Chapter Text
The first time the dreams come to him, he was in prison, getting used to the bite of the heavy metal collar around his neck and feeling for the first time in forever how to regulate his body temp without the crutch of his powers.
Always with brown eyes, always rounded in innocence, always fucking stubborn, always a heart of gold and a smartass through and through. But even in a different form, Amin knew like a truth embedded in his being that he would always recognize the soul behind.
It’s repetitive in its subject but the time and setting always changed. In the desert, in a busy city, in a dim bar, under the night sky, in the middle of a fucking war, in the quiet of a small apartment, it was always somewhere Amin has never been in a time he never recognized.
Amin thinks he's losing his mind. But he cannot shake the ecstasy of having loved that much and its equivalent grief every time he wakes up. It's hard to believe that it could be true, because he isn't loved like that, he doesn't love like that. Maybe this was the real price he had to pay for his sins, his sanity slowly being chipped away.
He is introduced to his niece for the first time across a bulletproof glass and that is a different kind of pain altogether.
“Aisha,” his sister tells him, a challenge in her eyes, forcing him to face a future he never tried to see, “Her name’s Aisha.”
When he hears about Mecha Man's fall, the usual anger isn't there even as the cheers rise from the other low lifes with him. For some reason, he has this unwavering truth in him that knows the hero is alive.
At the same night, he dreams of a hundred deaths that wakes him up in cold sweat and a choked scream. He feels colder than when they put the collar on him the first time. There’s pain that feels soul deep as if it’s being torn repeatedly in different places. He cries for a long time, confused from the thousand griefs buried in him.
Prison hardens him. He learns some extent of human and meta cruelty here. He learns how to fight dirtier, hit harder, deflect faster, and knows which pain is easier to endure. Pain is easier to handle than the fuck up in his head. He got solitary only once and the echoing thoughts of hundreds of past without any distractions almost broke him.
When the offer came about the phoenix program, he looked across the golden woman who'd passed him the contract and thought, you deserve someone like her.
He remembers dreams, many of them, of unions between his brown-eyed ghost and other people who were not Amin.
He signs the document with the hand without two of its fingers and thinks of his family and the baby pictures shoved under his bed.
I want to try to deserve you too.
Sitara greets him as soon as he exits and he feels his heart grow too large to fit his body. Like any sister who feels entitled to make demands of their brother, she reiterates for him to do better, be better, you have a niece now. She fits the same in his arms and he doesn’t let go of her for a long time. He likes to think she was there too, in the hundreds of siblings he’s had in his hundreds of lives.
Things are hard with multiple memories converging in your head that you are still refusing to think about too much. Add that to the revolving characters of shitty dispatchers who think exvillains aren't worth the effort of rehabilitating, his shitty mood is to the roof when they go to the bar to decompress.
Lo and behold, Mecha Man is there talking to their boss.
His finger stumps throb in a remembered ache and he thinks of what he gained in exchange for them.
When Flambae approaches and tries to talk to the hero to make him look at him, acknowledge whatever fucked up trigger that got switched during their fight, grabbing his shoulders causes a surge of images and emotions that his brain couldn't keep up with.
Next thing he knows, he's on the ground and wet from the water thrown at him, holding on his ringing head.
Fuck, not him. A voice asks if he’s okay and Mecha Man's eyes are brown and round and innocent in their concern. Mecha Man has a heart of gold, stopping villains like Flambae. Mecha Man had died. Flambae had felt him die. Mecha Man took his fingers.
Suddenly, there's bile in his throat, he stands abruptly and leaves through the door before losing the contents of his stomach to a nearby dumpster.
He flies away, putting distance between him and fucking Mecha Man.
The next day, a brown eyed dispatcher is introduced to them. Flambae wouldn’t have connected him to Mecha Man if looking at him for too long wasn’t making him feel nauseous.
You always have the same eyes. A voice that sounds familiar but also does not, rings in his mind. I’d recognize you everywhere.
The headache is still present at the back of his head and his energy last night had been spent trying to calm down his nausea and then parsing through the memory overload from meeting him.
Flambae decides to look past him. His eyes land on Blonde Blazer's face and he thinks oh.
You deserve someone like her. It’s not new, the thought.
Fuck, he thinks with feeling, I have to work with him.
Like all things that make him confused and fuck no, he’s not scared, Flambae decides to avoid the brown eyed dispatcher. His subdued attitude is picked up by his teammates and of course they rib him about it. He doesn't retaliate much when thinking, thus existing hurts.
The migraine persists throughout each mission and he tries to move in autopilot to keep up. He barely scrapes by.
He cuts them. He cuts them and they lose Sonar. Were you even worth the second chance?
Look at me. He wants to scream at the man. Look at me and cut me too. But Robert stands there and takes the consequences of his decision upon himself. Prove to me that this isn’t real.
Prism, the bestest friend he could ever have, confronts him about his recent mood swings.
He doesn't know how to explain to her what it feels like looking at the missing part of your soul and recognizing it then being at war with this realization. A small part of him still thinks he's developing some sort of mental disorder, maybe fucking schizo or something because who the fuck has memories of past lives? A deep fear in him thrashes at the idea of sharing this when it's meant for someone else.
He assures her he's fine and they watch the latest thrashy reality show on TLC.
Robert is brown eyed and fucking stubborn. He stays and makes them work for each successful mission. It almost feels familiar like still fitting into an old pair of shoes, the way their banter comes easily even pointed and full of insults.
Amin sees Sonar’s tie pinned on the corkboard at Robert’s desk and thinks, oh, it meant something to you too.
Leaving a caramel macchiato at Robert’s desk was because the barista fucked up his order, NOT because Flambae got a sense of their dispatcher’s sweet tooth. When he sees Robert finish the drink quickly, suddenly the barista keeps fucking up his order almost everyday.
Catching him at the gym was a coincidence. Chad doesn't stop being an asshole and reminds the man to be careful with working out. It is without a thought when his hand pats the brown hair but it makes him pause long enough for brown eyes to look up at him with wariness.
“Your self-preservation is still shit,” are the words that come out of his mouth next.
Chad quickly holds the sudden surge of panic in him by the throat, no, don’t tell him, not yet, and carefully moves away from that section of the gym.
He ignores the burning stare of the dispatcher and keeps working out.
Sometimes he feels himself naturally gravitating towards Robert. As if redeveloping a sixth sense, he always knew where to look to find him in a room. He’s unintentionally slowly learning this version of him, his expressions, his tells, cataloguing his laughter, his smiles, his frowns, everything new and old. Whenever he realizes what he’s doing, he always tries to look away and stop. He never does.
If he leaves a warm meal on the dispatcher’s desk with a written, ‘stop eating cancer cakes bitch’, then that’s between him and the SDN CCTV.
The zteam decide to go to a villain bar per their usual post work hangouts. The mood’s up so Flambae thinks he deserves to relieve some stress through karaoke.
Robert gives sound advice on singing Whitney Houston and Flambae gets an idea when he sees a song title called, ‘Bitch’.
He sees Robert is sitting with Invisagal. Flambae thinks she’s the closest to him out of all the zteam members. He stops thinking about it and downs 3 shots in a row including the shitty drink Robert left him before taking the stage.
His song is perfect and he makes sure to make several eye contact with Robert so that he knows he’s the Robert Flambae is singing about. When their dispatcher just shrugs without even attempting to stop Flambae, the idea finally solidified in his mind that Robert really was here to stay.
“You'll stay?”
“Always”
“I’m Mecha Man.”
Robert looks at the assembled team eating their various tacos, shoulder braced and eyes anticipating. When they land on Flambae, they linger.
For all his life, anger had been very easy to reach. Emotions powered his flames after all and nothing burned hotter than anger. Only one thing has tempered it better than most in all their lives, innocent brown eyes with a heart of gold. Brown eyes that were now looking at him with expectation and wariness. He looks like he’s bracing himself for a fight.
You took my fingers.
You took my fingers and in exchange you made me remember.
You threw me in prison right after.
You died.
Amin wants to say something but it gets trapped in his throat, choking him.
I’m not even sure if you're real.
It is not anger when he reaches within, it is deep haunting fear.
Prove to me it isn’t real. Why are you telling me it’s real?
Flambae knows words had come out of his mouth before flying off. He knew who Robert was before this, he didn’t want to believe he knew who Robert was before this, he didn’t like how he recognized him through his soul. That’s not something he should be able to do.
Amin doesn’t go to work the next day and finds himself in the city library. He’s paranoid enough to think anything he owns is being monitored by SDN. He’s not sure what kind of answers he’s looking for but he’s going to find them one way or another.
Using the computers, he tries searching up the ‘symptoms’ he’d been having and so far, his search results have either told him he was mentally ill (most possible so far), pregnant (what the fuck?), possessed (another possibility), or reincarnated (he doesn’t remember getting hit by a truck in his previous life though).
After hours of searching and scraping the 5th page of Google, Amin gives up and decides to hit the books.
But which section though? He decides to ask an expert.
“Hey,” he calls to a mousy woman returning books on the shelf.
She looks up to him and pastes an easy smile, “Yes, can I help you?”
“Um,” Amin scratches his stubble, trying to find the right words for what he was looking for, “do you have books on souls? Or past lives?”
The librarian helpfully goes around the library pulling out books until Amin has like 12 on his arms. Then, when she leads them back to the reading area where the long tables are, she sections the books she’d made him carry.
“These are discussions on religious texts on reincarnation. These are some biographies about people who claim to have experienced it. These ones are from noetic science. And these are on philosophies.”
Amin looks at the last pile and the old thick hardbacks and hopes he doesn’t have to go through it.
“Thanks.” he tells her as he’s sitting down.
“No problem!” she replies before going back to the aisle where he found her.
The books feel like they’re going to devour Amin if he opens them but apparently they hold a lot of knowledge which he desperately needs right now. A sigh escapes him when he reaches for the first one.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Nothing in these goddamn books are making shit make sense for what Amin was going through. Absorbing information wasn’t really his best skill but fucking hell, it felt like he had to get a dictionary to make sense of like 70% of what bitchass Stevenson et al. was saying.
So, a break it was.
He turned away from the books and looked towards the window.
The sun was already setting, making orange and pink hues reflect on the glass.
An image of the desert, a familiar body in his arms. It is the first of their many, when he had prayed and asked the gods to let their souls be together again as they have in this life.
Amin wonders, would you make the same bargain, knowing what you do now?
He looks to the books attempting to tell him how this could happen, so many on why it could have happened, but nothing on what can stop it.
A scoff escapes him. Multitudes of their lives and he has always paid the price of the bargain.
He takes the books to the counter, deciding that it was enough research for now.
The librarian approaches as he’s carefully putting books in the return pile and asks him if he found the answers he was looking for.
Amin, tired and still feeling like he’s toeing the edge of sanity, tells her, “I think the words just melted my brain. Couldn’t find any of what I need.”
“That’s a shame,” she hummed while putting books on her rolling cart, “If you don’t mind, what kind of answers are you looking for?”
“Whatever can tell me what it means to have lost part of your soul.” Amin answered thoughtlessly, attention elsewhere, specifically on the Library’s advertisement on reading to children during weekends.
Huh, maybe he’ll bring his niece around sometime.
A book is pushed to his hands and he sees one on philosophy he never got to open. There’s a bookmark in it.
“It’s a close thing, if you haven’t seen it.” is the only thing she says before going back to the aisle with her rolling cart.
The book is called ‘The Symposium’ and it's from one of those old ass philosophers called Plato. Amin reads it back at his table and immediately closes it once he goes through the page where the bookmark was placed.
Amin gets a library card just to borrow the book.
The librarian smiles at him across the counter and adds a flyer about the reading program with his new card.
“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”
Amin flies, going up and up into the sky, burning up enough to just feel the chill of the cold night air.
“Now, since their natural form had been cut in two, each one longed for its own other half, and so they would throw their arms about each other, weaving themselves together, wanting to grow together.”
Hundreds of lives they shared. One longing for the other. One forgetting the other. Desire that desperately wants to be recognized by its other half.
When he reaches the point where the air pressure makes it hard to breathe, Amin calls his flames back and free falls. He counts as he rushes past air.
“This, then, is the source of our desire to love each other. Love is born into every human being: it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature.”
When he read that particular passage back at the library, he felt cracked open and seen. He knew then, it was the closest thing he would have to understanding this. Maybe it explains why he had never felt whole, even before the memories, why loneliness was too familiar, why anger was natural, why romantic relationships never felt real enough, and why brown eyes had always been the standard.
Then, like unlocking Pandora's box, he gets memories of reading hundreds of versions of the same book, again and again. Looking for answers, again and again.
“He whom loves touches not walks in darkness.”
Fire propulses him at the count of 300 as he redirects his fall which then makes him glide just above the surface of the water, fingers breaking the tension of it as he flies by.
Tonight, the choice to live reigns again.
The next day, Alice finds him in the middle of his wrecked living room, drinking straight Afghan moonshine from the bottle, scorch marks everywhere.
“Boy, are you really this prissy about Robert being your sworn nemesis?” she grumbles shoving the broken furniture to one side.
“Not my nemesis,” Amin slurs as he takes another gulp from the almost empty bottle.
Three overlapping images of his best friend hovers over him, raising an eyebrow in judgement, “Then what’s with the new decor? Doing some drunk renovation?”
She puts one of his surviving throw pillows near his head and sits on it, looking down at the wreck of a man on the floor.
“Just,” Amin’s thoughts are everywhere, the alcohol making them loose and spread out from his head, “alive.” He settles on the word and feels her hand brush some of the hair off his face.
“And that’s a good thing.” The tone of her voice is soft, almost careful, the way it was after prison, when they reunited and he’d told her why he was burning the building in the first place.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” a sob escapes him at the end and he’s suddenly wracked with tears.
Alice shushes him, gathers him up in her arms, and takes away the bottle to set it aside.
He holds on to her as he bawls unto her stomach, chest heaving as the anger last night drains away from him, leaving the grief he tried to suppress to come out.
“Was it like an emotional relapse?” She asks him as they’re eating breakfast at the closest cafe that knew Flambae from his constant orders of caramel macchiatos. Normally, he’d cook but since his apartment’s still thrashed, Alice is making him pay for their food in exchange for making her worry.
The migraine is present behind his head, and it's not from the alcohol. He knows it’s the price for every surge of memories he’s gained.
“Yeah,” he replies, taking a sip of his americano, “Just got reminded of shit.” Like how this is real, the memories are real, Amin’s just not at the point of believing it fully yet.
Her hand reaches out to lay on top of his right hand, the one without two of his fingers, “We’re not those people anymore.”
Amin loves her, loves her like a real sister. She’s the only one who ever took him seriously, saw him under all the bluster and sharp words, and saw the same fear of being perceived and being judged, then promptly answered with her own brand of sharpness and warmth.
He breathes out some of the pain then breathes in all her love.
She’s right, they’re not villains anymore, will probably never be again, and are still learning what that means. But, she’s also wrong, because Amin is still the same, in the several lifetimes of their pasts, Amin is still the same.
He drives her to work and he goes back to clean up his wrecked living room.
Robert blew up. Robert blew up and he’s in the medical ward.
Amin wanted to immolate something as soon as he saw the news from the zteam group chat. Maybe that fucker who was rebuilding the Mecha Man suit because what the fuck were they thinking testing a piece of shit technology that already had a record of blowing up? Geniuses, the lot of them.
But the pain wasn’t there, like the previous explosion, so at least he knows Robert’s not dead. It’s still not enough to quell the gnawing worry in Amin’s gut so he waits until he’s sure no one's in Robert’s room before visiting himself.
He knew Chase was going to come back soon so he had to be quick.
When Amin saw him, looking weak and unconscious, he couldn’t stop his hand from reaching out the limp ones on the bed, fingers automatically pressing on the pulse point.
Only then, at the feel of the strong thumps did he feel some of his anxiety ease.
“Stop fucking doing that,” Amin whispered, harsh and angry, pulling the nearby chair close to the bed before sitting down, “You’re still not used to keeping yourself alive even in this one.”
There are exposed scars on Robert’s arm and when Amin stares at his face, this close and uninterrupted, he can see some scratches and small scars there too.
He hated it even before, that every version of Robert always had to be a hero, like it was built in his DNA, and Amin always had to endure seeing him in all sorts of pain. But, he also had loved him for it too, because nothing in their past made every version of him shine better than when they were being a hero.
“Back to giving me heart attacks as usual,” he smiled fondly and a little pained at Robert after taking several moments just looking at the sleeping man, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest, “Please. I need you alive.”
“Please, grant me the strength to survive seeing the world demand more from him that he can give.”
Feeling bold, he took the small wrist and placed a small lingering kiss on the pulse he’d been holding then saying an old forgotten prayer over it after doing so, in a language that existed only before at the beginning.
He stood up, taking in his fill of the image of this person who was both familiar and unfamiliar before turning to leave.
When he came to the housewarming party at Robert’s place, the atmosphere was shit.
“Wow, your party sucks ass.” He remarked at the somber expressions that greeted him.
As everyone started leaving from the apparent shitshow that happened which Alice was quick to give him a rundown of, Flambae decided to stay back for a bit. His housewarming gift needed to be unpacked anyway.
“Did you get me a lamp too?” Robert asked as soon as the last of the visitors had filed out.
Flambae had decided to clear out the countertop to bring out what he bought and scoffed at the dispatcher’s question.
“Fuck no,” he started bringing out aluminum trays from the plastic bag, “figured no one would bring food and I know those fuckers can get hungry.” He brought out 4 trays in total that were large enough for the amount of visitors Robert had a while ago.
As he rummaged through the kitchen cabinet, he couldn’t help but sneer.
“What the fuck? Do you even eat mother fucker? Why is there only dog food here?” Flambae paused, “ and a single pair of utensils?”
“Haven’t had time to shop for groceries,” came Robert’s defensive reply.
Flambae exhaled like he was trying not to say something offending about the state of Robert’s kitchen and went back to his plastic bags. Good thing he had the foresight to bring disposable plates and utensils.
“Why are you still here?” Robert asked as he watched him start plating up some of the food which was composed of biryani rice, butter chicken, fresh salad, and some sort of tofu dish.
Instead of answering, Flambae gave him the full plate of food which was so unexpected for Robert that his hands just moved to take it.
“Because I didn’t go out of my way to cook the best food your normie tongue is probably going to taste just to leave Robert. You’re welcome. Now, be a good host, eat the goddamn food, and say compliments to the chef. Bone apple teeth bitch.” Then the man started plating up his own dinner.
Before he could retort, Robert’s stomach gave out a loud growl from all the appetizing smells of the dishes wafting in his kitchen.
When Flambae looked at him as if the sound had personally insulted him, Robert started to dig in and let out a groan from the flavor explosion in his mouth. He got so immersed in eating that he didn’t notice as amber eyes watched him nor the small soft self-satisfied smile on Flambae’s face.
“Now I know where those lunch meals were coming from,” Robert remarked as he leaned on the countertop once they were done eating. Flambae kept himself busy putting the food away, getting offended this time by Robert’s empty fridge, and throwing their used up plates and utensils away.
Flambae looked at him from across the kitchen with an assessing gaze. He was grateful that Robert had been receptive to those meals even if he’d initially thought they were poisoned. Robert was starting to look normal instead of the gaunt appearance he had in the beginning. He looked healthier and Amin helped with that.
“None of those other hoes could ever cook that good so yeah, congrats detective blues clues,” Flambae crouched, giving treats to Beef from a bag that advertised being healthy and low fat, “you got me. It’s called being caring, you should look it up.”
“I didn’t know you care that much about me.”
Flambae had to hold back a laugh through a snort. Care was such a light word for what exactly encompassed Amin when it came to Robert.
“Well, you don’t really know much about me then.”
When Flambae stood up after petting Beef some more, Robert had a look of consideration on his face as if seeing Flambae in a different light. Then his eyes flickered to Flambae's mutilated right hand. Flambae’s hand moved imperceptibly to hide but managed to stay at his hide.
“You’re right,” Robert conceded, then looked Flambae straight in the eyes, “even at the mall. You were just another villain for me to take down.”
Well, that was one way to address the elephant in the room. To Amin, there’s almost nothing new that Robert could make him feel, even this one, where his words made him feel small was not the first, and won’t probably be the last.
“Maybe I should've looked at it differently back then,” his gaze didn’t waver, and Flambae respected that enough to not look away, “no casualties, nothing stolen, just you and the burning building. That was always your MO and maybe I should have considered other ways to reach you instead of just how to end things quickly.”
There was regret there, when he talked.
“And maybe you didn’t have to lose your fingers. That’s why I wanted to say I’m so-”
Flambae almost laughs, because it's an old conversation they always have, familiar as a dance with different steps each time. His answer is always the same.
“Don’t.” Because Robert apologizing for the requisite that made him realize a fundamental part of his soul would feel too much like apologizing to Amin for making him remember and he hadn’t had enough time yet to completely process what it meant to him, the things he gained from losing his fingers. At the same time, the deep part of him that ached when he felt Robert die, was screaming at the very idea of having to lose this, of never having to know this.
“It’s fine Robert. We’re fine.” Flambae looked away, because Robert’s brown eyes weren’t helping the way his heart felt like it was trying to break all over again.
“It’s not fine, Flambae.” His chair was pushed back and he rounded the counter to face the pyrokinetic, “It’s your fingers.”
“Yeah well,” building up walls to keep the pain in, Flambae glared at the dispatcher, “my fingers, my choice Robbitch. You were stopping a villain. You were doing your heroic best.”
“But that’s not-”
Flambae sneered and threw his hand up in exasperation, “Oh my god! What? You want me to hit you for it? Is that your kink?” What part of ‘it’s fine’ was so hard to understand? “Don’t put me into your BDSM bullshit Robert, I don’t fucking consent”
And because he was Robert, he would always answer Flambae’s snark, “Fucking hell, can you live without being an asshole for like an hour or something? Why won’t you just let me apologize?!”
“Because I was a villain, Robert!” That is a stain that would always be a mark in his records, including the time served in prison, including the fingers he lost, including the police report that said it was Mecha Man who put him in prison.
“And I paid the price for that. You don’t get to dictate how I feel about it just because you’re feeling a bit guilty after realizing I wasn't just some two bit villain.” His pointer finger dug into Robert’s shoulder each time he emphasized his points and he knew that he was steaming at the shoulders as he did. He turned away to put some distance between him and the cause of the mess that was more than the morality of their situation as a hero and the villain he took down.
A tense silence filled the room as Flambae tried to calm down the heat. He almost didn’t hear the quiet question asked from the other side of the kitchen.
“Tell me, why were you there? At the mall?”
When Flambae looked over his shoulder, Robert was standing with renewed resolve, hands clenched on his sides and the same stubborn glint on his brown eyes.
“Because we can’t help what we are can’t we,” when feeling cornered, the only instinct left is to fight back, to cause as much as pain as one was feeling at the moment, and for someone like Flambae who had multitude of lifetimes converging in his head, he knew the exact right tone that would make Robert understand, “Mecha man”
He knew it hit when Robert’s expression stuttered. But because he was also familiar with how to love Robert, his automatic reaction was to soothe which was viciously tamped down because not now, not yet.
Scrubbing a hand down his face, he said, “Look.” and brought his mutilated hand to Robert’s face, “Fingers? Gone. Me? Moved on. Made peace. Did all the kumbaya bullshit because what’s done is done. Your issues don’t get to drag it out. Zip it!” he pointed at Robert’s mouth when he saw it open which promptly closed.
“You! Being a hero. No forgiveness required. Now you’re just normie fucking Robert who’s also apparently Mecha Man but with fucking back pain or some shit who gets to dispatch heroes from his small ass office cubicle. The best thing about you is your dog-” liar “which by the way, should start eating healthy shit like this!” he thrusted his hand to the dog treats still on the table.
As he was catching his breath, the man in front of him asked “Can I talk now?”
“If it’s sorry again, I’m gonna-”
“It’s not.”
“Fine.” Flambae glared at him as he crossed his arms across his chest.
There was amusement in Robert’s face now but there was also something tentative in it too. The way that it was when he was unsure of something, “You got over me slicing off your fingers, got it. Then why’d you leave when I told everyone I was Mecha Man?”
Because you were making it real. I’m not ready to make it real.
Flambae decided to reveal a different truth instead, “Because,” in his head, he was reliving the moment by detail, “Because it doesn't make sense. You have all these words and speeches about us being good heroes but,” there was real pain there, “but you threw me in jail, you saw me at my worst. How am I supposed to believe anything you say now?”
If I bare my soul to you now, would you recognize it?
“That’s,” Robert’s jaw moved, having difficulties articulating what he wanted to say or maybe having no words to say, “You are a good hero Flambae. You made a choice to be one instead of going back to being a villain. You do actually do a good job even if you’re an asshole who lights shit on fire to climb the ranks.”
Flambae knows Robert’s attempting to lighten the conversation by joking but that’s another failure, isn’t it? Because if Flambae could stay in the ranks, they couldn’t put him back in jail, they couldn’t cut him like they did Sonar. And fuck, there isn’t enough time to pick at his issues with being a hero when past lives are having simultaneously parties in Amin’s head.
“Sure, Robert, sure.” Flambae said in clear dismissal, already done with the conversation.
He didn’t care that Robert sighed behind him in disappointment as he put away the plastic bags and dog treats.
“Look, Flambae-”
“The food’s too much. Get some containers and portion it out so you can freeze some of it or give it away,” Flambae barreled on against the attempt to go back to what they were talking about, “I know Coop loves the Tofu Tikka and Prism will probably kiss you if you give her some of the butter chicken.”
A hand grabbed his arm as his feet walked towards the door, because Robert is a stubborn son of a bitch who couldn’t leave well enough alone, “Just hold on a minute. You really don't hate me for what I did to you?”
Would you make the same bargain, if it always led you to pain?
“For what? The significant life event that led me to the Phoenix Program and made sure I got to face my niece proudly without being a villain?” Flambae asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
In response, Robert’s eyes narrowed in disbelief, “I’m not used to you being this mature.”
“It’s called character development bitch, get some.” His eyes looked around the apartment, piecing together what he can but not seeing much, “which your apartment desperately needs. The hell is this? It’s fucking bare as shit.”
Robert shrugged, “I’ll live.”
“That’s the thing Bob bob. You don’t have to. It’s why people invented furniture, heard of it?”
“Can’t say I have, maybe I did several concussions ago.”
“You’re a fragile ass bitch with no furniture. It’s probably why you’re depressed.”
Flambae couldn’t help but notice how Robert still hadn’t let go of his arm.
“Not because of my small peen and erectile dysfunction?”
“Shit Bobert, that's the one plus one of all your issues.”
Taking initiative, Flambae tugged at his arm which Robert quickly let go when he noticed his hand still there.
They walked to the door but stopped when Flambae paused.
“My name’s Chad.”
Robert who was lost in thought was startled out of it from the revelation and looked bewildered when the sentence registered.
“Chad?”
Flambae rolled his eyes at the disbelieving tone, “Alice told me about your little team bonding after I left that night. You can call me Chad.”
“Okay Chad,” Robert didn’t feel right saying it and it showed on his face, “thanks for coming by and bringing food.”
Amin grinned at him like he was keeping a secret, “Good night Robert.” Then he walked away.
Then of course it all went to shit.
Seeing Robert hunched over the hospital chair as Chase laid there prone, Amin couldn’t help the images super imposing itself on his figure. It bothered him enough to come in and go to their dispatcher.
“Hey,” he called quietly as he stood beside him.
Sad brown eyes looked up at him as Robert gave him a small tired smile when Chad handed over a steaming cup. He was surprised it wasn’t coffee when he took a sip.
“It’s chai.” Chad muttered beside him, oddly flustered.
“Thanks.” and he really sounded grateful for the drink.
Chad observed him and the way his back was arched couldn’t be good for his spine. After giving a cursory glance around the area, a warm palm was placed in between Robert’s shoulder blades which initially startled him but then quickly relaxed back when he noticed it was just Chad’s hand.
“Did you know that the only time I’ve ever seen Chase genuinely happy over something other than the first time he met your fat chi hua hua was when you became a dispatcher?” Chad prompted, attempting to control the heat radiating from his palm to ensure it spread around where it touched Robert.
Robert didn’t reply but Chad knew he was listening. There was something reverent in him in the way a small amount of tenseness where he was touching Robert had relaxed.
“Someone who cherishes you that much will probably tell you to stop being a selfish bitch and thinking that you’re at fault for something you couldn’t control” Chad’s hand then squeezed Robert’s shoulder as he punctuated the curse in his sentence.
He saw Robert’s jaw tick at that, “If I was there earlier, then maybe-”
“Then maybe it happened today instead of last night,” Chad countered immediately, “A lot ifs could’ve happened, but this is the one that did. Stop taking blame for shit that’s Not. Your. Fault., no one’s fingering you.”
Robert twisted his back abruptly to look at him at that last sentence, effectively dislodging Chad’s hand, his eyes full of bewilderment, “What?”
“You know, fingering.” Chad reiterated and pointed his pointer finger at Robert, wriggling it.
Robert was nearly crossed eyed as he looked at the wriggling finger. Then he looked up at the serious expression on Chad’s face that he wore as he imparted his words of wisdom
There was a pause before a smile spread out of Robert’s mouth like he couldn’t help it, like he wasn’t used to it, and he let out a small quiet laugh.
“You say the fucking damnest things.” he declared, still laughing.
Chad watched him feeling as if he was seeing the sun for the first time, thinking smiling suits you.
“I don’t think that’s the right word for it.”
“A word can have two meanings Robert. Stop being a pervert.”
“It’s pointing a finger, you idiot, not fingering.”
Chad processed what he was told then when clarity hit, the tips of his ear turned which Robert observed happen.
“Whatever Dr. Grammar, yuck it up.” There was no bite in his tone, still revelling at the joy on Robert’s face and the fact he was the one who caused it.
Robert offered him a smile after his laughter tapered off, “Thanks, I needed that.”
You need more of that. Laughter shouldn't be that hard to do.
Chad's hand reached out for Robert's back again but he paused and decided to ruffle his brown hair instead. Then he faced the man on the bed.
“Heal up Trackstar or else Bob bob's obese dog will get as depressed as his owner and no one wants to see that”
“Rude.”
Chad gave Robert the middle finger and started for the door, “Shut up Mechadick and drink your tea”
He paused when Robert called his name, “Thanks, for coming by.”
Chad gave him a small nod, “I’ll see you on the next shift”
Of course. Of course. Of fucking course Robert's issues are never that simple.
The team decides to cut Visi. Chad gives his piece about second chances and in the end, Robert goes against the majority and keeps Invisigal.
Chad may have been imagining it, but for a moment, Robert's eyes had lingered on him when he made his reasoning on forgiveness and good intentions.
Does Sonar’s tie still haunt you? Do my fingers still haunt you?
Then the fucker gets kidnapped and beat up by fucking Sonar. Ooohhh, once Flambae gets his hands on that rat eating bitch, he's gonna make sure the bitch is gonna start eating rats through a straw once Flambae’s done with him.
Then! Red ring swarms the fucking city and that’s a different type of shit show all together.
And after all that trouble, with the city damaged but rescued, they end up in an impasse.
Beef is in Robert’s arch nemesis' hand and Flambae is not having a good time.
Call it instinct, stupid recognizing stupid or, the hundreds of converging past lives in him, but he knows that Robert is about to do something that was going to get himself killed. Amin has been here before, so many times, and it’s always a new type of torture to experience.
Shroud keeps droning on and on, trying to rile Robert up but Amin doesn’t fucking care about Robert’s ‘affections’ for Invisigal or Blonde Blazer, he’ll have his breakdown about it later, he just desperately needs Robert to come out of this alive.
Amin keeps weighing pros and cons, eyes darting every which way trying to think of the best way to react for every possible outcome of this standoff.
Then the motherfucker tricks Shroud with two astral pulses, but its enough time, enough distraction for Flambae to move the fastest he has ever done and tackle Shroud hard to the ground, and if his flaming body scorched him enough that the smell of burning flesh starts to waft from where they lay in a heap, Flambae doesn’t fucking care, the fucker deserves it and more.
But see, the thing about having superhuman durability, it doesn’t make you bullet proof, so when he hears the sound of a gun going off and feels the familiar punch of a bullet as it imbeds in his stomach, having lurched at the impact, he’s aware that he has a few minutes before blood loss gets him.
So he grabs the gun, it fires again just beside his head. He heats it to the point of melting, making Shroud let go before he’s suddenly being pulled to the side and then Robert is there taking his place.
Flambae is aware of Visi pulling him away as the sound of a fist hitting flesh over and over resound from somewhere on his side.
He was going to shoot Robert, Amin realizes as he feels small hands try to cover his bullet wound, He was going to kill Robert.
“Stop,” he pushes her hands away, “Blood is lava.” he warns as he coughs through a mouthful of hot blood.
Then Mal is there taking over and so is Waterboy pouring water over his stomach. I almost lost him again.
“Bae, fuck, you need to calm down!” Alice, he loves her, he doesn’t deserve her, is holding his face, “Follow me, come on.” And then she’s breathing in an exaggerated way as Amin realizes he’s having trouble breathing like there wasn’t enough air coming in and out of him. Yes, following Alice is a good idea.
“Good, good, keep breathing like that.” She’s making him focus on her, her voice noticeably holding back panic.
Amin tries, he tries, but the pain in his stomach is intense and there’s a dull throb at the side of his head, all of it is making his vision get spotty.
There are panicking voices everywhere but all Amin can focus on now that his breathing has calmed is Robert, staggering away from Shroud’s prone and bloody body towards him.
“You’re alive.” Amin manages to wheeze out through the pain, weakly lifting a hand to take one of Robert’s wrist, fingers moving to find his pulse in a motion that betrayed familiarity.
Robert’s brown eyes are trembling as he looks down at the pyrokinetic, “That was a stupid fucking move.” His voice was rough and full of worry as he wrapped his own hand around the ones on his wrist, “you feel cold Chad.”
Amin hums and closes his eyes, feeling tired now that the adrenaline was draining out of him. Someone’s calling his name, but it’s muffled as consciousness starts to slip away, and through his lips, a name passes quietly, one that only existed in the beginning, carried through hundreds of lives, vows echoing between the spaces holding his awareness together.
Not death, nor time. I carry a heart that loves one unhindered, unchanged, undying.
He lets the darkness take him.