Chapter Text
Sonar rarely showed weakness, and when he did it always ended up being embarrassing as fuck. His team knew about his distaste for high pitch noises and seduction that didn’t lead to being shown boobs.
But what they didn’t know, however, was his hatred for cold weather. Don’t be fooled though! He’s no pussy, he can withstand a nice cool breeze without any complaints spewing out of his mouth. It’s what the cold weather does to his fur that makes him despise it so much, more specifically… the colder months of the year.
His fur grows a winter coat.
A very big one that causes him to struggle with his suit in the mornings, and literally every other thing he regularly does. If you see white specks stuck inside his fur and assume it’s dandruff, it’s not. That’s cocaine from when he tried to lean forward over a counter and snort it, which quickly ended in failure. He can’t have SHIT in November, and he already knew December wouldn’t be much better.
The morning Sonar realized his winter coat came in was the same morning he contemplated flying to the Bahamas for the winter, because what the fuck.
Sonar stood in front of the mirror in the Z-Team locker room, fur puffed out to twice its usual volume, his navy blue suit straining at the seams. He tugged at his tie, already loosened, but it did nothing to alleviate the sheer bulk of his fur.
His ears twitched in irritation as he attempted to smooth down the unruly fur, only for it to spring back up like some kind of deranged gray dandelion. "...This is unacceptable," he muttered, monotone as ever but with an edge of existential despair. "I look like a sentient lint ball. A Harvard-educated lint ball."
He turned his head slightly, catching sight of the tufts sticking out from under his collar. His nostrils flared. “You gotta be fucking kidding me….”
A tired, bored voice came from his earpiece as he attempted to smooth out his chest fur with water from the sink. “Sonar, everyone is already stationed at their route. What’s your status?” Robert questioned.
Sonar froze mid-pat-down, water dripping from his fur onto the tile floor. His ears flicked toward the earpiece, then flattened against his head in irritation.
"...Status: compromised," he deadpanned, voice drier than the Sahara. "I am currently engaged in a losing battle against my own biology. Also, my suit is breathing at me."
He glanced down at his chest, where the fabric strained ominously with every inhale.
"...Correction. My suit is threatening me."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, then leaned closer to the mirror, squinting at his reflection. "Robert. Hypothetically. If I showed up to patrol looking like a sentient dust bunny, would they fire me?"
He took a second to think about his own question, scowling.
"...Never mind. They’d just make me wear a vest." The horror in his tone was palpable. "I'd rather die."
There was a long moment of silence on Robert’s end, not that Sonar blamed him for being so bewildered. “…Pardon, what? What do you mean your biology is fighting you??” He eventually asked, his voice taking on a tang of confusion.
Sonar sighed. This was not a conversation he had planned on having this morning. Or ever, really. "It's a seasonal issue," he began. "Winterization, if you will. My body thinks it needs extra insulation." He tugged again at the collar of his suit, which responded by letting out a loud protest from the fabric seams. "…Apparently it thinks I am going to Antarctica instead of fighting crime."
He straightened up and shot a withering glare at his reflection. "I look like a fur-coated marshmallow."
A small snort came from his earpiece, which sounded awfully like Robert trying not to laugh inside his coffee cup. He was most likely biting the inside of his cheek to stay professional. "So, then… You’re uncomfortable in your suit?" He questioned after clearing his throat. "Is that why you aren’t out on the field yet?”
"Extremely." Sonar adjusted his tie, grimacing as the fabric rubbed against his fur. "I look ridiculous. And this winter coat is a sensory nightmare. I can feel every thread in this damn suit, Robert. Every. One."
A small, thoughtful hum slipped past Robert’s lips. Probably weighing his options. “Have you tried just… brushing it out?”
Sonar paused, considering the suggestion. He honestly had no idea why he hadn't tried that in the first place. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking. Maybe it was just plain stupidity. He was willing to admit to either, or both.
"…No," he said after a beat. "I haven't." It was a grudging admission, his pride bristling like the fur on his back. "But I also can’t exactly reach all the places that need brushing on my own, Bobert.”
"Where are you right now, exactly?" Robert questioned, audibly leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his desk.
Sonar let out a heavy sigh, resigning himself to the inevitable humiliation of admitting he was trapped in the locker room over a fluffy coat. "Locker room," he replied, his tone flat and slightly defensive. "I've... been stuck in front of the mirror lamenting my current situation." He paused, then added with a grumble, "And fighting a losing battle with static cling."
Robert snorted. "Alright, alright—stay put. I’ll be there in a sec." His voice disappeared from Sonar’s earpiece, plunging him into silence for a couple minutes before the sound of knocking coming from the doorframe jolted his ears.
Robert casually stepped inside, arms crossed. "Alright, marshmallow man. Let’s see the damage."
Sonar turned slowly, arms slightly raised in surrender to the sheer volume of his fur situation. His expression was the epitome of deadpan suffering. "...Behold," he intoned, gesturing vaguely at himself. "The damage."
His fur was fluffed out in every direction, his suit barely containing the chaos. A few stray tufts poked out from his sleeves, and his collar was practically framed in gray fluff. “Laugh and I will bite you.” He threatened before Robert could get a chance to even snicker.
"You look…" He started, struggling to find the right word. "P-puffy."
Sonar's ears flattened against his skull, his expression morphing into something dangerously close to murderous. “...Puffy," he repeated, voice dripping with venom. "Yes. That's one way to put it."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, claws flexing. "Another way to put it is 'biological betrayal.'" His anger melted into something far more somber, turning away from Robert to instead stare at the wall in shame. “…I hate this. I hate winter, and I hate how my body reacts to it.”
Robert hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, reaching out to gently pat Sonar’s shoulder—though he made sure to avoid touching any of the fur sticking out from his suit. “Hey… I get it. It sucks when your own body works against you." He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "But… it’s not you, y’know? It’s just biology being a dick. And y’know what, we can fix this.”
Sonar stiffened at the touch, his ears flicking up in surprise. He had expected ridicule, even mockery, but this... this tone, this genuine empathy...
He turned to face Robert slowly, studying him through narrowed eyes. He was searching for any trace of deceit, any hint of the usual sarcastic humor. There wasn't any.
Sonar's shoulders slumped, just a fraction. "How, exactly, do we 'fix this?' I look ridiculous."
"Well…" Robert started, letting his hand drop from his shoulder. "I already told you my idea.” He looked around before headed over to Flambae’s locker and opening it without hesitation, yoinking an expensive looking hairbrush from the man’s things as he went to hold it up for Sonar to see.
Sonar blinked, his gaze shifting between the hairbrush and Robert. "...You can't be serious." His tone was disbelieving, bordering on offended. "You expect... a brush to solve this? This..." He gestured at himself. "...situation?"
Robert shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips again. "Don't knock it 'till you try it," he quipped. He stepped toward him, gently taking a tuft of fur from Sonar's upper back in his free hand and carefully starting to brush it out. It was as soft as he had been imagining. "Besides, it's better than sitting here all day feeling sorry for yourself, isn't it?"
Sonar grudgingly had to admit Robert was right. Even though the thought of using a brush on his fur felt like a mockery of his dignity, he also hated being stuck in the locker room like this.
Still scowling, he begrudgingly turned away to give Robert better access. "I suppose it couldn't hurt…" The feel of his fur being gently brushed out was… not what he expected. It was soothing. Comforting. He found himself leaning into the touch almost involuntarily.
Robert was focused on the task at hand, carefully trying to brush out any tangles and flatten the fur that was sticking out from his suit. “You might have to remove the upper part of your suit, if you don’t mind.” He suggested gently.
Sonar hesitated, his ears twitching. "...Fine."
He shrugged off his suit jacket with a grumble, tossing it onto the bench beside him. His dress shirt followed shortly after, leaving him in just his undershirt—which was also straining against his fur, but at least now Robert had better access.
"...This is undignified," he muttered, crossing his arms. But he didn't stop him.
Robert continued his brushing, careful not to tug too hard as he slowly began to untangle a clump of fluff on Sonar’s lower back. "Y’know…" He started, voice softer than before. "You don’t have to be embarrassed about this. It’s just fur. It’s not like you chose for this to happen."
Sonar had never been comfortable with showing vulnerability or admitting weakness… especially when it came to his own body betraying him. But… the way Robert spoke to him, the way he touched him so carefully; there was no mockery, no judgment. Just… understanding.
He found himself letting out a sigh, his head bowing forward in a moment of defeat. “Easy for you to say. You don't turn into a walking lint trap every winter."
Robert snorted softly, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "Yeah, I suppose that's true." He agreed, brushing the tangles from the hero's lower back. "Lucky me."
He paused for a moment as his gaze traveled up Sonar's spine, taking note of the way the man's undershirt was clinging to his body. It was almost as tight as his suit. "Besides, it’s not like you’re ugly like this. Just… extra fluffy."
Sonar hated that. It made him sound like a stuffed animal instead of a powerful hero.
But… there was a small part of him, buried deep beneath years of pride and ego, that actually... liked having his fur brushed like this. Liked the gentle, almost reverential way Robert touched his fur. And most terrifyingly, liked being close to Robert.
Something to take to his grave.
"Extra fluffy," he repeated with disdain. "How flattering."
Robert rolled his eyes, though his smirk remained. "Oh, don't be so dramatic." He teased, giving Sonar's shoulder a playful poke. "You're still intimidating, even with the extra fluff." He stepped back slightly, admiring his handiwork. The fur was much smoother now, no longer sticking out in every direction. "See? Not so bad."
"I suppose it's an improvement," Sonar conceded, running a clawed hand through the freshly-brushed fur. He tried to hide the way his ears had perked up at the attention, but failed miserably.
A low rumble left his throat before he could even stop it.
Robert tried to maintain a straight face, raising an eyebrow. "You're purring." He pointed out bluntly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Sonar froze.
His ears shot straight up, his fur bristling slightly in embarrassment. "...No, I wasn't."
The lie was weak, and they both knew it.
He cleared his throat, quickly grabbing his discarded shirt and pulling it back on with more force than necessary. "That was—that was echolocation."
Robert just stared at him, arms crossed, smirk widening.
"...Shut up, Bobert. I can’t control it.”
Robert's smirk turned into a lazy grin, one hand reaching up to ruffle the fur on the top of Sonar’s head. “Hey, i’m not making fun of it. It’s cute.”
Sonar recoiled as if burned, swatting Robert's hand away with a sharp flick of his claws. "Cute? Cute?!" His voice was dangerously low, his ears pinned back in indignation. "I am not cute. I am a highly trained, reformed criminal-turned-hero with a Harvard degree and a body count."
He jabbed a clawed finger at Robert's chest. "I am menacing."
Robert caught Sonar's wrist, pinning it against his chest and looking down at him with a smirk. "Menacing, huh? With those big, fuzzy ears?" He teased, using his free hand to gently scratch at one of said fuzzy appendages.
"I—" Sonar's words turned into a small, strangled sound of unexpected pleasure. His resistance melted almost immediately, the tension bleeding out of his frame like water. His head leaned unconsciously into the touch, a deep, unintentional hum rising from his chest.
Robert tried, he tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn't. “Did you want me to brush around your neck while i’m at it?”
"Yes," came the immediate, almost involuntary reply.
Sonar immediately flushed at his own eagerness, his face turning an impressive shade of scarlet. He tried to pull back, but Robert still had a hold on his arm. "...Fuck off. It feels good, okay?" He muttered in defense, his ears pinned back in mortified defeat. “You got, like, magic hands.”
Robert grinned, releasing Sonar’s wrist and reaching for the brush again, which he had placed on the bench. "Oh, I know I got magic hands." He teased, gently brushing along the fur at the base of Sonar’s neck. “The ladies love it, i’m sure.”
Sonar scoffed, but didn't pull away this time. "The ladies," he repeated dryly, rolling his eyes. "Right. Because I'm sure you're drowning in admirers with your exceptional grooming skills." Despite his sarcasm, he leaned into the touch, his shoulders relaxing. "The skill that only applies to me at this very moment.”
Robert chuckled, continuing to brush with slow, careful strokes. “Oh, so you’re admitting that you’re special?” He teased, raising an eyebrow. “You gonna get jealous if I use these skills on anyone else?”
Sonar's ears twitched sharply at the implication, his fur bristling slightly—though whether from irritation or something else, he wasn't sure.
"...Don't push your luck, Rob.” He muttered, voice low.
But he didn't deny it.
And that was answer enough.