being “down bad,” and he swiped the thought away with an angry gesture.
That left him in said dull break room, leaning back on a plastic chair, arms crossed, legs folded neatly, stealing quick glances at his phone clock between idle chat with Prism, who’s scrolling Twitter absentmindedly and sipping seltzer. Sonar stared blankly at the microwave, his eyes tracking the… whatever was inside. Flambae didn’t know the specifics of Sonar’s diet and frankly, didn’t want to.
This was stupid. He was convinced now that this was a terrible idea, the Z-Team would think he was a simp, Robert was such a bitch he probably thought mayonnaise was spicy, and –
Robert Robertson III swept into the room, Invisigal and Malevola in tow, the three of them discussing the success of the shift, Robert seeming tired (because when does he not), but in good spirits, looking around somewhat proudly at the team.
He was right to be proud; most of the tension between the team had ebbed away after quite literally saving Los Angeles, leading to their synergy being higher than ever. Of course, the reformed villains still had some clashes, but they were usually solved by a night at a bar none of them had been banned from yet (growing increasingly rarer), or Robert threatening to send the feuding parties to deliver coffee together. More often than not, by the end of the work day, the team had returned to friendly rivalries and innocent quips.
Robert reached in his back pocket for his tattered wallet, pulled out a 5 dollar bill and slotted it into the vending machine. On cue, the machine whirred, paused, and promptly spit the bill back out. Robert sighed, and tried again. And again. Visi even offered him a new bill, but the machine seemed determined to ruin Robert’s spongy, cream filled lunch plans.
“Eh, I’ll just drink some coffee now and have a big dinner later,” Robert shrugged, walking over to the coffee pot and yawning for emphasis. Flambae, as casually as he could muster, strolled to the fridge and opened the door, eyes flickering to Robert’s abysmal posture as he leaned over to grab a mug.
“Dude we’ve all seen your kitchen, your cupboards were depressing as shit,” Visi scoffed, “I don’t think the carrot pieces in Cup Noodle count as 1 of your 5 a day.”
“Yeah I thought Sonar’s diet was bad but yeesh, man, considering the state of your fridge, no wonder you’re so scrawny,” Malevola chimed in.
Sonar feigned clutching his pearls as he leaned against the counter. “Low blow, Mal. I’ll have you know that cockroaches contain essential amino acids as well as micronutrients and-”
“Ignoring the fact that that’s disgusting, why were you guys even looking in my cupboards? And why do you suddenly care about how scrawny I am?”
Flambae took his opportunity. “Because I’m not going to be working with a superhero who can barely bench 115 pounds. You want to, uh, what is it? Make the bitch Mecha again? Here.” He punctuated this last word by shoving the tupperware to Robert’s chest.
Robert’s eyes, almost comically, moved from the food. To Flambae. And back again.
“I made too much last night, and if this is what it takes to stop your bitch ass whining about food, then take it.” Robert’s eyes moved back to Flambae, mouth slightly agape. The microwave took that moment to make a loud, slightly squelchy, pop.
“Uh, can I eat this cold? ’Cause I think the microwave might be covered in… hot, dead rat.”
“Sorry Bobert! I can, uh, clean this. I think.” Sonar at least had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. If that was how man-bat-freaks look embarrassed.
Suddenly, the dish in Robert’s hands was perfectly hot, and Robert looked over to find Flambae sitting in the chair in the corner, looking intently at his phone.
“Flambae- this is- uh, thank you for-” Robert began.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, bon appetit bitch.”
Mal and Prism chuckled, both starting on their lunches, while Sonar wiped out the microwave, waving as Coupé entered. Robert popped open the lid, scooped some of the stew onto a spoon, and took his first bite.
“Mm.” He took another, savouring the mouthful of flavourful rice, beef and potato, letting his eyelids flutter shut. “Mmm,” he groaned again.
“Goddamn Robert, usually you only make those noises when you’re hacking something.” Robert opened his eyes to find Visi grinning over at him. “Though I bet I could get you to-”
Robert cut her off quickly. “Uh, this is really good, Flambae. You say you made this yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m kind of a genius, Bob Bob. Go figure. It’s, uh, good protein in there. Maybe if you eat it and go do some squats or something, your ass won’t be so flat,” Flambae responded, provoking classic middle-school level “Ooohs!” from the Z-Team.
Robert rolled his eyes and finished his mouthful, retort already prepared on his lips. “Spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, do you, Flambae?”
If Robert thought the team couldn’t get louder, he would be mistaken. He cringed slightly at the office’s response to the sheer volume coming from the breakroom, but couldn’t stop a smile escaping as he glanced over to Chad grumbling, eyebrows furrowed and staring somehow even more resolutely at his phone screen.
